The Penguin Who Knew Too Much(70)

“Well, he's a rich environmental activist,” Dad said with a shrug. “You can’t expect him to stay at the Super 8.”

“Here's the elevator,” I said, pausing by the call button. “You got Blake's room number, right?”

“Oh, he's not in one of the rooms,” Dad said, breezing past the elevators toward a pair of enormous French doors beyond. “He's in the Washington Cottage.”

Wonderful. Blake couldn’t be content with an over-the-top room in the main part of the Inn—he had to have one of the cottages.

Was I perhaps feeling a little jealous of someone who could afford the Inn's most expensive quarters? No—I was feeling a lot jealous. But at least I’d finally get to satisfy my curiosity about the cottages.

The Inn had three cottages—Washington, Jefferson, and Madison—each with its own private patio and a view of the Caerphilly Golf Course. When nearby Caerphilly College sponsored executive retreats and high-level economic think tanks, it always housed the most distinguished international economists and the richest robber barons in the cottages. For that matter, any really distinguished guest of the college could usually count on staying at a cottage—alumni who had given whacking great sums of money, or were expected to do so in future, for example. Michael always joked that if you could get a guest list for the cottages, the names would probably be the same as you’d find on most of the newer campus buildings.

“Why doesn’t Blake take a few animals?” I muttered as we followed the quaint cobblestone path to his cottage. “He's probably got more room than we do. And he could turn the llamas loose on the fairways and save the Inn a little money on groundskeeping.”

“I’m not sure the Inn allows pets,” Dad said. “This is it.”

We had arrived at the Washington Cottage, and were standing under a tall white veranda designed to echo Mount Vernon— although there were only four white pillars, not eight, and they were only about a story and a half tall. Still, it looked as if it might grow up to be Mount Vernon if you watered and fertilized it enough.

Through the door I could see parts of the interior. More chintz and old wood. The real Mount Vernon probably didn’t contain a sleek modern laptop, but even that was perched atop a Chippendale writing desk.

Blake answered the door seconds after Dad knocked. “There you are,” he said. “My, that is a spectacular black eye you’ve got.”

I forced a smile, and reminded myself to be polite. No matter how irritating I found Blake, or how much I suspected him, he was a distinguished scientist, and a guest in town, and our best hope for getting the animals out of our backyard.

“Food's already here,” Blake said as he turned to lead us in.

And an impressive array of food indeed. The table in the cottage's dining room was covered with every cold item on the Inn's menu—meats, cheeses, fruits, vegetables with dip, assorted salads, and a bowl of gigantic shrimp in which someone had already made a considerable dent.

Dad began heaping a plate with food. I followed Blake out to the patio, where I discovered that the shrimp-loving someone was Rob. He was already ensconced in a chaise longue with a glass of red wine on the wrought-iron table at his elbow and a heaping plate of food in his lap. On the glass tabletop, the shrimp tails were beginning to overflow the plate on which he’d been piling them.

“Cheers!” he said, raising his glass to us and then taking a healthy sip. “Damn, I wish I’d brought my camera. The eye's getting even more picturesque.”

“What are you doing here?” I said. “Apart from the obvious.”

“I brought Dr. Blake back here,” Rob said. “He can’t drive, you know.”

“I can drive just fine,” Blake said. “I just don’t have a license right now. If those imbeciles down at the DMV knew how to administer an eye test properly—but never mind that. Help yourself.” He waved his hand back at the French doors that led to the dining room. “What we don’t eat only gets thrown away.”

I studied his plate for a few seconds, then went in to help myself to the same things he was eating. Not that I could think of any logical reason for Blake to poison us, but he was rather pushing the food. He could just be one of those people who judges his success as a host by his guests’ food intake. Still, better safe than sorry.

I took my time loading my plate, so I could study the interior of the cottage. Either Blake was naturally tidy or the hotel housekeeping staff had been in recently. Apart from the food, the only sign of occupancy I could see was the neat little office set up just inside the front door. The Chippendale writing desk held not only the laptop, but also a small high-tech printer. Nearby was a piece of luggage that looked like a cross between a large briefcase and a small filing cabinet. I spotted a small stack of expensive-looking Montgomery Blake Foundation letterhead. A traveling office for the rich and famous. The screen saver on Blake's laptop was flipping slowly through a gallery of photos of Blake posing with assorted animals, birds, and reptiles.