Free The Penguin Who Knew Too Much by Donna Andrews

Unfortunately, Michael had turned out to be allergic to something in the incense, so instead of a romantic weekend we had suffered through what we both still referred to as The Big Sneeze.
    “At least Smoot doesn’t seem to mind,” Michael said, shaking his head.
    “I think he's enjoying the attention,” I said.
    Seth Early, who owned the sheep farm across the road from our house, was also casting hostile stares at Dr. Smoot. I sighed. I hoped Rose Noire wasn’t accidentally recruiting Dr. Smoot to her legion of suitors. It was bad enough with Sammy, Horace, and Seth Early infatuated with her.
    As I watched, Mr. Early stood up, walked over to a small clump of sheep, and began pummeling one of them, frowning savagely. I opened my mouth to protest, and then realized that he wasn’t just relieving his anger—he was giving the sheep a back massage. And the sheep was happy. It had closed its eyes and was leaning toward him, while the other sheep shuffled about nudging and shoving it as if impatient for their turn.
    Yes, definitely a good idea to leave before the animal-massage class began.
    Nearby, Montgomery Blake was sitting at the head of another picnic table, with something on his shoulder—a small gray animal, halfway between a cat and a monkey, with a long black-and-white striped tail. Another of the somethings was sitting on the table, holding a slice of apple in its slender paws and nibbling at it.
    “Let me guess—lemurs?” I murmured to Michael.
    “Got it in one. Ring-tailed lemurs, to be precise.”
    One of the lemurs turned my way, revealing enormous yellow eyes with black rings around them, like a raccoon's. In a zoo, I’d have found them unremittingly cute, but this was our backyard, and the lemurs seemed to be consuming an impressive amount of fruit. Odds were they’d be producing an impressive amount of raw material for Sheila Flugleman, and didn’t lemurs live in trees?
    “Uh... Meg?” Rob sidled up with an apologetic look on his face.
    “What's wrong?” I asked. “There are some reporters here.” “Tell them to go away and stop bothering us.” “Oh, it's okay—they don’t want to bother us,” he said. “They want to bother the chief.”
    “Great,” I said. “Go tell him.”
    “Couldn’t you tell him?” Rob said. “He always yells so when he thinks someone is interrupting his investigation.”
    “What makes you think he won’t yell at me just as much as at you?” I said. “In fact, he’d probably yell even more at me.”
    “Yeah, but you’re used to it.”
    I sighed with exasperation. Rob was probably right. I was more used to getting yelled at, and it bothered me less than it would him, but that didn’t mean I liked it. I headed over to the chief's table. But before I got there, I spotted something that let me off the hook.
    “Too late,” I said, to no one in particular. “Here they come.”
    A pack of reporters was just rounding the corner of the house.
    In the lead was the bubbly blonde who, rumor had it, would be deserting the local TV station any day now for a job at one of the Richmond stations. Close on her heels was a far more polished-looking blonde who already worked for one of the Richmond TV stations. A chic African American woman from the Caer-philly radio station followed at a more stately pace, as if to suggest that the real excitement couldn’t possibly begin until she arrived anyway. The two TV cameramen trotted along next, each following his designated reporter, while bringing up the rear was a disheveled young man from the student newspaper, who seemed to be paying more attention to his distinguished colleagues than to the event that had lured them here. The chief looked up and scowled.
    “As if we didn’t have enough damned hyenas already,” he muttered. Then he put on his bland, no-comment face and stood up to meet the press. The cameramen deployed their cameras, and all three women thrust microphones in the chief's face.
    “Chief Burke, can