Caroline’s small, round figure was already neatly clad in sensible slacks and a lime-green polo shirt with the Willner Wildlife Sanctuary logo on the pocket. I smiled back at her and wondered if I should add “Buy new, less ragged bathrobe” to the errand list in my notebook.
“Morning,” I managed to reply.
“Meg, can you give me a ride?” she asked.
“Into town, sure,” I said.
“Well, into town, yes,” she said. “I need to take my animals in for the show this afternoon—but I also need to pick up Mr. Throckmorton’s pigeons and take them out to your grandfather’s zoo. They can stay in the aviary until the coast is clear. And we might make another little stop along the way.”
I was about to beg off when I realized that this might be a useful trip. Stanley Denton was staying at the Caerphilly Inn, which was directly on the road to the zoo. I doubted Caroline would object to dropping by there on our way back. I could look for Denton in person, and even if I didn’t find him, perhaps I’d learn how recently he’d been seen. And maybe some of the Inn staff would have insights on what he’d been up to and how far we should trust him.
Rob and the reporter reappeared.
“So will that be okay?” Caroline was asking.
“Will that work for you?” I asked Michael.
“Sure,” he said. “I plan to stay here this morning and splash in the pool with the boys. Unless you need me down at the tent?”
“Rose Noire can handle it,” I said. “Okay, you’ve got a chauffeur,” I added, turning to Caroline. “By the way, have you met Kate? She’s the reporter who was there when we found Colleen Brown’s body.”
“You poor thing!” Caroline exclaimed. “Are you all right? If it had been me, I’d probably have fainted. But I suppose in your line of work you get hardened to gore and violence.”
“Oh, yes,” Kate said, assuming a blasé look. Since, from her own description, the most gore and violence she’d previously encountered was probably a spat between two Siamese at the cat show, I had to struggle not to laugh.
“Maybe you’d like to come with us, dear,” Caroline said. “Meg and I are going to take poor Mr. Throckmorton’s racing pigeons to a new foster home out at Dr. Blake’s zoo. They’ll be safe from that nasty hawk there. Dr. Blake is donating the space and picking up the cost of their care—it should be a nice, heartwarming human interest story.”
Kate visibly suppressed a shudder.
“Thanks,” she said. “But I’m afraid I’m going to be awfully busy covering the murder.”
“Well, if you change your mind, let me know,” Caroline said. “Come on, Meg. Time’s a-wasting.”
Of course, before we could take off we had to load all of Caroline’s baggage onto the ancient van I normally used to haul my blacksmithing equipment. Under normal circumstances, I might have wondered why she was traveling with an African Grey parrot, a brace of small monkeys, an adolescent hyena, a three-legged wolf, and an eight-foot boa constrictor. But I assumed they were props for her appearance on the bandstand this afternoon. She’d be giving a talk on the important work the Willner Wildlife Sanctuary did by rescuing wild and exotic animals. I only hoped she made her presentation noisy, and that none of the exhibits ate any tourists.
Once the animals and all their accoutrements were on board, we took off for town. To avoid overworking the air-conditioning, I kept the van’s windows open, so all the way to town, passersby could hear the laughter of the hyena, the hooting of the monkeys, and the parrot’s occasional cries of “Danger, Will Robinson.”
Chapter 23
I always liked arriving at the town square before the crowds. I pulled up as close to the tent as possible, unloaded Caroline and her charges, and headed on to the college parking lot a few blocks away. I took my time strolling back to the town square, and as I had hoped, by the time I got there, Caroline and the cages had vanished. No doubt she had charmed someone into hauling them to the tent.
I spotted Rose Noire watering one of the growing number of planters scattered around the town square. Whenever we had to haul dirt out of the tunnel, after one of the few cave-ins or as part of the routine maintenance, the Caerphilly garden club would drop off a few more faux stone planters, which we’d fill with tunnel dirt topped off by an inch or two of topsoil. Then Rose Noire would plant geraniums and the Shiffley Movers would haul the planters to some part of the town square that didn’t already have planters. At first, they’d added a cheerful note of color, but the Shiffleys were having a hard time finding spots for the latest ones—at least spots where they wouldn’t block traffic. And Rose Noire now spent the first hour of her day hauling water to them all.