Owls Well That Ends Well(2)

The owl stared at me for a few seconds, and then twitched its head. The tail disappeared.

“That branch has got to go,” I said, to no one in particular. Certainly not to the owl, who wasn’t likely to give up his customary feeding station simply because I objected to having our front porch whitewashed with owl droppings and sprinkled with leftover rodent parts every night. Perhaps I could delegate the branch removal to one of the many uncles and cousins who kept asking what they could do to help, assuming I found one who could be trusted with sharp implements.

Just then our latest caller rang the bell, and I emptied the bucket out the window, still staring at the owl.

No screams or curses this time. Only a very familiar voice.

“Meg? It’s me, Dad.”

I closed my eyes and sighed.

“I brought doughnuts.”

I stuck my head out of the window, startling the owl into flight. A very wet Dad stood on our doorstep. Water beaded on his shiny bald head, and he was trying, with his chin, to brush several ice cubes off the stack of boxes in his arms.

“I’ll be right down.” I said.

I pulled on jeans and a sweatshirt and headed down the hall for a quick visit to the bathroom. But when I was still ten feet away, a bathrobe-clad man carrying a bulging shaving bag emerged from the last bedroom on the right, waggled his fingers at me cheerfully, and disappeared into the bathroom.

The only bathroom on this floor. Chalk it up to lack of caffeine, but I was so irritated it took me a few seconds to realize that I had no idea who the heck the man in the bathrobe was.

Yet another visiting relative, obviously. But no one I recognized. I thought I knew all the relatives who’d invited themselves to stay at the house. I racked my brain to figure out which aunt or cousin might have brought a new husband or boyfriend along.

Meanwhile, I headed for the third floor bathroom. I reminded myself that this was a temporary inconvenience. First on our long list of remodeling projects was creating a real master bedroom suite with a private connecting bath. And we weren’t inviting any more houseguests until we’d solved the bathroom shortage.

Just then I heard the strains of Puccini’s “Un Bel Di Verdremo” wafting down from the third floor, which meant that Mrs. Fenniman, another visiting relative, had taken possession of the bathroom for her usual long and tuneful ablutions. I went downstairs instead.

I followed voices to the kitchen. Apparently someone else had let Dad in. He’d put on water for coffee and was sitting cross-legged on the kitchen floor, sharing his doughnuts with my brother, Rob, and a petite middle-aged woman who looked vaguely familiar—although it was hard to tell, because she was wearing a set of Groucho Marx glasses, complete with the fake nose and mustache.

“Morning,” I said.

The bathroom off the kitchen was, of course, occupied. But since it was only a half bath, turnover should be faster than upstairs. I stationed myself by the door.

“Morning, Meg,” Dad said, raising a cloud of powdered sugar as he waved at me. “You remember your mother’s cousin, Emma. From Wichita.”

“Kansas?” I asked.

Emma nodded, and raised her Groucho mask briefly so I could see her face. She wasn’t wet, so I deduced she’d come in with one of the family instead of ringing the bell.

“Mother said her relatives were coming from all over for the yard sale,” I said. “But Kansas?”

Whatever Emma started to say was drowned out by the loud thud and subsequent howl of agony from the bathroom.





Chapter 2

“Claude!” Cousin Emma shrieked, and leaped toward the closed door.

“I brought my medical bag,” Dad said. Though semiretired, Dad kept his state medical license current so he could treat family, friends, and victims of interesting accidents—like the one happening behind the bathroom door. Though once angry curses and loud thuds replaced the howls, I deduced it wasn’t a serious one.

“See if you can open the door,” I called to the bathroom’s unlucky occupant.

The downstairs half bath was tucked under the stairs, in a space that should have remained a closet. We called it the quarter bath. Most people avoided bumping their heads on the four-foot ceiling over the toilet, but unless they were very short, they usually hit the five and a half foot ceiling over the sink when they straightened up after washing their hands. The fact that you couldn’t sit down without bumping your knees against the sink was another strike against it. No wonder Michael, at six-four, refused to use this bathroom. I had trouble enough myself at five-ten.

Rob ambled over and gave the bathroom doorknob a sharp tug, which not only opened the door but tore it completely off its hinges, revealing a small, plump, middle-aged man crouched inside.