The Penguin Who Knew Too Much by Donna Andrews Page B

Flugleman's?”
    “She's got some hyenas she wants moved,” Randall said. “You want us to take these rats out back, too?”
    By the time we reached the backyard, Montgomery Blake had rounded up Michael and several of Chief Blake's officers and cajoled them into hoisting the hyenas’ cage onto some kind of wheeled chassis—probably another piece of leftover farm equipment from one of the sheds. He greeted us with enthusiasm.
    “More new arrivals!” he exclaimed, and strode over to look at the cage with an energy that belied his age. “Aha! Acouchis!”
    “Geshundheit,” Randall said.
    “No, that's their name,” Blake said, peering into the cage. “The acouchi. South American rodent. Note the greenish sheen of their fur.”
    “It's supposed to look like that?” Randall said, crouching down beside Blake. “I just thought they had mange or something.”
    I sat down on the back steps, leaving Blake to enthuse about the acouchis to his new audience. Before too long, he’d recruited the Shiffleys to his moving crew, and the hyena cage went slowly rumbling off toward a more distant part of the yard.
    The chief joined me on the back steps to watch it go.
    “You tell anyone whose body we have down there and what happened to him?” he asked.
    “No, not even the Shiffleys, who appear to be quite knowledgeable about crossbows.”
    “Lot of people around here are.”
    “I had no idea it was legal to hunt with a crossbow.”
    “Used to be illegal unless you were disabled,” the chief said. “General Assembly opened it up to everyone in 2005. Makes for a longer season—there's an early bow season before the regular hunting season begins. And they say crossbows are easier than regular bows. Lot of people taking up crossbow hunting these days.”
    “Lanahan file charges against many other crossbow hunters?”
    The chief didn’t answer, and from the expression on his face, I decided not to push it.
    “You expecting any more animals?” he asked.
    “I hope not. Why?”
    “Truck just pulled up by the pasture,” he said, and went inside.
    He didn’t have to sound so smug about it. I decided to stroll down to the pasture. Maybe give the latest animal dumper a piece of my mind.

Chapter 11
    Since there was still a murderer on the loose, I looked over the lanky, jeans-clad new arrival carefully before I got close. He didn’t appear to be carrying any animals, or, for that matter, a crossbow. He had parked his pickup truck by the fence and had gotten out to look at the llamas. He had propped his forearms on the top rail of the fence and was leaning on them, shoulders and head drooping dispiritedly. The llamas were humming softly at him. “Can I help you?” I asked.
    “Probably not,” he said. He turned around, revealing a face so lugubrious it made his body language seem upbeat. “I’m Jason Savage. Caerphilly Animal Welfare.”
    He stuck his drooping right hand in my direction diffidently, as if most people turned up their noses at the thought of touching it.
    “Great to see you,” I said. I grabbed the hand and shook it briskly. The Animal Welfare Department! Why hadn’t I thought of calling them already?
    “Um...thanks,” he said, frowning at his hand as if I’d done something to it—which was ridiculous; I hadn’t been trying to imitate the Montgomery Blake death grip.
    “You’ve come to take away the animals, I presume,” I went on, trying for a tone of businesslike regret.
    “People aren’t usually that glad to see me,” he said. Oops— perhaps I’d sounded too eager.
    “Well, most people probably aren’t putting the welfare of the animals above their own selfish interests. I understand that you’re only doing your job. We’ve got the rest of them up at the house.”
    “More llamas?” he asked, sounding anxious. “No, that's all the llamas. But we’ve got penguins, hyenas, and some kind of rodent, last I looked.” “Oh, Lord,” he muttered.
    “We’ll miss them, of course, but