I then retired into the master bedroom. I didn’t expect to nap, but I rested, soothed by the welcome sounds of car doors slamming out in the yard, and car engines disappearing in the distance. The occasional baaing of sheep made me tense up at first. But once I decided that each baa meant another of Farmer Early’s sheep returning to the fold, I found them soothing—all the benefits of counting sheep, without the bother of arithmetic. I relaxed again. Inside the house, my relatives scuttled up and down the halls, obviously planning some sort of outing. When they knocked on the bedroom door, I played possum.
I tried to forget all about everything outside. About Mother and her determination to decorate the house. Though I realized, with the clarity that sometimes comes on the verge of sleep, that perhaps I was being so stubborn because it felt as if she wanted to design not just our house but our entire lives. I’d try to explain that to Michael later, I thought, shoving the subject aside.
I also tried to push the murder out of mind, because I started getting angry if I thought about Endicott and Professor Schmidt and the Hummel lady all messing with the crime scene, lying to the police, and digging a deeper and deeper hole under poor Giles’s feet. And, of course, I tried to forget about the yard sale.
For some reason, I found myself thinking about Sophie, the barn owl, and her mate, whom Dad had probably also named, though I didn’t know what. At nightfall, the barn owls would swoop silently out into the darkness and begin their night’s hunting, ridding the nearby farms of any number of rodents. Just as Michael and I would steal out after sunset to rid Caerphilly of another kind of vermin.
Of course, all Sophie had to do was swoop down and pounce on the rodents. Michael and I would be trying to track down Carol and wring the truth out of her. Probably a confession of murder, unless she pointed the finger at still another lurker in the barn. And even if she did, I wasn’t sure I’d believe her. I should have seen it all along. And Chief Burke definitely should have seen it—she was always the most logical suspect.
Interrogating Carol was difficult, but she had confessed to the murder and was apologizing nicely for ruining the yard sale when someone began shouting my name and interrupting us.
“Meg?”
Okay, I’d dropped off to sleep after all, and dreamed I was interrogating Carol. Apparently counting sheep by proxy really worked. It was dusk, and Michael was shaking me awake.
“I wasn’t sure I should wake you—”
“Except that you knew I’d be furious if you didn’t,” I said. “Come on. The game’s afoot, as Sherlock Holmes and Dad would say.”
Just for the heck of it, I tried calling Carol’s number as we went downstairs. No answer. I didn’t really expect one. I reminded myself that she wasn’t deliberately trying to dodge me. Though she might be trying to dodge the police.
The house was strangely empty. Not that I was complaining. It just seemed too good to be true. Downstairs, we found Dad and Rob in the kitchen. Dad was sitting on the floor in the center of the room, doing something with aluminum foil. Rob was examining the ceiling lamp with great concentration.
“No thanks,” Rob was saying. “It was a lot of fun when I was a kid, but I think you should save your pellets for Eric.”
“Well, if you’re sure,” Dad said.
Now that I was closer, I could see that Dad was wrapping owl pellets in aluminum foil. I decided Rob had the right idea. The ceiling lamp was fascinating.
“Do you remember dissecting owl pellets when we were kids?” I asked Rob, in an undertone. “Because I don’t.”
“No,” he said. “Unless it was so traumatic that I’ve blotted it out of my memory. I’ve never been all that keen on animal droppings.”
“Owls are birds, not animals,” I said. “And owl pellets aren’t droppings, they’re—”
“Yeah, I know,” Rob said. “They barf them up. Doesn’t make it a whole lot better, knowing they’re owl spit instead of owl—”
“Never mind,” I said. “I might want to eat again one of these days.”
“Oh, that reminds me,” Rob said, in a more normal voice. “Are you up for pizza at Luigi’s?”
“Maybe later,” I said.
“You would have to mention pizza,” Michael said. “I’m trying to remember when I ate last.”
“The whole family’s going,” Rob said. “In fact, most of them are already there. I’m just waiting for Dad to get ready.”
“Later,” I repeated.
“Aw, come on,” Rob said. “Pizza. Celebration. What’s the problem?”