The Penguin Who Knew Too Much(26)

“Yes, the animals’ welfare comes first, naturally,” he said quickly. A little too quickly, and he didn’t sound all that sincere. I began to have second thoughts. Did I really want to entrust the health and safety of our animals to this man?

Of course, if even I was starting to think of them as “our animals,” finding them a new home had become especially urgent, before Michael and Dad completely forgot that the menagerie didn’t belong to us. And just because he rubbed me the wrong way didn’t mean Hamlin was unkind to animals.

“Once everything is settled, I’m sure we can work closely with you to find a permanent home for all the animals. Determining which ones you feel would benefit from living at your zoo and which ones would be better off at another facility.”

He frowned again, and then his face cleared. He’d got the message. Help us out of this crisis, and maybe you will get a chance to cherry-pick Patrick's collection after all.

Though I wasn’t promising anything. And luckily, the animals weren’t mine to promise.

“I’ll still need to know what animals you have so I can arrange spaces for them,” he said. “If you can get together a list, I can start working on freeing up as much space as possible. The Clay County Zoo's still pretty small—I wasn’t a trust-fund baby like Lanahan. But we’ll do what we can.”

“That's fine,” I said. I felt relieved. Partly because I’d made progress toward getting someone to take the animals off our hands. And, contrary as it sounds, partly because I’d have a little more time to vet him before entrusting the animals to him.

I’d get Dad to check him out. For that matter, if Dr. Montgomery Blake insisted on hanging around, maybe I could guilt-trip him into helping check Hamlin out. Blake seemed a lot less gullible than Dad.

Or maybe just a lot less nice. He and Hamlin should get along splendidly.

I felt a momentary pang of guilt. Why was I being so quick to suspect the worst of Blake? Apart from his slightly officious and overbearing manner, he hadn’t really done anything wrong. I pondered my distrust for a few moments without coming any closer to an answer, except that my gut instinct told me Blake wasn’t exactly what he seemed. I resolved to keep an eye on him.

I headed back to the house. The yard was quiet, apart from an occasional noise from one of the animals that hadn’t settled in for the night. All the humans had gone inside—except for Dr. Smoot, who had returned to the Adirondack chair. But he wasn’t actually sitting in it—in fact, he, too, appeared to be settling down for the night.





Chapter 15

I stood, hands on hips, surveying Dr. Smoot's arrangements. He had appropriated a couple of pillows from the porch swing. He’d placed a plastic garden bucket upside down to the left of the chair, to serve as a table. On the bucket, he’d arranged a box of tissues, a paperback copy of Scaramouche, and a flashlight. And he’d taken off his shoes and socks and was walking around barefoot, holding a glass of water and brushing his teeth.

We were used to relatives showing up for an afternoon visit and staying for a week, but I’d never laid eyes on Dr. Smoot before today.

I went over to talk to him.

“So, is there anything you need?” I asked, in my most cheerful, helpful hostess voice.

“Yes, actually there is,” he said, and began taking off his pants.

“What the—,” I began, and then I realized that he wasn’t disrobing. Beneath the baggy gray pants he was wearing tan Bermuda shorts.

“What a relief!” he said, echoing my thoughts. He pulled off his tie and began unbuttoning his shirt. I watched with fascination as he pulled it off, revealing a faded Duke University T-shirt.

“Could I have a coat hanger?” he asked. “I don’t want to spoil my work clothes.”

“Um ...right,” I said.”You’re planning to sleep here? Wouldn’t you be more comfortable—”

“Not inside!” he shrieked, turning pale.

“No, of course not,” I said. “Here's better. Plenty of fresh air.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “After a fright like I had today, I find it hard to go into any confined space again for a while.”

“How long a while?” I asked.

Dr. Smoot looked at me with reproachful eyes.

“I understand,” I said quickly. “It's just—wouldn’t you be more comfortable in familiar surroundings? I mean, where do you sleep when this hits you at home?”

“In the backyard,” he said. “In my hammock. Yes, that would be more comfortable, but I just can’t face the car.”

He shuddered dramatically.