“And if they’re doing just fine on their own?” Stanley asked.
“Then they’re probably having a detrimental effect on the native ecosystem, in which case we need to capture them and confine them in a place that can care for them without damaging the environment.”
“Like the Willner Wildlife Sanctuary?” Dad suggested.
“Precisely my idea,” Grandfather said.
“Are you just going to show up at the sanctuary with an as-yet-undetermined number of ostriches and emus?” I asked. “Or are you going to give Caroline Willner a heads up on what you’re up to?”
“I plan to invite her to join the expedition,” Grandfather said. “She’ll love it.”
He and Dad immediately began making elaborate plans, as if Riverton were half a continent away instead of forty minutes’ drive. For some unfathomable reason they decided it would be more effective to camp out there for however long the ratite roundup would take, rather than sensibly coming home to sleep in their beds every night.
I borrowed Stanley’s folder again and began reading some of the articles in it while he picked at his homemade organic strawberry ice cream.
“Well, at least I know I’m not going crazy,” he said. “I did see an ostrich cross the road. Or possibly an emu.”
“Let me just call the SPOOR members,” Dad was saying. “They’ll all want to get in on this.”
“What is SPOOR?” Stanley asked me.
“The Society to Preserve Our Owls and Raptors,” I said. “A local bird conservation and appreciation group.”
“Ah,” he said, nodding. “That makes sense. Are there many of them?”
“Several dozen,” I said.
“Oh, dear. I wasn’t hoping for quite this much enthusiasm.”
“Well, it will probably please Annabel,” I said. “Because the whole feral emu thing explains why she and Cordelia were trying to start a bird sanctuary there. Have you read this?” I held up one of the articles from the folder.
“I confess, as yet I’ve only skimmed all those articles,” he said. “It’s always been one of my least favorite parts of the job, wading through page after page of fuzzy fine print. I was planning to study them this evening. What did you find?”
“Cordelia was heading up a campaign,” I said. “She and some other locals were trying to raise enough money to buy the former ostrich and emu ranch and set it up as a sanctuary for the abandoned birds.”
I passed over the article. Stanley studied it for a few moments. Then he lifted his head, gazed at my Grandfather, and spoke up.
“Dr. Blake,” he said. “Just how did you happen to find out about the feral emus in Riverton?” he asked.
“Someone from down there contacted me,” he said. “Asked for my help dealing with the problem.”
“Recently?” I asked.
“A few months back,” Grandfather said.
“Was it a Mrs. Mason who contacted you?” I asked. The article listed Delia Mason as the leader of the project.
“No,” Grandfather said. “It was a Miss somebody. With a Civil War name.”
“Civil War name?” Stanley looked at me for a translation.
“You mean something like Grant or Lincoln or Jackson?” I asked Grandfather.
“That’s right,” he said. “Can’t remember which one.”
“Could it have been Lee?” Stanley asked.
“That’s it,” he said. “A Miss Lee.”
Stanley and I looked at each other.
“Well, it makes sense Cordelia wouldn’t want to contact him directly,” I said.
“Yes,” he said. “If Annabel’s attitude is anything to go by, Dr. Blake would have been the last person Cordelia wanted to see.”
I applied myself to the last bits of my meal. Eventually everyone—even the boys—gravitated to the end of the table where Dad and Grandfather were plotting their expedition. Rose Noire slipped a bowl of organic chocolate walnut ice cream in front of me, and I closed my eyes, the better to enjoy it.
“Meg?” I opened my eyes to see that my husband, Michael, had sat down at the picnic table opposite me. The boys climbed up and sat, one on either side of him. Natalie was hovering behind them, her black-clad shoulders slightly hunched, making her look more like a buzzard than a crow. Mother was right—we would need to work on her confidence and posture this summer. Like so many tall girls, she tended to slouch. Nothing a summer of intense exposure to Mother’s tall-is-beautiful philosophy couldn’t cure.
“What’s wrong?” I asked aloud.
“Nothing’s wrong,” he said. “But the boys want to know if they can go on the camping trip with Grandfather.”