Both Melissa and the Australian ornithologist said a quick hello when I neared them, although they continued on with their conversation. I took a surreptitious peek at the man’s badge: Dr. Lachlan Pearce from Sidney.
“But the most amazing thing about the tawny frogmouth is its ability to camouflage itself.” It sounded rather dashing in Pearce’s Aussie accent. “The brown, gray, and white plumage is perfect for blending in with tree branches. They’re nocturnal, like owls, and after hunting all night they spend most of their day perched in a tree, camouflaged to look like part of it. In fact, they often sit on a broken branch and then twist themselves into a posture that makes them look like a continuation of the branch.” He contorted himself into a weird posture. He didn’t look much like a tree branch, but then he didn’t look much like an edible bird, either. Maybe if he had the tawny frogmouth’s feathers to help, his tree impersonation would be a lot more believable. “It’s brilliant.”
“You have them in Sydney?” Melissa asked. Was she interested in the bird, the bloke, or only hearing more of the bloke’s charming accent?
“All over. They’re amazing for pest control—almost everything they eat is either a household pest or a garden threat. I rescued one a month or so back—he’d hopped into a wheelie bin for a sticky and couldn’t get back out.”
“A wheelie bin’s what my Australian nieces and nephews call a garbage can,” I translated, seeing Melissa’s puzzled look. “And I guess a sticky’s a foraging expedition?”
“Close enough. Anyway, the frogmouth was so fierce-looking, the bin’s owners were scared to stick their hands in, so they called the ornithology department and I went out to save the day.” He basked in the memory for a few moments. Then he seemed to notice the snowy window again. “Damn, the snow’s slowed down a bit, but it’s not exactly stopping, is it? How long has it been now?”
“Closing in on thirty-six hours,” I said. “But you’re right—it’s not coming down as heavily as it was. Tapering off, thank goodness.”
“I suppose it’s time, but I’ve had a blast watching it. We don’t get much snow in Sydney. In fact, we don’t get any,” Lachlan said.
“Much the same for Atlanta, where I grew up,” Melissa said. “We had a white Christmas in 2010, but before that we literally hadn’t had one in a century.”
“This could be my first white Christmas ever,” Lachlan proclaimed. “Unless it’s all going to go away over the next few days.”
“The high temperature won’t get out of the twenties for the next few days,” I said. “So if you’re sticking around, the snow will be, too.”
“I warned the family that I might miss the usual festivities,” he said. “And they promised they’d do it all over again when I got home, even if I didn’t show up till Anzac Day.”
“If there’s anything that would make the holiday feel more festive, let Ekaterina know,” I said. “Especially when it comes to meals. What foods will you miss most if you’re stuck here?”
“Cold prawns for Christmas lunch,” he said readily. “Cold seafood generally. And a pav for dessert. Of course, we usually go for the cold foods for Christmas because it’s damned hot in December—in the twenties. Celsius. I think that’s the seventies in Fahrenheit. So most of us are running around in boardies and thongs.”
I wondered if my jaw had dropped quite as noticeably as Melissa’s. Not that the thought of the lean, muscular Lachlan in skimpy underwear was off-putting—quite the contrary. But still …
“Although I think here you’d say swimming trunks and flip-flops,” he went on. From the twinkle in his eye, I suspected this wasn’t the first time he’d had fun confounding Americans in this way.
“I suspect Ekaterina might manage the prawns,” I said. “Or at least some kind of cold seafood. Your thongs might be a little harder.”
“Not sure I’d want them in this weather,” he said with a chuckle. “There’s also the traditional game of backyard cricket, but even if we had the gear, I doubt if anyone would be up for it in the snow. And if I’m still stuck over here after Christmas Day, I hope I can find some channel that’s showing the Boxing Day Test Match—big five-day cricket match. Sometimes I think Boxing Day’s the best part of the holidays—plenty of leftovers that you’re not yet tired of, all the rellos have gone home, and you can just lie on the couch with a Carlton’s and a sanger and watch the test match.”
He looked almost dreamy eyed at the prospect, and I got the feeling he was just a little homesick. I made a mental note to ask Ekaterina about the prawns. I was about to ask what pav, Carlton’s, and sanger were when Grandfather’s voice rang out from across the lobby.
“Pearce!”
We all looked up to see Grandfather waving at us. Mostly at Pearce, I suspected.
“I should go see what the good doctor wants,” he said. “Talk to you later.”
He loped across the lobby at a good pace and disappeared into Mount Vernon Grill with Grandfather.
“Nice guy,” I said.
“Not my type,” Melissa said with a grin. “But there’s nothing wrong with window shopping. Besides, it’s a nice change to talk with someone who knows very little and cares even less about the barred and spotted owls.”
“I hear you.”
She looked away from the snowy window and stared for a few minutes at the roaring fire that filled the hearth. She shivered slightly.
“Warmer near the fire,” I said.
“I’m not really cold,” she said. “Just a little creeped out. I’ve never seen someone die before. Dead bodies at funerals, yeah, but not someone actually dying. And I wish they’d figure out who did it. I was really enjoying the conference until Frogmore bought it. Now, every time I talk to someone, I can’t help but wonder if he did it. Especially—”
She stopped herself and stared back out at the snow again.
I got the feeling she needed to talk, so I just stared out at the snow with her.
“I’ve been wondering if I should tell the chief something.” She stopped and looked down at her feet.
“Something you saw?” I asked, finally.
“Something I overheard.” She looked up, seemed to come to a decision, and words began tumbling out. “I was sitting in the conference office yesterday afternoon and I overheard Dr. Green talking to Dr. Lindquist. He was really mad—Dr. Lindquist, I mean—and Dr. Green was trying to calm him down.”
“Mad about what?”
“Dr. Frogmore. He was really going on about it. What a buffoon he was, how badly he treated anyone he didn’t think was important enough to suck up to, how incompetent he was. How he was making the whole barred owl issue a laughingstock, no matter which side you were on. And he kept saying…” She paused and took a deep breath before going on. “He kept saying they had to get him. Dr. Frogmore. ‘We’ve got to get him,’ he said. ‘No matter what it takes. We can’t let him go on like this. We’ve got to get him.’”
“That’s kind of creepy,” I said. “He wasn’t more specific—about how they were going to get him?”
“No.” She shook her head slowly. “At the time, I thought they meant—you know, professionally. I mean, most people have figured out that Frogmore isn’t—wasn’t—the Einstein of ornithology or anything. He had a lot of power, for some reason, but he hadn’t really done that much in the field. I thought Dr. Lindquist was talking about showing him up. Like … I don’t know. Taking some of this papers apart and demonstrating how useless or even downright wrong they were. That kind of thing. But now…”
Her voice trailed off, and she stared out at the snow again.
What she said didn’t clash with what Dr. Lindquist had told Horace and the chief. Or what he’d said to me. Maybe he had been talking about exposing Frogmore. Discrediting him. But what if that wasn’t all he and Dr. Green had been talking about?
“Are you thinking now that maybe he decided to knock Frogmore off?”
“That doesn’t sound like him,” she protested. “And what I overheard—I got the idea he was really angry at something Dr. Frogmore had just done. Maybe he was just blowing off steam. Making empty threats. Dr. Green’s pretty good at calming people down.”
“Yeah,” I said. “But what if they weren’t empty threats, and what if even Dr. Green couldn’t calm him down this time?”
“You think I should tell the police, then?”
I nodded.
“Even if it gets Dr. Lindquist in trouble? And maybe even Dr. Green for not reporting it already?”
“How do you know Dr. Green didn’t?” I asked. “He seems like the kind of earnest guy who would. For that matter, I bet he confessed any hostile, negative thoughts he’d had himself about Frogmore.”
“That sounds just like him.” She giggled slightly. “Yeah. They’ll keep it secret, won’t they? The police, I mean. That I’m the one who reported the conversation?”
“If you ask them to, they will for the time being,” I said. “If it goes to trial and what you overheard turns out to be an important part of the case, they’ll need you to testify.”
“But they’d need to have a lot more evidence for that, right? Because, damn it, I like Dr. Lindquist. And he’s kind of a bigwig. If it turns out it’s not him after all—”
“I like him, too, and I hope it turns out to be someone else,” I said. “And remember, if they arrest everyone who’s ever said a bad word about Dr. Frogmore, we’ll all find it very crowded in the jail.”
She smiled briefly and sat for a few moments, nodding. Then she stood up rather abruptly.
“I should get it over with.” She squared her shoulders and marched toward the Command Post.