The Penguin Who Knew Too Much(17)

I didn’t say anything, since I was busy banishing the image that had appeared in my mind: a cluster of Smoots dangling upside down from the rafters of our basement, their oversized suits hanging down in soft, pendulous folds.

“Their vampire thing?” Dad echoed.

“For Halloween,” Smoot said. “They would dress up in long black capes with bloody fangs, and hide in the cellar, and when they heard smaller kids walking by, they’d burst through the cellar doors shrieking, to terrify them. Doors just like that!” he added, pointing to our harmlessly rusting cellar doors.

“Wow,” Eric said, in that uncertain voice he often used when even he could tell that grown-ups were behaving weirdly.

“Why are the police in your basement?” Blake asked, after a moment.

“Horrible,” Smoot muttered.

“We’ve had a murder there,” Dad said.

“No we haven’t,” I said. “Someone buried the body there, but I’m sure he was murdered someplace else. Which reminds me— Dad, Chief Burke wondered if you could give him the benefit of your medical knowledge. Since, um... “

I glanced at Dr. Smoot, who was still sitting in our lawn chair muttering “Horrible! Horrible!” at random intervals.

“Oh, right!” Dad said. “No problem. Someone keep an eye on Smoot while I’m gone.”

The hyenas, true to their reputation as efficient, intelligent predators, had already given up watching Eric to concentrate on Smoot. Fortunately he had his back to them and didn’t seem bothered.

“So whose body is buried in your basement?” Blake asked.

“They haven’t finished digging him up yet,” I replied, and then I cast around for a way to change the subject. “So is it true that hyenas have an instinct for spotting the weakest members of a herd and targeting them?”

“All predators do,” he said, glancing at Smoot. “Even the human ones. Especially the human ones. We should probably move them someplace quieter,” he added, looking back at the hyenas. “Having people around is apt to upset them.”

“And vice versa,” I said. “Maybe we could put them at the far end of the yard, behind some of the outbuildings.”

“I’ll need some help moving them,” he said.

“Michael's down at the pasture with the llamas,” I offered, pointing out the direction.

“That would be Professor Waterston?” Blake asked. “Your fiance?”

My suspicions came back full force. It wasn’t that I wondered how he knew these details—if he and Dad had both been spending a lot of time at the Caerphilly Zoo, Dad had probably told him all about us. But most people just nod, smile, and forget details like that. Why had he remembered them?

“That's right,” I said aloud. “Why don’t you take the camels down there, and I’ll look for the Shiffleys.” “The what?”

“Shiffleys,” I said. “Two-legged predators of the genus Contractor.”

Blake chuckled, and went to collect the camels. Eric came out of the kitchen with a glass of lemonade and handed it to Dr. Smoot. Thoughtful of him—lemonade or hot tea, depending on the season, was Mother's remedy for anything that might be upsetting us, so even members of my family who didn’t like either beverage instinctively tried to pour them into anyone around us who seemed upset.

“Keep an eye on Dr. Smoot,” I told him. “I’m going to find the Shiffleys.”

I strolled around to the front of the house to look for the Shif-fleys’ truck. I found Randall Shiffley squatting beside a cage that had appeared on our front lawn.

“What's in this one?” I asked as I squatted to check it out.

“Some kind of short-tailed rats,” he said, with mild distaste.

“Well, rodents of some kind,” I said, peering at the occupants of the cage. To me, they looked more like overgrown hamsters with slightly mold-tinged fur, and they were peacefully nibbling on some peaches. “Did you see who left them?”

“Nope,” Randall said. “ ‘Nother hit-and-run animal dump.”

“Speaking of which, could you and Vern help us move the hyenas?”

Randall did a brief double take, then resumed his usual look of imperturbability.

“Sure thing,” he said. “Soon as Vern gets back.”

“Where's he gone?” I asked. Not, I hoped, to Flugleman's just yet, since we might not have come to the end of the animal arrivals.

“Walking off a fit of temper. He’ll be fine when he gets back. Leastways I hope so.” “What's he mad at?”

“Me,” Randall said. “I said something he took the wrong way. He's touchy these days.”