Owl Be Home for Christmas

by Donna Andrews

  “Every person,” Dr. Green corrected. He cast a longing glance at Grandfather’s table, where Rose Noire was sitting, which had no more empty chairs, then followed Dr. Lindquist to the head table and ended up serving as a buffer between him and Dr. Frogmore. The rest of the table was finally filled up with latecomers—three young men who didn’t seem caught up in the general frenzy of greeting and catching up. Grad students, I thought, attending their first conference, or junior professors who hadn’t yet made many friends in the field. From the anxious expressions they all wore you’d have thought that instead of HEAD TABLE Rose Noire had accidentally posted a sign that said PRISONERS WAITING TO BE EXECUTED MAY EAT THEIR LAST MEALS HERE.

  Michael took the stage and tapped on the microphone. I’d recruited him to serve as master of ceremonies after Grandfather, presented with the short list of people he should introduce or thank, had said, “Nonsense—just let them read the program.”

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said. “While the waiters are serving your salads and beverages, may I present for your entertainment—the song stylings of SPOOR!”

  The SPOOR members rushed out on stage in a frenzy of jingling bells and rustling feathers, and launched into their first number:

  “I saw three owls come flying in

  On Christmas day, on Christmas day,

  I saw three owls come flying in

  On Christmas day in the morning.

  “What did they carry, those ow-ulls three,

  On Christmas day, on Christmas day?

  A rat, a vole, and a fat mousie

  On Christmas day in the morning.”

  The song went on for several more verses than I remembered there being in the original carol, and the whole time they did their signature dance move—kicking alternately to the left and the right with more enthusiasm than precision. The bells, I decided, had actually been a good decision—they made it harder to notice how rare it was for all nine owls to be singing in precisely the same key.

  The crowd loved it anyway. Well, most of the crowd. Dr. Frogmore wore the sort of outraged expression you’d expect to see on the face of the town prude if you tricked her into attending a drag show. And I suspect his mood wasn’t much improved by the fact that the SPOORettes nearest him were coming perilously close to brushing the top of his head with their kicks.

  They followed their first number with “Deck the Owls” and then, for a sentimental conclusion, “Owl Be Home for Christmas” before prancing offstage to “We Wish You an Owly Christmas.”

  “Well, that went better than I expected,” Michael murmured when they were safely offstage. Indeed, renewed applause greeted the carolers when they reemerged, divested (for the most part) of their costumes and took their seats at various tables.

  In fact, the whole banquet went better than expected. Grandfather and Dr. Hirano carried on a lively conversation—through Dr. Arai—that started off on owls but quickly migrated onto the cooking of the Philippines and Vietnam, and professional baseball. To Mother’s delight, Dr. Arai also proved knowledgeable about ikebana, and he very much seemed to enjoy discussing wabi-sabi with Rose Noire.

  The only blight on our meal was the voice of Dr. Frogmore at the adjoining table. When not berating the waitstaff for some imagined shortcoming or calling for another glass of wine, he seemed insistent on telling the occupants of his table a lengthy and convoluted story about how he’d shown up someone or other as a fool and an imposter. People at the far end of the room could probably have followed the story if they tried. I managed to relegate his booming, pompous voice to the status of annoying background noise.

  The other unfortunates at his table merely chewed glumly and tried to look interested—except for Dr. Lindquist and Dr. Green who, having apparently discovered that they shared a knowledge of American Sign Language, used it for a steady exchange of snarky comments. Well, Lindquist was snarky. Green mostly just agreed with him with a lugubrious expression on his face, as he watched Rose Noire conversing so enthusiastically with Dr. Arai. My ASL wasn’t all that good, but I understood enough that I had to struggle not to burst out laughing at times.

  Maybe I should have felt sorry for his tablemates, but I found myself feeling even sorrier for Dr. Frogmore himself. In spite of his bluster, he didn’t seem to be having a good time. Toward the end of the meal he began rubbing his temples as if his head bothered him, and he snapped at Dr. Czerny to give him an aspirin. Dr. Czerny turned pale when he realized he didn’t have any, which led to a general search of pockets until someone at the table—possibly Dr. Green—found him some. I wasn’t sure whether to feel guilty that I hadn’t rushed over with aspirin as soon as I figured out he needed them or relieved that someone else had taken care of it.

  But everyone else was having a great time, and soon it was time for dessert, to be accompanied by Dr. Hirano’s keynote speech. The waiters were circulating with platters of crème brûlée and chocolate mousse, and offering the diners their choice of champagne, dessert wine, or sparkling apple juice.

  “Let ’em know Hirano’s going on next,” Grandfather said to Michael.

  Michael mounted the small stage, made the next round of thank-yous—to SPOOR and the hotel kitchen and waitstaff. Then he introduced the two Japanese scientists. But as they stepped forward to their twin microphones, and the audience members began hushing each other, Dr. Frogmore’s voice boomed out.

  “Oh, great,” he said. “This should be rich. He wanders out into the jungle and claims he’s found a new owl. I’ll believe it when I see it.” His face was flushed, as if the many glasses of wine and whiskey were taking effect, and his voice was ever so slightly slurred.

  “Now, now,” Dr. Green said in a low tone. “He’s our guest.”

  “Not my guest,” Dr. Frogmore boomed. “Don’t ask me why Blake doesn’t ask me to give the keynote, instead of some over-the-hill Jap who never bothered to learn English.”

  Disapproving murmurs ran through the room. Dr. Hirano looked puzzled. Dr. Arai looked furious.

  “But tha’s okay,” Frogmore went on. “Le’s have a toast!” He sprang to his feet. “To all the stupid people at the stupidest conference I’ve ever seen!” He tossed off the contents of his champagne flute. “I hope you—hope you—!”

  His face turned even redder than before and he collapsed, like a puppet whose strings had been cut.

  Chapter 11

  Dad was already racing to Dr. Frogmore’s side.

  “Give him some air!” he shouted. And then, over his shoulder to me, “Call Horace. Have him bring my bag.” Horace was an EMT as well as a deputy, so that made sense. I pulled out my walkie-talkie.

  “Dr. Frogmore! Are you all right?” Dr. Czerny was bending over Frogmore and shaking him.

  “Let’s stand back so the doctor can take care of him.” Dr. Lindquist and Dr. Green dragged Dr. Czerny away so Dad could tend to Frogmore.

  As I waited for Horace to respond, I surveyed the room. People weren’t rushing over to gawk, thank goodness. Okay, they were all staring, and a few had climbed onto the seats of their chairs to get a better view, but they weren’t crowding around and getting into Dad’s way. And—

  “Meg? What’s up?” Horace answered.

  “Medical emergency in the ballroom,” I said. “Dad said to call for your help. And bring his bag.”

  “On my way,” he said.

  Michael had dashed back onto the stage.

  “If there are any other medical professionals here who could help Dr. Langslow, please come up to the front of the room,” he said. “Everyone else, please keep your seats.”

  No one stepped forward.

  I couldn’t see what Dad was doing, but I had a bad feeling when he snapped out an order to Dr. Frogmore’s tablemates to help him move the patient to the next room. Dr. Lindquist and the three late-arriving young men stepped forward, lifted Frogmore easily, and carried him off at a jogging pace with Dad urging them on. Dr. Czerny tagged along with a stricken expression on his fac
e.

  Was Dad moving Frogmore to someplace where he could treat him better? Or was he only moving him so the rest of the attendees wouldn’t have to watch him die—or stare at his already dead body?

  And they’d carried him into the kitchen, I noticed. Horace ran into the ballroom just as they disappeared, and I pointed the way to him. I followed him to the door and paused on the threshold. Part of me wanted to follow. The rest of me thought that was a really stupid idea. So I was still lingering just outside the door when Horace stuck his head out again.

  “Your dad says to secure Frogmore’s plate and glass.”

  I nodded.

  “I’ll do it, at least for now.” Michael had come up behind me. Now he strode over to the depleted head table, took up a position behind where Frogmore had been sitting, and surveyed the room. His posture was casual, as if he were standing there because it gave him the best vantage point for seeing what was going on in the room, but when one of the waitstaff approached the table, he was quick to warn her off.

  Grandfather mounted the stage, said a few quiet words to Dr. Arai, and then approached the microphone.

  “We don’t yet know what’s wrong with Dr. Frogmore,” he said. “We’ll tell you when we find out. And for those of you who haven’t met him yet, my son, Dr. James Langslow, is an excellent physician, and emergency medicine is one of his special interests. Dr. Frogmore is in good hands.”

  That was certainly true. Nothing Dad loved better than a nice, dramatic emergency. And there really wasn’t any need to mention that he was also the local medical examiner. We could all hope that wouldn’t become relevant.

  “So if you’ll all just take your seats, I’m sure Dr. Hirano and Dr. Arai will do their best to carry on with the keynote speech.”

  Muted applause. The men who’d carried Dr. Frogmore out reappeared, and seeing that the regular program was getting back underway, they quickly took their seats—although I suspected the three long-suffering juniors were all looking forward to telling their adventures to their friends when the speechifying was over.

  Grandfather returned to our table. Before sitting down, he spoke to me in what for him was a fairly quiet tone.

  “Find out what’s going on and keep me posted.”

  I nodded and headed for the door through which they’d taken Frogmore—one of the two doors that led to the kitchen. Three of the servers were peering out, wide-eyed.

  “Where did they take him?” I asked them in an undertone.

  “This way, ma’am,” said the oldest, a fortyish woman. “Into the Lafayette Room.”

  Dr. Hirano said a few words in Japanese.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” Dr. Arai translated.

  I slipped through the door the server was holding open for me and followed her along the outer fringe of the kitchen. I’d been here a couple of times before during banquets—usually fund-raising events Mother had organized for one or another of the charities she supported. Normally at this point in a banquet, the cooks would be starting to relax while the servers would still be busy with coffee, tea, and water refills. And the dishwashing staff would be frantic. But a hotel security guard stood in front of the dishwashing machine, arms crossed. The coffeepots and pitchers of hot and cold water stood unnoticed on a counter just inside the door. All of the restaurant staff were standing in small clusters, talking.

  My guide opened another door and I stepped out of the kitchen into a corner of the Lafayette Room—a corner at the front of the room, just by the podium. Ekaterina was standing with her back to me, but she evidently heard my arrival and moved aside so I could see what was happening. Oliver Frogmore lay on the floor. Dad and Horace knelt on either side of him, with Dad’s medical bag close at hand. Frogmore’s shirt had been ripped open, and I could see a few bits of medical waste lying on the floor—wrappers, a syringe, a little empty vial of some medicine. Evidently, Dad had injected Frogmore with something in an attempt to save him. But just as evidently, Dad’s efforts had been in vain. Dad and Horace were motionless, looking down with glum expressions. Frogmore’s face was beet red and contorted, as if he’d died in the middle of a monumental temper tantrum.

  Dr. Czerny was sitting on a chair in the middle of the first row of seats with his head in his hands, rocking back and forth like a self-soothing child.

  “Time I officially pronounced,” Dad said. He glanced at the wrist where his watch would be if he ever bothered to wear it, then looked up at Horace.

  “Nine fourteen,” Horace said.

  I inched a little closer to Frogmore’s feet.

  “We lost him.” Dad looked up at me, his face bleak. “Time of death, nine fourteen.”

  “If it hadn’t been for the snow, maybe we could have gotten him to a hospital,” Horace said. “Maybe—”

  “I doubt it.” Dad shook his head. “It happened too fast.”

  “Was it mushrooms?” Ekaterina asked.

  “What mushrooms?” Dr. Czerny looked up, his face suddenly furious. “You served him mushrooms?”

  “No, we didn’t serve anyone mushrooms,” Ekaterina said. “But there has been such a fuss about the mushrooms that I’m sure everyone at the conference knew he was allergic to them. Including anyone who was not fond of him.”

  “If you fed him mushrooms—” Czerny began.

  “This doesn’t present anything like an allergic reaction to mushrooms.” Dad’s voice cut through Czerny’s with the commanding note it only held when he was in the middle of a medical emergency.

  “You can’t know that,” Czerny said.

  “Actually, I can, to a reasonable degree of certainty,” Dad said. “I’m not seeing signs of anaphylaxis. No runny nose or rash, which is usually the first sign. No vomiting or diarrhea. No coughing or wheezing. No signs of swelling in the limbs, the lips, the mouth. He didn’t appear to be having trouble breathing before he lost consciousness. We’ll be able to tell for sure when we do the autopsy, of course, but I’d be astonished if this was an allergic reaction—to mushrooms or anything else.”

  “What do you mean, when you do the autopsy?” Czerny said. “I won’t allow it! No one’s cutting him open until the proper authorities get here.”

  “Actually, Dad is the proper authority,” I said. “He’s the local medical examiner.”

  “And I can’t very well do an autopsy here,” Dad said. “Not a real autopsy. We don’t have the proper facilities.”

  “But you’re not doing anything!” Czerny’s voice sounded as if he might be heading toward hysteria. “Why aren’t you doing something?”

  “I am doing something.” Dad’s eyes were busy, studying Frogmore. “I can’t do a full autopsy, but I can get as much information as possible from an external examination. Horace, we need pictures.”

  “Roger.” A few seconds later Horace was clicking away with his cell phone.

  “But you can figure out what happened to him?” Czerny asked.

  “Yes.” Dad was still studying Dr. Frogmore. “In time.”

  “And you can figure out who did it,” Czerny added. “Someone poisoned him!”

  “And possibly who did it.” Dad’s voice was cautious. “We don’t know if it was poison.”

  “We don’t know that it isn’t!” Czerny said.

  “So we call the chief,” Horace said, although he didn’t seem to be making a move to do so.

  “And treat the ballroom as a crime scene.” Dad nodded absently.

  “Michael is guarding Dr. Frogmore’s place,” I said.

  “The ballroom and the kitchen.” Horace stood.

  “About time!” Dr. Czerny looked slightly mollified.

  “Meg—perhaps you could try to get through to the chief while I secure the crime scene.” Horace held out his police radio. “You know more than I do about the deceased.”

  “Roger.” I took the radio and made sure I knew which buttons to press. “I’ll bring it back once I’ve notified you. You’ll be in the ballroom?”

  “Eventually,�
�� he said. “First I have to improvise a crime scene kit.” Horace looked a little overwhelmed at the idea. “Mine’s in the trunk of my cruiser. It’s only a mile away, but—”

  “Going out right now would be suicide,” Dad said. “I should have some of what you need in my medical kit. And the hotel has a well-stocked clinic.” As Dad well knew, since Ekaterina had given him a free hand in stocking it.

  “I will help,” Ekaterina said. “You will want gloves, I suppose. We have plenty of brand-new gloves.”

  “And evidence bags,” Horace said.

  “Plastic bags? Like food storage bags?”

  “No, plastic retains moisture, and that tends to degrade evidence. Paper bags—any chance you have an unopened package of paper bags—like lunch bags?”

  “I think we have something that will serve.”

  “Before you go,” Dad called out. Ekaterina turned. “What’s happening in the ballroom now?”

  Ekaterina frowned and looked at me.

  “Dr. Hirano is making his speech,” I said.

  “Good.” Dad nodded. “When he’s finished, can we ask everyone to leave the ballroom so Horace can process it?”

  “No problem,” I said, and Ekaterina nodded in agreement.

  “And we’ll need a space in one of your refrigerators,” Dad added, looking at Ekaterina. “To preserve the body.”

  “A refrigerator?” Ekaterina winced, then a stoic expression came over her face. “Of course. But would a freezer not be better?”

  “No, no,” Dad said. “Freezing would complicate the autopsy.”

  “I will make the arrangements. And help Horace assemble what he needs.”

  Clearly helping Horace pull together his crime scene kit was a more congenial occupation. They disappeared together into the kitchen. I knew I should go make the call to the chief, as Horace had asked, but I wasn’t sure about leaving Dad to cope solo with Dr. Czerny.