Saturday morning dawned bright and sunny.
Or so I deduced when I woke up, at eight thirty, grateful that we’d installed blackout shades in the master bedroom. I’d have joined Michael in sleeping even later but, although my notebook was tucked away out of sight in my purse, my to-do list kept nudging me awake.
I dressed quietly and slipped out into the hallway.
“Grrrrrr.”
Spike was waiting for me. He didn’t actually snap at my ankle—clearly he was mellowing a bit, or maybe just slowing down. But he did fix me with a baleful stare, and I realized he was missing the twins.
“Sorry,” I said. “They’re having a sleepover. They’ll be back in a few hours.”
My words didn’t seem to mollify him, but he followed at my heels down to the kitchen, allowed me to let him out into the yard, and then deigned to accept a bowl of dog food. Tinkerbell was visibly more grateful for her visit outdoors and her food.
Since Rose Noire wasn’t back, I let the chickens out into the yard and scattered some feed for them. Although the llamas watched me with the intense interest they always showed in human activity, I decided they could wait for their grain until Michael was up. Though they did like apples and carrots as treats, so I sliced up a few for them while I was preparing the toucan’s meal.
The toucan.
As I watched him eat his fruit—from a safe distance, so he wouldn’t splatter me with juice in his enthusiasm—I considered my options. I could just show up at Grandfather’s zoo with the toucan and pretend I thought people dropped off random birds at their aviary all the time. Probably not a great idea. Then again, if I asked Grandfather to take the bird in, there was a chance he’d say no, since toucans were neither endangered nor particularly fierce, two qualities that tended to endear creatures to him.
Still, if I played my cards right, I could get him to cooperate. Perhaps I should just pretend we’d already discussed the toucan and he’d already agreed to foster it. Yes, that was the ticket.
So I pulled out my phone and called him.
“What now?” he said when he picked up. Was I the latest in a string of annoying callers, or was he under the erroneous impression that this was the new phone etiquette?
“And good morning to you, too,” I said. “Are you at the zoo? I need to bring you the toucan. If you’re not there, I can just drop it off with Manoj—he’s still the head aviary keeper, right?”
“Yes—fine young man. I plan to promote him when something opens up. But what’s this about a toucan? We already have a pair—we don’t need any more toucans.”
“That’s a relief,” I said. “Because you don’t get to keep this one, remember? He’s the one that belongs to Robyn’s parishioner, who’s going to want his bird back when the Harry S. Truman returns from wherever it’s currently traveling. But with Robyn down for the count, the toucan’s in danger of being neglected. He needs expert care—and where better than at a zoo! Didn’t we already discuss this?”
“We’re not an avian boarding facility,” Grandfather protested. “We can’t just take in every stray pigeon that some do-gooder wants us to take care of. Clarence boards animals at his veterinary clinic—why not ask him to take the bird?”
“Well, that was my first idea,” I improvised. “But Mother said she knew you would be willing to take the bird in, seeing how everyone else in town was doing their bit to help Robyn.” Grandfather wasn’t afraid of anything on two or four legs, but he did try to avoid crossing Mother. “And Cordelia said if you wouldn’t do it, she’d pick up the tab for boarding at Clarence’s,” I added, hoping to make productive use of the perennial sniping between Grandfather and Cordelia.
“Nonsense,” Grandfather said. “There’s no need for her to pay for anything. Stupid idea.”
I made a mental note to tell Mother and Cordelia what they were supposed to have said, just in case it ever came up.
“When shall I tell Manoj to expect you?” Grandfather asked.
“I can head over with the bird now.”
“I’ll be in the small mammal house,” he said. “Awaiting the birth. Got to run.”
“Birth of what?” But he’d already hung up.
Well, I’d find out when I got there.
Assuming I ever got there. With the Twinmobile in having its window replaced, I was left with my ancient blue Honda, which still ran reasonably well, in spite of being nearly old enough to vote, thanks to Osgood Shiffley’s expert (though not inexpensive) care. But the Honda’s interior space was limited, and there was no way I could fit the toucan’s capacious cage in it.
So I transferred the toucan to the dog carrier we kept for Spike’s visits to Clarence. Fortunately for the toucan, the carrier was much larger than you’d normally use for an eight-and-a-half-pound fur ball, because we’d found the larger the carrier, the fewer times we got bitten during the process of stuffing Spike into it.
The toucan clearly wasn’t crazy about leaving his usual home, and I was wary of that huge, powerful bill, but unlike Spike, he confined his protests to squawking and pooping copiously.
“It’s only for the ride,” I told him, as I stuffed a few orange slices into the carrier to placate him. “And you’ll love what’s waiting for you at the other end.” At least I hoped he would. I made another mental note to warn Grandfather and Manoj that like many caged birds the toucan might not have had much experience with his own species.
Then I turned to look at the empty cage. What if whoever had ransacked Trinity figured out that the toucan had moved here? And didn’t get word that he’d moved on to the zoo? I didn’t much like the notion of Mr. Hagley’s killer rummaging through our barn, and maybe even invading the house.
So with the toucan carrier in tow, I went into my office, turned on my laptop, and typed out a notice in very large, bold letters: DO NOT CALL THE POLICE TO REPORT THE TOUCAN MISSING! HE IS NOW HOUSED AT THE CAERPHILLY ZOO!
I printed out two copies. I taped one over the toucan’s cage and the other on the main barn door. Then I laid down a tarp in the back of my car, in case Nimitz still had a reserve supply of poop, loaded the carrier in, tucked the box of stuff for Dr. Womble in the trunk, and headed for the zoo.
Evidently Grandfather’s initial reluctance to take in the toucan had turned into enthusiasm. When I arrived at the zoo, I found two uniformed keepers waiting for me just inside the entrance. I recognized the slight but energetic one as Manoj. Both keepers came scurrying out to the car.
“Welcome, Meg!” Manoj said. “Axel, get the … dog carrier?”
“The toucan’s cage wouldn’t fit in the car,” I said. “And I figured he wouldn’t need it here anyway.”
“No, we have a splendid habitat waiting for him.”
Axel, who was burly and blond and almost a head taller than Manoj, picked up Nimitz’s carrier as if it was a matchbox and headed into the zoo with it. Manoj and I fell into step behind him.
“By the way,” I said. “I have no idea if he’s ever encountered another toucan in his life. I assume you’re not just going to turn him out in the habitat with the other toucans—”
“Of course not!” Manoj looked slightly shocked. “We will keep him in quarantine until Clarence has given him a clean bill of health. And then we will introduce him gradually to the other toucans, under careful observation. Don’t worry—we have lots of experience with integrating new individuals into existing flocks. Even individuals who haven’t been properly socialized with their own species.”
“Good,” I said. “Not that I ever doubted you, but keep in mind that for the last couple of days I’ve been dealing with people who don’t even know that toucans can’t talk.”
“Seriously?” Manoj looked even more shocked at that notion.
“Yes, which brings me to something that I probably should mention—at least one of the clueless people who thinks toucans can talk might be gunning for this one. Quite literally.”
I explained about the bird’s presence at Trinity during the murder, and last night’s shooting at the church.
“So I’m not bringing him here just because you guys will be better at taking care of him—although that’s certainly very important,” I said in conclusion. “There’s also the fact that you have much better security here than Michael and I could ever provide.”
“You really think the toucan could be in danger?”
I nodded.
“Never fear!” Manoj drew himself up to his full height. “We will protect him!”
“No one gets through us to the bird,” Axel commented over his shoulder.
“Excellent,” I said. “I suppose I should confess to Grandfather that I’m bringing him a marked toucan.”
“You will find him in the Small Mammal House,” Manoj said. “Awaiting the birth.”
He hurried to catch up with Axel and fuss over the toucan before I could ask “what birth?”
Only one way to find out. I headed toward the Small Mammal House.
I made my way through the crowds of tourists—of course it was Saturday now, and apparently a reasonably large number of people had decided to weekend in Caerphilly. Randall would doubtless be pleased, since tourism was rapidly becoming a significant source of income for both the town and its businesses—although I suspected this morning he was probably worrying about the possibility that the dramatic police response to the shooting at Trinity would discourage vacationers. Was I more cynical to think it was just as likely to encourage them?
I strolled into the Small Mammal House. Nothing much seemed to be going on out in the public areas.
As usual, the meerkats had drawn the biggest crowd, partly because they’d cornered the market on cute and partly because unlike many of the other animals they didn’t spent the majority of their days hiding in the farthest corner of their habitat.
A couple of cat lovers were cooing baby talk to the sand cat, who was lying on a branch gazing out through the glass with his ears laid back and the tip of his tail twitching, as if to express his disapproval of their undignified way of addressing him. I’d always gotten the impression that in spite of being the size of an ordinary house cat—and a fairly small house cat at that—the sand cat resented being relegated to the Small Mammal House and felt it would be much more suitable to his feline dignity if he were housed with his larger relatives in the Big Cat House.
A couple of teenagers were tapping on the glass of the lesser Madagascar hedgehog tenrec’s habitat and wondering loudly why the stupid animal wouldn’t come out and show himself. I thought of pointing out to them the large sign announcing that the habitat’s occupant was not on display today—it was right beside the sign telling people not to tap on the glass. But I reminded myself how strong an advocate Grandfather was of learning by doing and left them to figure it out for themselves. If they were lucky, they’d grasp the importance of reading the signs before they got to the Big Cat House or the Bear Cave.
None of the animals on display looked pregnant, much less in the throes of labor, so I went over to the door marked STAFF ONLY! DO NOT ENTER! I punched the access code into the keypad, slipped in, and slammed the door behind me before any of the tourists noticed what I was up to and tried to enter on my heels.
Normally the staff-only sections of the zoo were fairly quiet except during the feeding-time frenzy. But I could see at least a dozen staff members racing up and down the corridor or gathered in a clump at its far end. As I proceeded down the corridor I could see they were all staring through what looked like a picture window, except that it gave a view not of the outside world but into a room with a sign over its door that read CLINIC AND NURSERY.
“Is this where the blessed event is taking place?” I asked a passing staff member.
“In the clinic,” she said. “Nothing visible yet, but if all goes well, they’ll bring the pups to the window for us to see.”
She dashed off as if on some urgent obstetric mission. Annoying that she couldn’t have just said what kind of new arrivals they were expecting. Still, pups did narrow the field a bit. If it was the ill-tempered sand cat’s mate giving birth, she’d have said kittens. Pups could mean wolves—Grandfather was particularly fond of wolves. But wolf litters weren’t that rare at the zoo, so no matter how pleased Grandfather was at the birth of more tiny predators, the rest of the staff wouldn’t get this worked up. And besides, the wolves didn’t live in the Small Mammal House. The meerkats did, and I seemed to recall that their offspring were also called pups—but like his wolves Grandfather’s meerkats were remarkably good at producing litters. No one made this much fuss over them.
I had just decided to break down and ask someone what we were expecting when Grandfather burst out of the clinic/nursery door, dressed in pale blue surgical scrubs.
“Victory!” he shouted. “We now have two healthy Screaming Hairy Armadillo pups!”
“Seriously?” I muttered.