Owls Well That Ends Well(5)

“An exaltation of larks,” Dad recited. “An unkindness of ravens …”

The man frowned slightly, and strolled back out.

“And, of course, a murder of crows,” Dad said. “I’ve always liked that one.”

“You would,” I said. “Who was that man, anyway?”

“I have no idea,” Dad said. The feathers rustled slightly as he shook his head. “Not one of your friends from up here?”

“I’ve never seen him before,” I said. “I thought he was a relative I’d never met.”

“He’s not family,” Emma put in. “His eyes are too close together.”

“He’s a Sprocket,” Rob said, through a mouthful of doughnut.

“Oh, God; not another one,” I said.





Chapter 3

“Another what?” Emma asked.

“Another Sprocket,” I said, sitting down and helping myself to a doughnut. “The family who used to own the house.”

“But they sold it, right?” Emma said.

“They get a piece of the action,” Dad said.

“Ten percent of whatever we make from selling the contents,” I elaborated. “I’ve spent the past two months hauling stuff out of the house and barn, calling in appraisers, and negotiating to sell things at the best price possible, and all the time, I’ve had Sprockets underfoot.”

“A plague of Sprockets,” Rob said.

“Lacks alliteration,” I said. “How about a surfeit of Sprockets?”

“Actually, that’s used for skunks,” Dad said. “A surfeit of skunks.”

“It fits, then,” I said, nodding.

“I’ m sure they just wanted to help,” Dad said, glancing at the door through which the latest Sprocket had disappeared.

“Yeah, right,” I said. “It’s no wonder the sales contract took so long. The only thing they ever agree on is their paranoid suspicion that Michael and I are stealing some priceless Sprocket family treasure. The best thing about this yard sale won’t be getting rid of so much junk but seeing the last of the whole annoying family.”

“Hear, hear,” Rob said, beeping his horn vigorously.

“There now,” Dad said, patting me on the arm. “It helps to get it out of your system, doesn’t it?”

“Have another doughnut,” Emma suggested.

“Why is he staying here, anyway?” I said. “Plenty of motels in town; I usually make the Sprockets stay in one.”

“He got in late last night, and all the motels were full,” Rob said. “He was pretty stressed out, so I told him he could stay here.”

“Where he can cause even more trouble,” I said, with a sigh. “That’s the reason there’s no furniture here,” I added, to Emma and Claude. “If we bring anything into the house they assume it belonged to their Great-Aunt Edwina and start accusing us of trying to cheat them by leaving it out of the inventory. So we don’t move anything in until all her stuff is gone.”

“You’re not keeping anything from the house,” Emma said, rather plaintively.

“What we’re keeping is locked up in an off-site storage bin,” I said. “After we inventoried it, photographed it, and paid the Sprockets ten percent of whatever inflated price they thought it was worth.”

“Goodness,” Emma said. “They sound very trying.”

“You have no idea how glad I’ll be to see the last of the Sprockets,” I said.

Just then, frenzied barking and snarling erupted from the backyard.

“What’s that?” Emma exclaimed.

“Not again,” I muttered.

“Our security system,” Dad said, rubbing the tips of his wings together. “Works just as I planned.”

“Looks as if the last of the Sprockets was trying to get inside the fence,” Rob said, peering out the kitchen window.

“Oh, I see,” Claude said, joining Rob at the window. “The pit bull and the Doberman are the security system.”

“No, they’re just for show,” I said. “Spike, the little fur ball, is the security system.”

“That would be the black-and-white dust mop thing dangling from Mr. Sprocket’s ankle?” Claude asked.

“Don’t worry,” Rob said, ambling toward the door. “I’ll rescue him.”

“Poor little puppy,” Emma said, shaking her head.

“I think he meant Sprocket,” I said.

I peered out. Dad had shown up several days ago with enough eight-foot black plastic deer-proof fencing to enclose the entire two-acre yard sale area, as well as a collection of tents and multicolored fluttering banners—all of it borrowed, or so he claimed. I suspected the tents and banners had come from two of Mother’s cousins who ran car dealerships, but the fencing worried me. Dad’s definition of “borrowing” was questionable at times, and I kept expecting some neighboring farmer to show up irate, waving a bill for his deer-razed crops.