The Penguin Who Knew Too Much(13)

“Good idea,” I said. “I thought he was back here, but perhaps he's gone inside to tell Mother about the llamas.”

“I bet he knows what they like to eat,” Michael said while gazing at the llamas. “That could be useful—it would help us keep them toward this end of the pasture till the Shiffleys have finished inspecting the fence.”

I watched as he strode off to the kitchen, still glancing back. The fact that he was already thinking about treats for the llamas was something I’d worry about later.

“Excuse me.”

I turned to see someone peering around the corner of the house. Probably in his thirties, average size, with rather ordinary features.completely unremarkable, in fact, except that his suit appeared to be several sizes too large for him. His hands were all but hidden in the overlong sleeves. The pants cuffs were turned up slightly to keep him from stepping on the bottoms, and from the mud stains and fraying on the cuffs, he hadn’t always remembered to do so.

He was carrying something—holding it behind his back. Not another animal, I hoped. Then he came all the way around the corner, and I realized that it was a black doctor's bag. Aha! No doubt here was the overdue medical examiner.





Chapter 7

“Dr. Smoot,” I said. “Welcome.

” He shook my offered hand shyly.

“Where is the...?”

“In the basement. I’ll show you.”

I led him to the entrance, pulled up one metal door, and ostentatiously stood aside, to show that I knew my place, and wasn’t even interested in peeking into the basement. Nice try, but I should have saved my efforts.

“Down there?” Dr. Smoot whispered.

“That's where we keep the basement.”

“It's very dark.”

I noticed he was edging slightly away from the door. “Yes, unfortunately that end of the basement's not electrified yet,” I said. “I could get you a flashlight.” “And very small.” “It gets bigger inside.”

“I’m not sure that helps,” Dr. Smoot said. “Great empty echoing caverns of blackness.”

“It doesn’t echo,” I said. “And it's not empty—Chief Burke is down there, and Sammy, and my cousin Horace, and I forget how many other officers.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, starting to back away. “I just can’t do it. Tell Burke I’m sorry.”

“Don’t tell me: you have claustrophobia.” “They didn’t tell me the body was down in a basement!” “Why don’t you come up to the kitchen and have some coffee?” “No! Not indoors!” Smoot shouted.

Probably better to stay outside anyway. If Dad found out Dr. Smoot was too claustrophobic to descend to the scene of the crime, he’d volunteer again to fill in at the crime scene, which would only annoy the chief more.

“Or just sit and rest here for a bit,” I said. “I’m sure you’ll feel better.”

“You can’t make me go through that door!” he said, backing away faster.

“No, of course not.” I grabbed his elbow and led him away, toward some lawn chairs. “Do basements in general bother you, or just dark ones?”

“It's the doors mostly,” he said. He sat down in one of the chairs and mopped the sweat off his face with one voluminous sleeve. “Those damned ominous outside doors.”

They didn’t look particularly ominous to me. I certainly didn’t like them—they were covered with flaking green paint, and whenever I saw them I remembered that one item in my notebook was to assess whether we should strip the old paint, sand off the rust, and repaint them or just put in new doors. Annoying, yes, and doubtless expensive, but ominous? Still, who was I to criticize someone else's phobia?

“Would a normal stairway work better?” I asked aloud.

“You have a stairway to the basement?” he snapped. “Why didn’t you say so?”

“This way's shorter. But if you’d rather do the stairs...”

“Show me.”

I showed Dr. Smoot in through the back door. To my relief, we passed Dad and Michael on their way out.

“Off to move the llamas,” Dad said, waving gaily. “Llamas?” Dr. Smoot echoed.

“They’re outside,” I said, quickly, in case he had a phobia about them as well, and led the way to the kitchen. It was empty, except for Rob sitting in one corner reading a comic book. He glanced up with a faint frown on his face, as if we were interrupting some important bit of work. For all I knew, it was work. After three decades of cruising through life on his charm and the blond good looks he had inherited from Mother, Rob had finally found his vocation. These days he made an obscenely good living coming up with bizarre ideas that his staff of programmers could turn into computer games.compared to some of his sources of inspiration, comic books were pretty normal.