The Penguin Who Knew Too Much(15)

A second later, we heard a crash, a scream, and what sounded like peals of maniacal laughter.

“What the hell was that?” the chief snapped.

I followed Smoot up the cellar steps and looked around.

“Ah,” I said. “The hyenas have arrived.”





Chapter 8

“Were you expecting hyenas?” the chief asked. “Evidently.”

There were three of them, in a cage so large that I doubted whoever had delivered them could possibly have gotten it into a pickup truck. Which meant I could probably figure out who the hyenas’ previous hosts had been by checking the list of local residents with access to a flatbed truck.

The hyenas were pacing up and down in their cage, snarling at one another occasionally, their eyes glued to Dr. Smoot, who was lying facedown on the lawn, panting and whimpering.

“Good Lord,” the chief said. “You’d better get him inside before the buzzards show up.”

“I’ll ask Dad to look after him,” I said, stepping out of the basement.

“Good idea,” the chief said.

“How long has Dr. Smoot been medical examiner?”

“Acting medical examiner,” the chief corrected. “About two weeks. We needed someone in a hurry when old Doc Hartman died.”

From his frown, I suspected Dr. Smoot's tenure as acting medical examiner would be a short one.

“When your father's finished with Smoot, ask if he’d mindstepping down here for a minute,” he said finally. “There might be one or two medical details Smoot didn’t catch.” “Roger,” I said.

From the chief's scowl, I could tell how painful the request had been—at a guess, somewhere between having a root canal and being bitten by fire ants. Dad's desire to be involved in a real, live murder investigation had annoyed the chief more than one time already.

Chief Burke backed down the stairway and slammed the cellar doors shut behind him.

I started toward the pasture to look for Dad, but as I was passing the back door, the front doorbell rang.

“What now?” I muttered, but I trudged up the back steps, through the kitchen, and down the hall to answer it.

On my way, I ran into Rose Noire, heading upstairs.

“Meg, if it's okay, I’m going to borrow some of your clothes to wear while I take care of the animals.”

I glanced up. No, the ankle-length India print skirt wasn’t practical for chasing after camels, and if I owned anything as beautiful as her turquoise blouse, I wouldn’t take it within a mile of the penguins.

Of course, the skirt and blouse weren’t exactly suitable for helping us move in, either, but I’d already decided that last night's herb-smudging ceremony was Rose Noire's major contribution to our move. If she was busy with the animals, she wouldn’t be trying to fix the house's feng shui in the middle of the move—for that, I’d happily sacrifice any number of clothes.

“Plenty of old T-shirts and sweats in the closet,” I said. “But I have no idea what box my nicer clothes are packed in, so if you’re not careful, I might steal your blouse and skirt for the party.”

“It's a deal!”

But the skirt would probably be too short on me, so I still needed to find the box soon to have something other than jeans and a T-shirt to wear for my own wedding.

Not something I needed to worry about just yet.

I put on my polite hostess face before opening the door. After all, maybe it wasn’t another Friend of the Caerphilly Zoo looking to foist yet another animal on us. Maybe this time it would be someone dropping by to help with the animals. Take a few home.

Not that I was holding my breath.

I swung open the door and saw a tall, slightly stooped elderly man standing on the doorstep with his back to me. He looked as if he had dressed for a safari—olive green cargo pants, muddy hiking boots, a brown shirt, and a khaki fishing vest, its dozen pockets bulging with unidentified bits of gear. He had a pith helmet tucked under his left hand, and had probably just taken it off—his untidy white mane had a bad case of hat hair. He kept looking down at something he was shuffling in his hands, and then glancing up at the landscape. An odd figure, but he didn’t seem to be carrying or leading any stray animals, so my welcoming expression grew a bit more sincere. I cleared my throat, in case he hadn’t noticed the door opening.

And then he turned around and my jaw dropped. I’d seen that craggy, deeply tanned face before. Of course, so had anyone who had habitually watched National Geographic specials over the last four decades, to say nothing of the Discovery Channel and Animal Planet. What possible reason could a world-famous zoologist and conservationist have for showing up on our doorstep?