Free The Penguin Who Knew Too Much by Donna Andrews Page B

said.
    “And that young man does have a point,” she said. “Dr. Blake could be a suspect. I think you should check him out. We don’t really know why he's here, now do we? Is the Caerphilly Zoo really the kind of project he’d normally spend his time on?”
    “I’m sure the chief has already thought of that, Mother,” I said. “For all we know, he's already identified the murderer.”
    “That would be nice,” Mother said. “And if he hasn’t, I’m sure you and your father will help him out. We don’t want this unfortunate business to spoil all your lovely plans for the weekend, now do we?”
    I was momentarily startled—Mother was absolutely the last person in the world Michael and I wanted finding out about The Plan. Had she guessed?
    Probably not; I realized she was probably only referring to the move, and the giant Memorial Day cookout and house-warming party we had scheduled for Monday. The party we planned to duck out of early, so we could race over to the Clay County courthouse to tie the knot as quickly, simply, and privately as possible. I’d already mentally composed the note we were going to send back to our guests: “Thanks for coming to our wedding reception. We’ve already taken off for the honeymoon. Have fun while we’re gone, and don’t break too much.”
    But I hadn’t committed it to paper, and I’d been extremely careful not to say anything that might give her the slightest clue.
    Had I been a little too careful? Dad liked to brag about my marvelous detective ability, but if I had any skill in that area, it was Mother I’d inherited it from.
    The best defense is a strong offense, they say.
    “You’re up to something,” I said. “What is it?”
    Mother assumed her most innocent look, and just then the chief strolled into the kitchen.
    “If you folks want to carry on with your moving, that's fine with me,” he said. “As long as you stay out of the basement. And if you don’t mind, I’d like to sneak the body out this way, while the reporters are all fawning at Blake's feet.”
    “Sneak him out?” Mother asked. “Why do you need to sneak?” Not one of her favorite words—she was fond of saying that if it would embarrass us to see something we did in a photo on the front page of the Daily Press , we shouldn’t do it.
    “Maybe it's foolish of me,” the chief said, “but I just don’t approve of seeing pictures of a murder victim all over the newspaper or the TV screen—not even in a body bag. It's just not seemly. But I haven’t had much luck bringing the damned press around to my point of view, so all I can do is try to sneak the body out when they’re otherwise engaged. So if you don’t mind, while Blake's still going strong...”
    “Be my guest,” I said. “I’ll go out front and sound the alarm if one of them appears. And if they do show up before you can get him out, maybe we could sneak him out under cover of the move.”
    “I’ll watch the back door, and then tell the family we’re starting work again,” Mother said. I could tell from her face that she approved of the chief's scruples.
    The front yard was blissfully empty. No reporters, no family members, and no stray animals.
    “All clear?” the chief asked from inside the front door.
    “All clear,” I said, and stepped back to give them plenty of room. The chief supervised as Sammy and Horace wheeled a small gurney out, picked it up to go down the front steps, and then scurried over to our driveway, where they deposited the body bag in the back of a pickup truck.
    “Isn’t that Michael's truck?” I asked, startled.
    “He's going to drive us,” the chief said. “Mort down at the funeral home says the hearse blew a rod, and he doesn’t know when the garage will have it running again.”
    “And if anyone asks,” Michael said, striding out onto the porch, “I’ve gone into town to fetch a load of the stuff I’ve been keeping in the corner of my office. Which is exactly what I will be