Owl Be Home for Christmas

by Donna Andrews

  Chapter 6

  In the lobby, Dr. Lindquist was striding over to the registration desk, where Sami was awaiting him, wearing a cheerful, helpful, welcoming expression that probably belied how he really felt at seeing the angry scientist approach.

  “It’s a disgrace,” he announced to Sami. “I intend to file a complaint.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Sami said. “What’s wrong, and what can I do to resolve it?”

  “That man is completely unsound on the barred owl!” Dr. Lindquist exclaimed. “Ludicrously so!”

  It took a lot to unsettle Sami, but this outburst, which must have been incomprehensible to him, clearly had him shaken. He stole a glance at me.

  “Now, now,” I said. “I understand how you feel, but I’m sure by the end of the conference you’ll have made some progress toward sorting that all out.”

  “I’m glad you’re sure.” Dr. Lindquist frowned at me. “Because I’m not. Not while lunatics like Frogmore are given scope to spread their idiocy.”

  I thought of pointing out that Grandfather had scheduled Dr. Frogmore opposite his highly popular owl pellet panel, thereby ensuring he’d have almost no audience, but I didn’t think that would do much to calm him.

  “You’re distraught,” I said. “Why don’t you let me get you some coffee? Or—”

  “Coffee, be damned!” Dr. Lindquist drew back as if I’d insulted him. “This calls for a drink!”

  He strode off toward the Mount Vernon Grill and disappeared inside.

  “What does he mean by ‘unsound on the barred owl’ anyway?” Sami asked. “In fact, what is it about the barred owl that upsets all these scientists? Seems like all you have to do to is mutter ‘barred owl’ at them and they go ballistic.”

  “Do you really want to know?” I asked. “It’s kind of a long story.”

  “Are any of us going anywhere anytime soon?” He jerked his head toward the glass wall, as if to remind me of what was going on outside. Did he think I needed reminding?

  But he had a point. And if I stayed here and explained the whole barred owl thing to Sami, it would give me a good excuse not to run after Dr. Lindquist and try to placate him.

  “You’re probably too young to remember the whole spotted owl controversy,” I said.

  “I thought it was barred owls that guy was upset about.”

  “Bear with me,” I said. “Back in the 1980s and 1990s, there was a big brouhaha in the Pacific Northwest. Conservationists were trying to save the northern spotted owl. Strix occidentalis caurina.”

  “You’re starting to sound like them,” he said. “The scientists, I mean. Save the spotted owl from what?”

  “Habitat destruction,” I said. “That’s what put the spotted owl on the endangered species list. It can only live in old-growth forest, and there’s not as much of that as there used to be in the Pacific Northwest, thanks to the logging industry clear-cutting forests.”

  “Can’t they just make the loggers plant new trees?”

  “They do, but it would take a century or so for that to be of any use to the spotted owls. They only eat certain kinds of prey that only live in old-growth forest. There’s a term for that—”

  “Picky eaters?” Sami suggested.

  “A scientific term,” I said. “But you get the idea. You cut down the old-growth forest and their prey disappears, and they don’t adapt well. Conservationists and the timber industry have been at each other’s throats over this for decades now, and from what I can tell, neither side is happy. The timber barons resent the restrictions on where and how much they can log, and the conservationists don’t think the restrictions go far enough. And the spotted owl is declining faster than ever, and the ornithologists have figured out it’s because the barred owl—Strix varia—is muscling in on their territory.”

  “You’re kidding, right?” Sami said.

  “Nope. Barred owls used to live only east of the Mississippi, but in the last hundred years or so they’ve been moving into the Pacific Northwest. Out there, they count as an invasive species. They’re twenty percent bigger than the spotted owls, they breed faster, and they’re not picky eaters at all. They’ll eat anything they can catch—including spotted owls.”

  “Uh-oh,” Sami said. “So what’s going to happen? Is there anything the owl guys can do about it?”

  “That’s what they’re arguing about,” I said. “Apparently there was a small pilot program in Northern California where they removed as many barred owls as they could from a forested area. And sure enough, the spotted owl population began to rebound.”

  “Then what’s the problem? They just do the same thing on a larger scale until—wait. I bet it’s money. They’d need buckets of money to remove all the barred owls in the whole Pacific Northwest.”

  “I’m sure that would be a problem. Plus a lot of spotted owl habitat is on state or federal land, so they’d have to convince three state governments and who knows how many federal agencies to cooperate. And a lot of the habitat is pretty remote, which could make it hard to find all the barred owls. But the biggest reason they’re not going ahead with a region-wide program of barred owl removal is in this case removing the owls is a euphemism for shooting them.”

  “Shooting them?” Sami’s mouth fell open. “They can’t just do a trap and release program?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I’m kind of afraid to ask. I don’t want to set them off again. Oh, and if you hear them talk about harvesting the barred owls, it’s the same thing.”

  “Shooting them. Okay, I see why they’re arguing.”

  “Well, it’s not the only thing they’re arguing about,” I said. “They’re also perfectly capable of getting worked up over where various prehistoric owl fossils fit into the Strigiform family tree. Or whether the eastern barn owl is a regional variation or a separate species. And don’t even think of getting them started on what should be done about the fact that the great horned owls’ diet includes Pacific pocket mice, marbled murrelets, and several dozen other highly endangered species.”

  “Wait—are you saying that all these species are going extinct because the great horned owls are eating them?”

  “No, they’re going extinct for all the usual reasons—habitat destruction, climate change, introduction of new diseases, and so on. Problem is, if a species is down to a only a few dozen individuals, it can be really devastating to have a nesting pair of great horned owls move into the neighborhood and start picking off the rare critters one by one—but what can you do? It’s not as if you can discuss it with the owls—‘Hey, why don’t you leave those endangered rodents over here alone and pick on those equally delicious but completely unendangered field mice over there.’ Not going to work.”

  “You seem to know a lot about owls.” He didn’t have to sound so surprised.

  “Most of it picked up this weekend while standing by to keep various irate scientists from punching each other in the nose.” Okay, I was exaggerating—I’d also learned quite a lot while helping Grandfather plan Owl Fest. Sami was frowning and seemed to be working up to posing a question.

  “Are all owl experts this … um … excitable?” he asked finally.

  “I’ve been wondering that myself,” I said. “Maybe it’s just the ones Grandfather knows and likes enough to invite to Owl Fest. When it comes to animals, he makes no secret of his fondness for predators. Most of us look at a koala and say ‘oh, how cute!’ Show Grandfather a koala and he’ll wax eloquent about its long, sharp claws, its powerful jaws, and its antisocial personality. Maybe he feels the same way about scientists. Favors the truculent ones.”

  “So maybe he deliberately picked a whole bunch of scientists who disagreed with each other and cooped them up together in the Inn for fun.”

  “Well, the cooping up is mainly because of the snowstorm,” I said. “Things were better yesterday when they could all go off hiking in the woods to cool off between squabbles. And I have this sneaking suspicion that he was hoping for a more co
ngenial kind of argument. Debates over whether greedy developers and the CEOs of corporate polluters should be drawn and quartered in public or quietly euthanized. Followed by team-building sessions in which they all vilify climate change deniers together. And lots of strenuous bird-watching hikes through the surrounding woods to blow off steam. I have a feeling the whole debate over the barred and spotted owls isn’t nearly as much fun as what he had planned.”

  “The weather’s rearranging everyone’s plans,” Sami said.

  “Yeah.” I glanced over at the glass wall, currently solid white with snow, and then quickly back to the small Christmas tree on the reception desk, which was much more comforting to contemplate at the moment. “You know the weird thing? I could have sworn Dr. Lindquist and Dr. Frogmore were on the same side of the whole barred owl debate. Both in favor of shooting the owls, that is. I must have gotten it all wrong.”

  “Meg?” I turned to see Ekaterina had joined us. “I could use your assistance.”

  She was frowning fiercely. Fortunately, I knew her well enough not to worry that she was upset with me. As the Inn’s manager, she’d only get that look if someone was threatening the orderly running of the hotel or the well-being of its employees.

  “Is one of my flock causing problems again? Not more black widow spiders, I hope.”

  “No, your grandfather saw no signs that we have a spider infestation, and my staff have already sprayed Dr. Green’s room and the adjacent ones. I’m sure they will all complain about the smell, and what have you.” She shrugged. “That’s not what I wanted you to help me with. One of the attendees has taken it upon himself to inspect all the food. My kitchen staff are trying to get the buffet ready for lunch, and he is interfering with their efforts.”

  “I’ll deal with him,” I said. “In the ballroom?”

  She nodded. We hurried back to the conference area, and then down the corridor to the double doors that led to the ballroom. A few convention attendees were loitering nearby, probably hoping to be the first inside. They all looked up eagerly when they saw me open the ballroom door, but Ekaterina paused in the doorway, drew herself up to her full height, and favored them with a withering gaze. Nobody tried to follow us.

  Inside, all the tables were topped with spotless white tablecloths, and each was decorated with cluster of tiny red poinsettias in the middle. Along one side of the room the buffet table was set up—stacks of red plates, sets of flatware wrapped in green napkins, a forest of gleaming glasses, large bowls of salad, and a row of empty steam tables that should have been already filled with the vegetables and entrees.

  Nearby a hotel staff member was standing beside a cart loaded with long, rectangular covered dishes bound for the steam tables, arguing with someone who was trying to pick up the cover of one of the dishes.

  “You’re not supposed to be touching that,” the hotel employee was saying. “You’re not even supposed to be in here.”

  I recognized the shabby, stoop-shouldered figure leaning over the cart.

  “Dr. Czerny!” I snapped, as I drew closer.

  He jumped and whirled, shrinking slightly. Then he appeared to regain his courage. He lifted his chin and his face assumed a combative expression.

  “I insist that you let me finish my inspection.” His high, nasal voice was downright annoying.

  “Inspection? I was unaware that we had a new hire in the Caerphilly Health Department.”

  I took a position facing him and crossed my arms. He took a half step back. If he chose to interpret my stance as menacing … he had more common sense than I’d previously given him credit for.

  “I have to make sure that the food is safe for Dr. Frogmore to eat,” Czerny said. “He has serious allergy issues.”

  “Did he report them on his registration form?” I said. “Because I can assure you, we took all food allergy notifications seriously.”

  “How would I know?” Czerny asked.

  “Then perhaps we should go and talk to Dr. Frogmore,” I said. “I’ll go and catch him before lunch, so we can make sure we can accommodate his needs, even if he didn’t think to report them. If you’ll come with me—”

  “No.” Czerny paled, as if the idea of having me bother the great man terrified him. “You don’t need to ask him. I can tell you what he’s allergic to—”

  “Mushrooms,” Ekaterina said, looking up from her phone. “I have it right here in the database.

  “Good.” I took Czerny by the arm and tried to steer him away from the cart. “Then we won’t have a problem.”

  “We will if Dr. Frogmore eats so much as a bite of mushrooms.” Czerny was digging in his heels, but at least with me distracting him the hotel employee managed to get her cart moving again toward the steam trays.

  “Impossible,” Ekaterina said. “There are no mushrooms in any of the dishes we are serving in today’s buffet.”

  “Or in any of the other meals we’re serving during the conference,” I added. “Grandfather insisted.”

  “He must really hate mushrooms.” Ekaterina’s voice sounded just a little annoyed—okay, maybe a lot annoyed—and I realized no one had explained the reasons for Grandfather’s fiat.

  “Actually, he does rather dislike them,” I explained. “But more importantly, he distrusts them. A few years ago a biologist he knew—someone who fancied himself a mushroom expert—poisoned himself and two other colleagues with an omelet full of Amanita phalloides. Grandfather was the only one rude enough to turn up his nose after a single bite—and also the only one who didn’t end up in the hospital or the morgue. Ever since then he’s taken against mushrooms in a big way.”

  “Ah.” Ekaterina nodded. “So that is why he so vehemently vetoed the idea of a grilled Portobello mushroom for the vegetarians.”

  “So Dr. Frogmore is in no danger of consuming any mushrooms if he’s eating the official conference meals.” I turned back to Czerny and tugged at his arm again.

  “And since he’s a grown-up, I assume he makes the waitstaff aware of his allergy if he’s ordering food in the restaurant.” Ekaterina took Czerny’s other arm and between the two of us we managed to get him moving toward the door.

  We let go of Czerny just inside the door, and Ekaterina pushed it open and held it for him.

  “On your heads be it if anything happens to him, then.” Czerny clearly didn’t like it, but he walked through the doorway, pausing slightly halfway, like a cat who wants to test its owner’s patience, before finally leaving.

  Chapter 7

  “What a nuisance.” I waited until the door was shut behind Dr. Czerny. “Although I suppose we should cut him some slack. Maybe Dr. Frogmore’s had problems before with places that aren’t as meticulous about food allergies as the Inn is. And Czerny’s nothing if not protective of his mentor.” I almost said “lord and master.”

  “He should know by now that we are not the least bit careless about food allergies.”

  Yes, I knew that. Ekaterina had contacted every single conference attendee to ask about any food allergies or restrictions and we’d designed all of the conference meals accordingly. We’d had about the usual trouble getting Grandfather to understand that quite a few attendees would have religious, ethical, or health objections to consuming bacon-wrapped filet mignon. And thank goodness none of the attendees seemed to be keeping kosher, since the hotel’s usual solution was to have meals brought in from Caerphilly’s well-regarded kosher restaurant and deli, which would have been difficult on Friday and impossible today.

  Ekaterina was already typing on her phone. “I will issue instructions that no mushrooms should be served to Dr. Frogmore or anyone at his table, even if they demand them. In fact, we will take mushrooms completely off the hotel menu until he leaves. We can say that due to the inclement weather our mushroom supplier was unable to deliver.”

  “You’re thinking maybe if he’s feeling suicidal he might just call room service and request an omelette aux champignons?” I turned to see how the waiters were d
oing.

  “More likely he would order it, take one bite, claim it made him deathly ill, and sue the hotel,” she said. “I’ve seen it happen before. By the way, while we’re talking about food, there is a situation that must be dealt with.”

  “What’s that?” I braced myself, and hoped this would turn out to be a situation that I could deal with after lunch. I needed a break.

  “Sami has been monitoring the forecast on my weather radio,” she said. “The storm may be slowing down.”

  “Oh, great.”

  “Not great at all—if it slows down—”

  “It will have time to dump even more snow on us. Definitely not great—I was being sarcastic.” And should have known it would be lost on Ekaterina in full-blown crisis mode.

  “Ah. Yes, more snow, and they continue to forecast temperatures in the twenties for at least the next week. It begins to look very possible that we could still be snowbound on Christmas Eve. Even Christmas Day.”

  Had she only just noticed this possibility?

  “Very possible,” I said aloud.

  “We must make plans to feed them.” Her tone was solemn, yet fierce.

  “Feed them? I thought you said the Inn had plenty of supplies if we were snowbound for weeks, even months. If there’s—”

  “Of course we do,” she said. “That is not the issue. We must figure out what to feed them for Christmas. What they will be homesick for if they cannot go home. If they were all Russians, I would know what to do. For Christmas Eve we would have kutya, borscht, zakuskie, pirozhki, beans for prosperity, maybe pagach if that is their tradition, and vzvar with pryaniki and kolyadki.” Her face took on a blissful expression.

  “I have no idea what any of that means,” I said. “Except for the beans and the borscht. But I gather it must be delicious.”

  “Well, not all that delicious,” she said. “It’s a meatless meal, of course, since it’s the last day of Advent. Which means, in a strict Russian Orthodox household, no fish, vegetable oil, or alcohol allowed, either. I can think of more delicious meals. But it’s tradition! It brings back the memories. Eating it would not entirely make up for not being able to go home, but it would help. Possibly a good deal. So we must figure out what these poor scientists will be missing if they do not go home to their homes for Christmas.”