The Good, the Bad, and the Emus(26)

“That settles it,” I said, with a laugh. “You must have met Grandfather at some time in his life.”

Her face stiffened.

“Only through Cordelia’s memories,” she said. “Which you can understand were not entirely cordial.”

“I was kidding,” I said. “Sorry. I just meant that you had his style pegged.”

“Male foolishness can be much of a muchness,” she said. “And I have no patience for it. Which, in case you’re wondering, is probably why I stayed single all these years. Let me know what the PI says about the headlight.”

I could recognize a dismissal when I heard it, so I wished her a good morning and headed for the back door. I had to smile when I noticed a pair of binoculars lying on the counter beside the sink. Was Miss Annabel bird-watching this morning? Or was she, perhaps, keeping an eye on what was happening in camp?

“One thing before you go.”

I turned to find Miss Annabel holding out a sheet of paper. I took it and glanced down. It was a formal letter granting permission to use the field to me and anyone else I cared to invite.

“No idea if it has any legal worth, of course,” she said. “But it’ll give you something to wave in the air if Chief Heedles comes and tries to claim you’re trespassing.”

“Good thinking,” I said. “Thanks.”

I reached into my pocket for my notebook, tucked the paper between its pages, and headed back for Camp Emu.





Chapter 9



The construction crew had made progress. They’d outlined an area of about half an acre with tall fence posts and were starting to enclose it with six-foot-tall chain-link.

“I gather a few strands of wire won’t stop a charging emu,” I said, as I stopped to watch.

“This might not even stop a really determined emu,” said a man who appeared to be the foreman. “But we don’t intend to keep them here too long. The truck from the wildlife sanctuary’s already here. We’ll haul them down in batches as soon as we catch them. By the way, I’m Jim Williams. Relatively new recruit.”

He held out his hand. He was tall and lean, with a tanned, craggy face.

“Meg Langslow,” I said, as I shook the proffered hand. A good handshake, I thought, firm and no-nonsense. Nothing like Grandfather’s bone-crushing style. “Haven’t we met at one or two previous events?”

“Yes, and I hope you’ll be seeing a little more of me now that I’m retired. Let me know if there’s anything I can do for you.”

“Well, since you offered,” I said. “If you have any leftover fencing, can we borrow some? The boys insisted on bringing our dogs camping, but I don’t think taking them to the woods with us is a good idea. If we had some fencing we could put up a temporary dog run.”

“We can do that for you,” Williams said. “No, it’s no bother,” he added, before I could even open my mouth to protest. “We’ll just enclose that corner of the pen for them. Right there in the shade. They can help guard the emus.”

Actually, the two of them together probably could. Tinkerbell wouldn’t hurt the proverbial fly, but a hundred-pound Irish wolfhound is every burglar’s nightmare. Spike, in spite of his purse-dog appearance, had more than once repelled intruders from our house, although unfortunately, most of them were repairmen and other people we actually wanted to keep.

“That would be perfect,” I said. “Thanks.”

I set out again toward the main body of the camp. Which had grown, even in my brief absence. Amazing how many people were showing up on less than a day’s notice, and most of them were probably veterans of more than one of Grandfather’s projects. I overheard two people swapping tales of past expeditions. Bird and animal cleanups in the wake of various oil spills. Roundups of abandoned animals after hurricanes. Raids on dogfighting rings and puppy mills. Interventions with animal hoarders. Quests to save endangered species from extinction. Battles to stop greedy companies from building strip mines and golf courses in irreplaceable green spaces.

And getting lots of volunteers was probably easier now that Grandfather was doing more of his events close to home, in Virginia or the neighboring states. If anyone pointed this out, he’d claim he wanted to spend more time with his newly discovered family. And I’m sure he did. But I suspected he was also relieved to have a plausible reason for slowing down just a little now that he’d reached his nineties. Trips to Riverton and the Dismal Swamp were a lot less taxing than safaris to Africa and China.

I dropped by the family tent and grabbed a canvas tote bag to carry the two headlights, the lime-green gloves, and the unused lunch bags. I figured I’d show them to Stanley and then—