Crouching Buzzard, Leaping Loon by Donna Andrews Page B

now. Probably still looking for evidence somewhere. When I arrived, he'd already been doing his best Sherlock Holmes imitation. Mainly examining every floor, wall, and desktop in the place from a distance of about four or five inches, with or without his trusty magnifying glass. He was probably still doing the same thing, someplace. When Sherlock Holmes went through this routine, he would usually produce a clue at some point. So far all Dad had managed was a couple of sneezing fits. At least he wasn't wearing his deerstalker hat. Though since he wasn't expecting to encounter a murder when he came up to Caerphilly, he had probably left the hat at home. And had probably called last night to ask Mother to mail it to him. With luck, the chief would have arrested the killer before the hat arrived.
    Dad also assumed what he called my „secret mission“ to find out anything fishy going on at Mutant Wizards gave me a head start over the police in finding the killer. He didn't seem to understand that to date, my so-called sleuthing efforts had been completely useless.
    „Now, now,“ he said. „You're too modest. Just let me know if you think it's time to gather all the suspects so you can reveal the solution.“
    I was about to explain how unlikely it was that I would be revealing the solution anytime this century when the switchboard blinked again. Another reporter. We'd been getting quite a few calls from reporters – who seemed to think, from the questions they asked me, that anyone whose job included answering the phone must automatically be an idiot.
    „No, I will not give you Mr. Langslow's home number,“ I was telling the latest Woodward-and-Bernstein wannabe when I noticed that Roger was once again lurking beside the reception desk. „I can take a message, and if you rephrase that last remark a little more politely, I just might remember to give it to him. What was that? Thank you – the feeling is mutual.“
    I hung up, closed my eyes, and counted to ten. When I opened them again, Roger the Stalker was leaning against the wall by my desk. He wasn't a relaxed leaner. The way he hunched his shoulders forward made it look as if he had been ordered to lean and found touching the wall vaguely distasteful.
    „Yes?“ I said. „Anything I can do for you?“
    He frowned as if this were a trick question.
    „While you're thinking, do you want to make yourself useful?“
    He shrugged. Was that a yes or a no?
    „It's almost time to feed George; you want to take care of that?“
    He glanced at George, pried himself awkwardly off the wall, and left.
    Good riddance.
    Of course, that meant I still had to feed George myself, eventually.
    Later, I thought, answering another line.
    „Meg! What's going on?“ shrieked a voice. I winced as I recognized the caller – Dahlia Waterston, Michael's mother.
    „What in the world are you doing with my poor baby?“
    „Michael's fine,“ I said. „He's out in California, remember? In fact, I just talked to him a few minutes ago, and he says the filming's going very well.“
    „Of course Michael's fine,“ she said. „I meant Spike.“
    „Spike's fine, too,“ I said. „He had a nice breakfast and a long walk, and he's sitting right here at my feet.“
    „I knew it – you're still bringing him into that death trap!“
    „It's not a death trap. It's a perfectly ordinary office,“ I said, and then winced at how inaccurate that was. „Anyway, you can relax. We iiaven't had any dogs killed. Just humans. Just one human, actually. So you don't have to worry.“
    She didn't seem to be worried about my presence in the office, of course. I put her on hold, answered another call, and then returned.
    „Sorry,“ I said. „Busy day.“
    „I want to talk to him,“ she said.
    „Talk to whom?“
    „Spike. I want to talk to Spike. Put the phone near his face so he can hear me.“
    Okay. I leaned down and put the phone to the wire at the front of Spike's crate.
    „It's for you,“ I