The Penguin Who Knew Too Much by Donna Andrews

table and chairs obediently turned and trooped through the archway from the hallway into the living room. I ventured down the stairs. Mother was standing in the archway frowning.
    “Meg, dear, do see if you can convince the chief to be reasonable,” she said when she spotted me. “He won’t let me take any of the furniture into the dining room.”
    “He does have a murder to investigate,” I pointed out.
    “But it's not as if the rest of the world can come to a grinding halt while he does it,” Mother said. “I don’t see the problem with letting us into the dining room for half an hour to set up the furniture. Now I can’t arrange the living room, either.”
    I could see why the chief was balking. With Mother in charge, half an hour would be more like three—she’d insist on rearranging everything five times. It would drive the chief bananas. I wasn’t looking forward to witnessing or participating in it myself. Perhaps I could find an excuse to spend much of the day somewhere else, doing something indisputably important.
    “And we have hundreds of people coming on Monday,” she said.
    “They know we’ve just moved in,” I said. “They won’t expect us to have everything perfect.”
    “They’ll expect us to make an effort,” she said, with a withering look.
    “I’ll talk to the chief.” And I would—though probably not about reclaiming the dining room just yet.
    “Thank you, dear,” Mother said, smiling. She glided into the living room, ready to goad her crew into action again.
    “And see what you can do about getting rid of all these animals,” Mrs. Fenniman said, following Mother into the living room.
    “Easier said than done,” I muttered, but not loudly enough that they could hear.
    Something hit me on the head. Something soft, wet, andsticky. I grimaced, and carefully scraped whatever it was off the top of my hand.
    A chunk of mushy yellow fruit.
    I glanced up to see a sloth, hanging from the chandelier. It appeared to have fallen asleep in the middle of eating an overripe peach.
    “That's it,” I said. “I’m out of here.”
    “Not permanently, I hope,” Michael said, looking down over the banister.
    “No,” I said. “But I’m going to hunt down Dad and make him tell me exactly what animals the damned zoo has. So we’ll know what to expect, and can start finding new homes for them.”
    “Good idea,” Michael said. “Meanwhile, rumor has it the multitudes are clamoring for breakfast, so I think I’ll get cracking.”
    I set off to find Dad.
    As I passed through the kitchen, I found Montgomery Blake there, stirring an odd-smelling concoction he was cooking on the stovetop. A treat for one of the animals, no doubt. I reminded myself to cut him some slack. After all, he really did seem to love animals. I waved at him as I went by.
    Out in the yard, Rose Noire had pulled up a picnic bench beside Dr. Smoot's chair and was talking to him with an earnest expression. Dr. Smoot looked anxious. Which was good—anxious was a reassuringly normal reaction to one of Rose Noire's little chats.
    “I can understand what a traumatic experience that was,” she was saying. “But I think you need to find a way to free yourself from the shackles of your unhappy past and move on.”
    For my part, I would be happy if Dr. Smoot could free himself from our Adirondack chair and move on back to town, and I wasn’t sure how anything Rose Noire might have planned couldpossibly do any good. But in the interest of family harmony, I kept my face neutral.
    I needn’t have bothered. Smoot's face expressed every bit of doubt I felt, and more.
    “You think I haven’t tried?” he said.
    “Yes, but you haven’t really had any help, have you?”
    Smoot's face suggested that maybe he didn’t really want help. Especially not help that came accompanied by the kind of ghastly herbal teas Rose Noire was always trying to foist off on people. Dr. Smoot was holding a half-full mug of one of her brews, and