An Owl Too Many by Charlotte MacLeod Page B

turned to Ottermole. “Here’s an interesting development. According to this invoice I found in Emmerick’s luggage, the car Fanshaw drove out to the station this morning is the same one Emmerick rented last week from the Happy Wayfarer in Clavaton.”
    “Yeah? So, why not? They were both workin’ for the same company, weren’t they?”
    “Er—not according to Meadowsweet, but I expect it’s fairly safe to assume they were working together one way or another. I was thinking about the transportation logistics. As you know, there’s no direct train or bus service into Balaclava Junction. Taxis from Clavaton are damned expensive and scarce as hens’ teeth, but it looks as if Fanshaw must have taken one unless there’s another accomplice in the woodwork. You’d better ask the Clavaton police to find out whether any of the local drivers brought a fare over here any time yesterday or this morning.”
    “Couldn’t Emmerick have picked up Fanshaw sometime yesterday?”
    “He’d have had to do it early in the morning. He spent the whole day making a pest of himself at the field station, Miss Binks told me, then drove her here and invited himself along on the owl watch. If he did collect Fanshaw, then Fanshaw would have had to hole up somewhere overnight, which is another point that must be checked out.”
    “Maybe he stayed at the inn and that’s how come Emmerick’s car wasn’t in the lot when I went over.”
    “He could have stayed at the inn, but that can’t be where he got the car. Emmerick drove straight to Charley Ross’s, dropped Miss Binks off, then parked a little way up on the street and got into my car. So how would Fanshaw know where to find the rental car? Furthermore, how did he get hold of the keys? Emmerick surely didn’t know he was going to be killed, he was cavorting around like a blasted monkey last night. Either he’d made a prior arrangement with Fanshaw to leave the car and the keys on the road, as he did, or else the keys were taken from his pocket while he was up in the tree getting himself murdered.”
    “Unless the Wayfarer gave him a spare key,” Ottermole suggested.
    “M’yes, a point to consider, though rental agencies aren’t usually all that accommodating. Emmerick could have had one made, I suppose. Did you get the rest of his effects from the state police, by the way?”
    “Not yet, but they gave me a list over the phone. Raise up a little, Edmund. There you are, Professor. Sorry about the pawprints.”
    “Quite all right, I’m used to Jane’s. Let’s see: wallet containing credit cards and a New York driver’s license made out in the name of Emory Emmerick, cash in the amount of—well, well! Why do you suppose he was carrying two thousand dollars around when he had all those credit cards? Pocket comb and mirror, egad. Two rolls of root beer Life Savers, one full, one not. Pocket compass, waterproof match safe, collapsible hunting knife, battery-operated hand warmer, fish scaler, folding telescope, desalinizing pills—where in tunket did he think he was going? No keys, car or otherwise. I think we’d better call Mrs. Freedom again.”
    “You call her,” said Ottermole. “She’s already mad at me.”
    Peter called. He was not well received. Certainly Mrs. Freedom had seen Mr. Emmerick’s car in her parking lot yesterday morning. She kept careful tabs on her parking lot, she wanted him to know. No, she hadn’t seen the car this morning. Why should she have? Mr. Emmerick hadn’t been there, had he? He wasn’t ever coming back, was he? Her waitress hadn’t shown up, either, but a fat lot anybody cared about Ellie June Freedom’s problems. She didn’t bother to say good-bye, and Peter couldn’t say he blamed her much. A new thought had struck him.
    “Ottermole,” he said, “how would you describe Fanshaw?”
    “Huh? What do you mean, how?”
    “Height, weight, age, complexion, eye color, clothing, the usual. Would you say he was a tall man?”
    “Not