The Penguin Who Knew Too Much(69)
Or, for that matter, disposal of inconvenient bodies. Did the Inn's concierge have an alibi for the murder?
Okay, maybe that thought was a little too paranoid, but I’d certainly watch my back at the Inn. I was venturing onto Blake's turf.
I should make a point of letting Blake know that people knew where I was. Mention the fact that Michael might be calling the Inn to talk to me.
Just because the chief was busy chasing Charlie Shiffley and Shea Bailey didn’t mean that either of them was definitely the killer. I still had the uneasy feeling that Blake's sudden appearance in Caerphilly hadn’t been explained by the interest he was taking in the zoo.
Chapter 37
I had to drive a mile or so through the Caerphilly Golf Course to get to the Inn. I kept expecting a sleek, unmarked security vehicle to pull out from behind one of the well-manicured hedges or copses to bar the road, but I made my way unchallenged to a parking lot made of white gravel that gleamed like polished marble. I stashed my battered blue Toyota between a brand new Rolls-Royce Corniche and a Hummer that still had the dealer's suggested retail price sticker on it. The only other car in the lot that wasn’t brand-new was a vintage BMW that looked as if it had been washed and polished daily by an army of chauffeurs. With my luck, the Toyota would develop an inferiority complex after an hour or two at the Inn, and refuse to start when I wanted to leave.
I crunched across the spotless white stone toward the front door, which was ostentatiously unobtrusive—in fact, almost hidden between wisteria vines dripping with lush purple flowers. The doorman's manner was scrupulously polite, and I resisted the temptation to explain that my jeans and T-shirt were absolutely clean.
“Meg! What are you doing here?”
I turned to find Dad strolling away from the registration desk. His jeans and shirt weren’t the least bit clean—it looked as if he’d come straight from putting the penguins to bed. But he seemed completely at home, and a porter murmured, “Evening, sir,” while passing him. Leave it to Dad to make himself at home anywhere.
“I came to see Dr. Blake,” I said.
“Aha!” Dad exclaimed. Then he glanced around the lobby for possible eavesdroppers. When he spotted none, his face fell slightly, but he still lowered his voice to a suspiciously conspiratorial stage whisper.
“You suspect him of being the killer?” he asked.
The desk clerk looked up from his computer, ears almost visibly cocked to hear my answer.
“More important than that,” I said, in my normal voice. “I suspect him of knowing precisely how many and what kind of animals there were in the Caerphilly Zoo.”
“But I could—” Dad began, before realizing what he’d been about to say.
The desk clerk lost interest as soon as we stopped whispering.
“Yes, I know you could tell me if you had the time to sit down and make a list,” I said. “But you’ve been rather busy caring for the animals. So I thought I’d bother Blake. And while we’re both here, maybe we can pin Blake down on what, if anything, he's going to do about the zoo.”
Not that I’d object to getting in a little prying about Blake's motive, means, and opportunity for committing the murder, given the chance. But I didn’t want to set Dad off. Still, I was relieved that his presence meant that someone other than the staff of the Caerphilly Inn knew where I was.
“Great idea,” Dad said. “And it gives you a wonderful chance to see the Inn!”
“Wonderful,” I echoed. I glanced around uneasily. I’d been to the Caerphilly Inn before, but it never failed to intimidate me. Its brochure claimed that the building was a modern interpretation of a colonial-era mansion, inspired in part by Monticello, Mount Vernon, and other architectural masterpieces from the Old Dominion's more gracious eras. To me, it looked more as if Martha Stewart and the architect of Caesars Palace had gone ten rounds to see who got to have the last say in the decor.
Martha had won on a technicality in the lobby, which was filled with acres of chintz and enough distressed wood to gladden the heart of an army of termites. Rumor had it that Las Vegas ruled in the less public areas, especially the bathrooms, which were larger than most people's living rooms and equipped with both saunas and Jacuzzis. Or so they said—since the all-in price of a weekend at the Inn would have exceeded our monthly mortgage payment, Michael and I had spent our occasional romantic getaways in less rarefied quarters.
Dad, however, was charmed.
“What a lovely place!” he exclaimed as we strolled through the lobby. “Did you see the wisteria outside?”
“It's an alien invasive species, you know,” I said. Normally he’d have been the first to point this out, but apparently he was still dazzled by everything associated with Blake. “And can you imagine how much water they use to keep the golf course that green? Not to mention the toxic chemicals. I can’t understand how an environmental activist like Blake could tolerate a place like this.”