Dad, Eric, and Sammy hurried back to the corner and stood at my side. I pointed. Sophie’s face took on a pained expression. Her eyes closed, her features scrunched up, and she shifted uneasily from foot to foot.
“Grandpa?” Eric said, looking slightly uneasy himself.
“Should we leave her alone?” I asked, jerking my thumb at Eric, trying to communicate to Dad that if Sophie were about to keel over at our feet, maybe we should lure Eric out before her demise.
“No, let’s stay a little longer,” Dad said.
“She hasn’t been poisoned, has she?” I asked. “That is what SPOOR is worried about, right? Farmers using poison on their rodents and killing the owls?”
“No, I don’t think she’s been poisoned,” Dad said. “Watch.”
We watched for a few more minutes. I was already working on how to explain Sophie’s death to Eric if Dad stuck me with the job, and wondering whether we had a box the right size to serve as a coffin for the owl funeral that I could see in our future.
Suddenly Sophie stretched out her neck, opened her beak, and spat out a pellet.
“There,” Dad said, beaming proudly, as if Sophie had done something particularly clever. “You see, she’s fine.”
“Co-o-ol!” Eric said, running to retrieve the pellet. For the SPOOR collection, no doubt.
“Ick,” I said.
“Can she do it again?” Eric asked.
As if this were her cue, Sophie launched herself into the air and swooped gracefully out the open door.
“Isn’t that fascinating?” Dad said.
“At least she makes a lot less fuss than a cat with a hairball,” I said. “Take Spike inside, will you? I’ll see you when I get home from jail.”
“Is there anything else I can do to help?” Dad asked, as he headed over to Spike’s pen.
“No,” I said. “Then again—if you wouldn’t mind. It’s not something you can do tonight, but if you wouldn’t mind tomorrow …”
“Just say the word,” Dad exclaimed.
Dad was disappointed at his secret assignment—obtaining lavender and rose bath products from Cousin Rosemary—but the warning that she must on no account know that he was buying them for me satisfied his taste for cloak-and-dagger operations.
Michael and I had plenty of time to cool our heels and eat our share of the picnic supper when we got down to the police station, but shortly after ten, Chief Burke let Giles go. Probably a good thing we’d come to collect him. The defense attorney was having a splendid time, arguing with the chief and threatening to file various motions. He wasn’t eager to leave. We hustled the tired and disheveled Giles out of the station.
“Enthusiastic sort of chap,” Giles said, when we were safely in the car.
“Well, this is what they live for, defense attorneys,” I said. “A nice, challenging case.”
“And he’s very good,” Michael put in. “Whenever any of the law school professors need a defense attorney, he’s the one they call.”
“That’s encouraging, I suppose,” Giles said. “Just as a point of information, do the Caerphilly law faculty get arrested often?”
“Not really,” Michael said. “But I’m told that when and if they were, he’s the very man they’d call.
Giles nodded.
“Think positively,” I said. “As a mystery buff, don’t you find it exciting to experience the criminal justice system firsthand, instead of just reading about it?”
“No, I think reading about it is infinitely preferable,” Giles said, looking at me with alarm. “For that matter, I suspect it will be a good long while before I really enjoy reading mysteries again. Especially police procedurals.”
“You’ll feel better in the morning,” Michael said.
“Better, perhaps; but not differently,” Giles murmured.
Giles lived in a quiet neighborhood, only minutes from the police station—and, for that matter, only minutes from campus. You had to move out of town, as we had, to find anyplace that wasn’t only minutes from anyplace else in Caerphilly.
Our original plan was to ferry Giles back to his car, but he looked so beat that Michael suggested that we just take him home and worry about the car tomorrow. Giles didn’t protest.
Though when we arrived at his small, mock-Tudor house, he insisted on inviting us in for sherry and, despite the late hour, I didn’t protest. I wanted to hear Giles’s side of the story. And I didn’t mind finally getting to see Giles’s study, where Michael had spent so many happy hours. I understood Michael’s point that Brits were more reserved than Americans, and didn’t invite people to their homes as readily, but I thought it was about time.