Owls Well That Ends Well (2 page)

The downstairs half bath was tucked under the stairs, in a space that should have remained a closet. We called it the quarter bath. Most people avoided bumping their heads on the four-foot ceiling over the toilet, but unless they were very short, they usually hit the five and a half foot ceiling over the sink when they straightened up after washing their hands. The fact that you couldn’t sit down without bumping your knees against the sink was another strike against it. No wonder Michael, at six-four, refused to use this bathroom. I had trouble enough myself at five-ten.

Rob ambled over and gave the bathroom doorknob a sharp tug, which not only opened the door but tore it completely off its hinges, revealing a small, plump, middle-aged man crouched inside.

“Oops,” Rob said.

“This is my husband, Claude,” Emma said.

“Are you all right?” I asked. Claude nodded. He was also wearing a Groucho mask. Was this some peculiar Kansas custom?

I noticed that Claude was clutching his trousers closed with one hand. He probably didn’t have elbow room to zip them up, since the bathroom was slightly under three feet wide. I turned away to make polite conversation with Emma while Dad and Rob pried Claude out and exclaimed over his bruises.

“All the way from Kansas,” I said.

“Well, we didn’t come just for the yard sale,” Emma said. “But since we were here …”

“Emma does love a good yard sale,” Claude said, limping over to collapse beside the doughnut box.

“Wonderful,” I said.

“What should I do with this,” Rob said, holding the door toward me.

“For now, shut it behind me,” I said, as I ran in.

“It’s going to be splendid!” I heard Dad say outside.

I looked at the bags under my eyes and my Bride of Frankenstein mane and thought maybe I should borrow Emma’s Groucho disguise.

“But why in October?” I heard her saying outside. “I mean, luckily you have the weather for it this weekend, after all those weeks of rain, but isn’t it rather late in the season?”

The loud flush of the ancient toilet drowned out much of Dad’s reply, but I gathered that he was telling Emma and Claude about Edwina Sprocket’s clutter. I washed my hands without bonking my head for a change and then, after dragging my fingers uselessly through my hair, I gave up.

“But, of course, everyone knows that a multifamily yard sale’s a much bigger draw,” Dad was saying as I heaved the detached door out of my way and set it carefully beside the doorway. “So a few of the family decided to join in and make it a bigger event.”

“I think seventeen is more than a few, Dad,” I said, plunking myself on the floor beside the doughnut boxes.

“You have seventeen other people participating?” Emma exclaimed.

“Seventeen other households,” I corrected. “Heaven knows how many people that means. And that’s just the family. We also have thirteen of Michael’s friends and colleagues from Caerphilly College selling their stuff.”

“Goodness,” Emma exclaimed. “It must be enormous !”

“Two acres’ worth,” I said, gesturing toward the back yard.

“My,” Emma said. “How exciting!”

She went over to the kitchen window and peered out.

“Now, Emma,” Claude said, with a nervous laugh. “You know we can only take so much on the plane.”

“There’s always UPS,” Emma said.

“Go out and take a closer look if you like,” Dad said. “But don’t go inside the fence. The security’s still active.”

“If it’s all right,” Emma said.

She hurried outside, followed by an anxious Claude.

I sighed, and rubbed my aching forehead.

“What’s wrong, Meg?” Dad asked.

“I know I should be happy that she’s so excited,” I said. “The more people who show up with a cheerful, acquisitive attitude, the more stuff we’ll unload.”

“And the more money you’ll make,” Rob said.

“I don’t care about the money,” I said. “I just want all the stuff gone. And I can’t believe anyone would want to buy any of that junk.”

“Junk!” Dad exclaimed. “You have a wonderful collection out there. I can’t understand why you’re selling most of it.”

“No one can,” Rob said. “Just ignore her; she’s been like this for weeks.”

“Like what?” I asked.

“Grouchy,” Rob said.

“I prefer to think that I’ve achieved a more enlightened and detached attitude toward material possessions,” I said.

“Grouchy,” Rob repeated, nodding. “You don’t want her coming over to your house right now. First she starts cleaning the place up—”

“And you’re complaining?” I exclaimed.

“But then she starts trying to throw your stuff away or take it for the yard sale. It’s seriously annoying.”

“Look, I’m sorry,” I said. “I admit I’ve been grouchy. It’s probably just that I’ve been spending too much time dealing with stuff. I’m down on stuff. I’ll get over it after the yard sale.”

“Probably,” Rob said. “I remember one time I had the flu after I’d been eating too much pizza and—”

“Rob,” I said. “No one wants to hear this.”

“Okay,” he said. “It’s just that for a couple of weeks, I didn’t even want to look at a pizza, much less eat one. And you know how I love pizza. You’ll get over it.”

Just then we heard a loud crashing noise from above.

“Someone forgot he was in a hammock?” Rob suggested.

“Sounds more like someone taking the back stairs,” I said.

Sure enough, Cousin Bernie stumbled into the kitchen a few seconds later, looking indignant and slightly worse for wear.

“Did you know there are three steps missing right in the middle of those stairs?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said. “That’s why there’s that board nailed across the doorway with the KEEP OUT sign on it.”

“Someone could kill themselves on that thing,” he muttered. He walked over to the quarter bath and absently reached out to yank on the nearby doorknob, bringing the loose door down on top of himself.

“I’ve got my bag,” Dad exclaimed, as he and Rob leaped to Bernie’s assistance. Dad liked nothing quite as much as the chance to patch up an accident victim, so he was looking quite cheerful.

He also looked different. Obviously I needed caffeine if it took me this long to notice that he was wearing a peculiar brown garment made of damp feathers. Though I was probably responsible for the damp part.

“What is that you’re wearing?” I asked, as he and Rob struggled with the door.

“My costume,” Dad said. He picked up a wad of feathers lying on the floor beside him and jammed it over his head. “I’m a great horned owl,” he said, his voice slightly muffled by the plumage that hid his mouth.

Apparently Rob and Dad had been working at cross purposes. Without Dad’s involvement, Rob finally heaved the door off Cousin Bernie. Bernie popped up, saw Dad, closed his eyes, and lay down again.

“Concussion,” he muttered. “I must have a concussion.”

“Oh, dear,” Dad said. “I hope not. Open your eyes and let me see your pupils.”

“Are you going straight from the sale to an early Halloween party?” I asked, as Dad fished a small light out of his bag.

“Meg!” Dad exclaimed. “The yard sale. Remember how we decided, with Halloween coming up so soon, to make it more fun by offering a discount to anyone in costume?”

“She forgot,” Rob said, as Dad shone the light in Bernie’s eyes.

“It’s on all the posters,” Dad said. “The pupils look fine. How many feathers am I holding up?”

Bernie shut his eyes again and moaned.

“Here,” Rob said. He reached into a grocery bag at his side and handed me a Groucho mask.

I remembered Dad suggesting the costume discount, but I didn’t recall agreeing to it. But what would be the point of complaining? It was on all the posters. Dad would know—he’d made and distributed the posters; one of the few yard sale chores I’d successfully delegated. I put on the mask. The day was bound to bring moments when I failed to keep a polite, friendly expression on my face. Maybe the mask wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

“Where’s the nearest working bathroom?” Cousin Bernie said, popping his eyes open and scrambling to his feet.

“Second floor,” I said. “That way!” I said, throwing myself in front of the door to the unsafe back stairs. Cousin Bernie whirled and ran out toward the front hall.

“Good luck,” I muttered. I glanced over to see that Rob had plopped a slouch hat and a blond fright wig on his head and was beaming happily.

“You do realize that Harpo never speaks,” I said.

He beeped his bicycle horn at me and batted his eyes. Okay, not a bad resemblance, which was pretty odd, since my tall, blond Adonis brother was always considered the best looking in the family and Harpo was—well, Harpo.

“All the SPOOR members will be in costume, each as a different kind of owl,” Dad said. SPOOR—Stop Poisoning Our Owls and Raptors, a local conservation group—was Dad’s new ruling passion.

“So we’ll have a whole gaggle of owls,” Rob said.

“A parliament of owls,” Dad corrected. “You only use gaggle for geese.”

“It’s too dark to see much yet,” Groucho Emma exclaimed, returning to the kitchen. “But it’s going to be simply marvelous.”

Groucho Claude, who followed her in, looked less enchanted. Groucho Meg knew just how he felt.

“A parliament of owls … a murmuration of starlings,” Dad went on. Collective nouns were one of his many hobbies. “A muster of storks …”

“Morning,” said a voice behind me. I turned to see the man who had beaten me to the upstairs bathroom earlier, now clad in jeans and a dark sweater. He strolled over to the coffeepot and poured himself a cup. Then he looked at Rob and Dad, sitting on the floor beside the doughnuts. Rob beeped his horn.

“An exaltation of larks,” Dad recited. “An unkindness of ravens …”

The man frowned slightly, and strolled back out.

“And, of course, a murder of crows,” Dad said. “I’ve always liked that one.”

“You would,” I said. “Who was that man, anyway?”

“I have no idea,” Dad said. The feathers rustled slightly as he shook his head. “Not one of your friends from up here?”

“I’ve never seen him before,” I said. “I thought he was a relative I’d never met.”

“He’s not family,” Emma put in. “His eyes are too close together.”

“He’s a Sprocket,” Rob said, through a mouthful of doughnut.

“Oh, God; not another one,” I said.

Chapter 3

“Another what?” Emma asked.

“Another Sprocket,” I said, sitting down and helping myself to a doughnut. “The family who used to own the house.”

“But they sold it, right?” Emma said.

“They get a piece of the action,” Dad said.

“Ten percent of whatever we make from selling the contents,” I elaborated. “I’ve spent the past two months hauling stuff out of the house and barn, calling in appraisers, and negotiating to sell things at the best price possible, and all the time, I’ve had Sprockets underfoot.”

“A plague of Sprockets,” Rob said.

“Lacks alliteration,” I said. “How about a surfeit of Sprockets?”

“Actually, that’s used for skunks,” Dad said. “A surfeit of skunks.”

“It fits, then,” I said, nodding.

“I’ m sure they just wanted to help,” Dad said, glancing at the door through which the latest Sprocket had disappeared.

“Yeah, right,” I said. “It’s no wonder the sales contract took so long. The only thing they ever agree on is their paranoid suspicion that Michael and I are stealing some priceless Sprocket family treasure. The best thing about this yard sale won’t be getting rid of so much junk but seeing the last of the whole annoying family.”

“Hear, hear,” Rob said, beeping his horn vigorously.

“There now,” Dad said, patting me on the arm. “It helps to get it out of your system, doesn’t it?”

“Have another doughnut,” Emma suggested.

“Why is he staying here, anyway?” I said. “Plenty of motels in town; I usually make the Sprockets stay in one.”

“He got in late last night, and all the motels were full,” Rob said. “He was pretty stressed out, so I told him he could stay here.”

“Where he can cause even more trouble,” I said, with a sigh. “That’s the reason there’s no furniture here,” I added, to Emma and Claude. “If we bring anything into the house they assume it belonged to their Great-Aunt Edwina and start accusing us of trying to cheat them by leaving it out of the inventory. So we don’t move anything in until all her stuff is gone.”

“You’re not keeping anything from the house,” Emma said, rather plaintively.

“What we’re keeping is locked up in an off-site storage bin,” I said. “After we inventoried it, photographed it, and paid the Sprockets ten percent of whatever inflated price they thought it was worth.”

“Goodness,” Emma said. “They sound very trying.”

“You have no idea how glad I’ll be to see the last of the Sprockets,” I said.

Just then, frenzied barking and snarling erupted from the backyard.

“What’s that?” Emma exclaimed.

“Not again,” I muttered.

“Our security system,” Dad said, rubbing the tips of his wings together. “Works just as I planned.”

“Looks as if the last of the Sprockets was trying to get inside the fence,” Rob said, peering out the kitchen window.

“Oh, I see,” Claude said, joining Rob at the window. “The pit bull and the Doberman are the security system.”

“No, they’re just for show,” I said. “Spike, the little fur ball, is the security system.”

“That would be the black-and-white dust mop thing dangling from Mr. Sprocket’s ankle?” Claude asked.

“Don’t worry,” Rob said, ambling toward the door. “I’ll rescue him.”

“Poor little puppy,” Emma said, shaking her head.

“I think he meant Sprocket,” I said.

I peered out. Dad had shown up several days ago with enough eight-foot black plastic deer-proof fencing to enclose the entire two-acre yard sale area, as well as a collection of tents and multicolored fluttering banners—all of it borrowed, or so he claimed. I suspected the tents and banners had come from two of Mother’s cousins who ran car dealerships, but the fencing worried me. Dad’s definition of “borrowing” was questionable at times, and I kept expecting some neighboring farmer to show up irate, waving a bill for his deer-razed crops.