the good, the bad, and the emus (excerpt)

This is a work of fi ction. All of the characters, organizations, and events

portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or

are used fi ctitiously.

a thomas dunne book for minotaur books.

An imprint of St. Martin’s Publishing Group.

the good, the bad, and the emus. Copyright © 2014 by Donna Andrews.

All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. For informa-

tion, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

www .thomasdunnebooks .com

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The Library of Congress Cataloging- in- Publication Data

is available upon request.

ISBN 978- 1- 250- 00950- 0 (hardcover)

ISBN 978- 1- 250- 02300- 1 (e-book)

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First Edition: July 2014

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Chapter 1

“Be careful!” I said, looking up from the boxwood hedge I

was pruning. “We don’t want another trip to the emergency

room. We’ve used up our family quota for the week.”

My twin four- year- old sons paid no attention, of course.

Josh, who was supposed to be collecting the fallen twigs and

leaves into small piles, continued to battle an invisible op-

ponent, now using a particularly large, sharp stick I’d just

pruned off the hedge. Jamie had volunteered for the task of

loading the small piles into the wheelbarrow and ferrying

them to the large pile by the driveway that was awaiting the

eventual arrival of a borrowed chipper/shredder, but his

active imagination had transformed the bright red wheel-

barrow into a high-powered race car, to judge by his repeated

growls of “Vroom! Vroom!” And his racetrack was starting

to inch near the street in front of our house, and while it was

a little- traveled country road, cars did pass by often enough

that I didn’t want the boys getting complacent about playing

there.

Neither of them heard me. But I wasn’t really talking to

the boys. My seventeen- year- old niece, Natalie, who would

be serving as the boys’ babysitter this summer, snapped to

attention.

“Josh!” she called out. “Drop that stick before you put

someone’s eye out! Jamie! Out of the street! Inside the

hedge!”

I returned to my snipping, satisfi ed that Natalie was on

the case. And that she was beginning to get a handle on her

job. She had taken care of the boys two summers ago, but

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2 Donna Andrews

apparently had forgotten how lively they could be. Then

again, compared to two summers ago, their capacity for mis-

chief and mayhem had grown exponentially. I’d gotten used

to the change gradually, as they’d grown. Natalie was still

catching up.

In a day or so, once she was really up to speed, I could

retreat for hours each day to the barn where I had my black-

smith’s workshop. In fact, I could start retreating the day

after tomorrow, when Michael’s spring semester ended,

and he’d have several weeks off before the summer session

began. I could delegate training Natalie to him while I hit

the anvil. I hadn’t had much time for iron work since the

boys were born, and had almost given up selling at craft

shows. Hard enough to get routine house hold chores done

safely with two increasingly active munchkins underfoot.

No way did I want them in the same room when I was heat-

ing steel to 2000 degrees Fahrenheit and then whacking on

it with a three- pound hammer. I managed to get in a little

time at the anvil during Caerphilly College’s semester breaks,

when Michael was not only willing but eager to spend time

with the boys. But I never had enough time to stock my

booth for even a modest- sized craft show. And while the

higher salary Michael now earned as a tenured professor in

the drama department meant we could manage without my

crafting income, the money I’d earn would be helpful. Be-

sides, I didn’t want to lose my hard- won skills.

So with Natalie around all summer, I was planning a

frenzy of iron work. As soon as I was sure she really under-

stood just how carefully she had to watch “Trouble” and

“Danger,” as my brother, Rob, had nicknamed his nephews.

Today we were easing into what I hoped would become

our routine, with her keeping an eye on the boys while I did

neglected yard work and repairs and kept an eye on her. It

was a beautiful mid- June day, sunny, but not hot— perfect

weather for being outdoors and enjoying the wealth of fl ow-

ers in our yard. The azaleas were past, but the mountain


The Good, the Bad, and the Emus 3

laurels, rhododendrons, and magnolias were in bloom, and

the scent of the lilacs was almost overpowering. And daylil-

ies were everywhere— not just the common orange and yel-

low ones, but daylilies in every possible shade of red, white,

purple, lilac, and pink. A glorious day to be outside.

I was relieved to fi nd that Natalie didn’t seem to mind

being outside. I’d been a little worried when she’d showed

up that fi rst day in a Morticia Addams black dress with trail-

ing, fl uttery sleeves. Apparently, since the last time we’d

seen her, she’d taken to dressing entirely in black except for

the odd bit of skull- and spider- themed silver jewelry, and

her skin was so pale I was afraid she’d blister if she stepped

outside.

But I soon realized that her pallor was due to sunscreen

and careful use of makeup, and in spite of looking like a refu-

gee from a low- budget vampire fi lm, she was still the same

cheerful, or ga nized, responsible kid she’d always been. And

she’d put away the dress after the fi rst night and was now

wearing black jeans, a black T-shirt, black sneakers, and a

black baseball cap. I anticipated that some of the more se-

date citizens of Caerphilly would look askance at our choice

of babysitters, but Michael and I were content. And we’d

gladly complied with her request to take over a corner of the

back yard for her own gardening project, which seemed to

involve growing as many black plants as possible. Already,

dark- fl owered hellebores and nearly black pansies were

blooming in her bed, surrounded by neatly raked black

mulch, and she’d used black ribbons to tie her black tomato

and pepper plants to their black iron stakes. I’d actually de-

cided that it made a nice restful contrast with the multicol-

ored profusion of the rest of the yard.

The four of us had weeded the vegetable garden right

after breakfast, and now I was pruning the hedge. Our black-

and- copper Welsummer hens were hovering nearby, pounc-

ing on any insects disturbed by my pruning. It was slow

going, because I was using hand tools— the power hedge


4 Donna Andrews

clipper, like any other power tool, was too attractive to small

eyes and fi ngers— and even the manual clippers were dan-

gerous enough, given the constant danger that an over-

eager hen would trip me on her way to nab a particularly

tempting insect.

I switched to the hand pruners to do some fi ne tuning

and continued snipping away, listening carefully to Natalie’s

interactions with the boys and stifl ing the urge to offer ad-

vice every fi ve seconds or so.

“Josh, leave the chicken alone. I don’t think she wants to

play tag.”

“Jamie, don’t jump on the brush pile.”

“Take that out of your mouth.”

“Stop throwing rocks at your brother.”

“I don’t think the doggie wants to eat holly leaves.”

“Leave that alone.”

“No, I said later.”

She was learning. And I was making good progress.

Should I try to fi nish the hedge before lunch? Or would it be

wiser to break now, get the boys fed, and have Natalie learn

how to put them down for naps? I could fi nish the hedge

while they were asleep and—

“Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!”

Natalie’s bloodcurdling scream startled me. My right hand

slipped, and I felt a searing pain as the pruners sliced into my

left fi ngers. Just a laceration, though; the fi ngers themselves

were still attached, I noted, as I ran to the other end of the

hedge where Natalie and the boys were, wrapping my hand in

my shirttail as I ran.

“I’m sorry,” Jamie was saying.

“Only a grass snake,” Josh was saying. “See?”

He held up the writhing green reptile that had provoked

Natalie’s scream. She backed away slightly.

“Josh, put the snake down,” I said. “Maybe Cousin Nata-

lie doesn’t like snakes.” Which would be rather ironic, since



her favorite earrings were a pair of long, dangly silver ser-

pents, but you never knew.

“I’m sorry, Meg,” Natalie began. “I’m not scared of snakes;

really, I’m not. I was just startled and— oh! What happened?”

I looked down at my hand. Blood was pouring out of my

fi ngers.

“I’ll get a ban dage.” Natalie headed for the house.

“Blast.” It wasn’t nearly as satisfying as the “damn” I’d

have uttered if the boys were not around. “I was hoping we’d

seen the last of the ER for the week.”

I gave in to Natalie’s insistence that she drive me to the

ER. But on the way, I managed to pull out my cell phone

and make arrangements for her to take the boys over to visit

Mother and Dad for the afternoon.

“You know how long it always takes at the ER,” I said.

“And how restless the boys get.”

Natalie nodded and looked more cheerful at the pros-

pect of going to her grandparents’ house instead of spend-

ing more hours at the ER. Two days ago Jamie had fallen

out of the barn loft and cut his forehead. Yesterday, it had

been Josh’s turn to get stitches, thanks to a close encounter

with a broken pickle jar. Both days, I’d accompanied the

injured twin back to see the doctor while Natalie tried to

keep the other entertained and protect the ER waiting

room from collateral damage. She’d gone to bed early the

last two nights— about ten minutes behind the boys.

“Mommy okay?” Jamie asked, as I got out in front of the

ER.

“I’ll be fi ne,” I said. “I’m just going to get some stitches

from Grandpa’s friend in the ER, like the ones you guys

got.”

“Mommy get ice cream now?” Josh asked. A trip to the

Caerphilly Ice Cream Parlor had become the standard re-

ward for brave behavior at the ER.

“Not until later, when you can come with me,” I said.


6 Donna Andrews

That idea was well received, and both boys stopped look-

ing anxious.

“Now don’t forget to show Grandpa your stitches so he

can make sure they’re healing properly.” I shut the mini-

van’s door.

I watched for a moment as Natalie pulled out of the park-

ing lot. She was a careful driver. And there was a limit to

how much mischief the boys could cause while strapped

into their car seats. Right?

I turned and walked into the ER.

“Not you again. Which one is it this time?”

Crystal, a friend who worked at the hospital, was sitting

behind the admissions desk.

“Me,” I said. I held up my hand and pulled off the once-

clean dish towel wrapped around it. The bleeding had mostly

stopped, but since this allowed me a better view of the four

deep lacerations along the inside of my fi ngers, it wasn’t en-

tirely an improvement.

“Yuck,” she said, wincing. “Wrap it up again and keep the

pressure on. Let’s get you checked in. Kitchen knife?”

“Pruning shears.”

I fi lled out the now- familiar paperwork— actually, I only

had to complete a few fi elds on the form Crystal handed

me. A couple of months ago she’d added our house hold to

what she called her frequent fi ler program, which meant

that she kept a set of prefi lled forms for us in her computer

and could just print them out when we came through the

door.

Then I was ushered back to an even- more- familiar cubicle.

Another nurse inspected my hand and then dashed out, ap-

parently satisfi ed that I was in no immediate danger of

bleeding out. No doubt if Dad was in the hospital she’d

send him in. Although he was, in theory, semiretired, he

still spent rather a lot of time here and in the consulting

offi ce he’d opened in his barn. Meanwhile, the doctor’s

daughter in me began trying to fi gure out what was up with



all the other patients in the ER, based on what I’d seen on

my way to my cubicle and what I could overhear now. A pos-

sible heart attack in one cubicle. And a kid with a possible

concussion in another. Possible appendicitis in a third.

Rats. Everyone sounded more dire than me.

I sat back and resigned myself to a long wait.

My cell phone rang. I answered it quickly— always aware

of the possibility Natalie was calling to report a new crisis.

But it wasn’t Natalie. It was Stanley Denton, a private in-

vestigator who had set up his offi ce in Caerphilly a few years

ago.

“Could I come out to your house to ask you about some-

thing?” he asked, after we’d exchanged the usual greetings.

“Not right now,” I said. “I’m actually in the ER at Caer-

philly Hospital waiting to get stitches. Just some cuts,” I has-

tened to add. “But I have no idea how long I’ll be here.”

“Even better,” he said. “Not the cuts, of course, but I could

just stop by the hospital. Only a few blocks from my offi ce,

you know. I could talk to you while you’re waiting to see the

doctor. Help you while away the long delay.”

“Talk to me about what?”

“I’ll explain when I get there. Shouldn’t be more than a

few minutes.”

It took Stanley about fi ve minutes, and by the time he ar-

rived, Dr. Gridwell, the duty ER doctor, had arrived to exam-

ine my hand.

“We don’t give group discounts, you know,” the doctor

was saying. “Not even if you come in together, and certainly

not if you straggle in one by one all week. Your father com-

ing down to supervise again?”

Beneath his nonchalant, bantering tone I detected a note

of tension. Gridwell had been the one to stitch up both boys.

Not every doctor likes having his patients’ regular doctor

supervising every move he makes. Especially when the doc-

tor was also the patients’ very opinionated grandfather. Of

course, I understood what Dad was up to. Gridwell had only


8 Donna Andrews

recently joined the staff at Caerphilly Hospital, and Dad was

still assessing this new colleague’s skills.

“Dad didn’t come with me,” I said. “He might still show

up if he hears I’m here. But maybe if you kick me out pretty

soon he won’t bother.”

“Hmph.” From the alacrity with which Gridwell bounced

out of the room and began throwing around orders to the

rest of the staff, I deduced that yes, he would rather get me

stitched up and discharged before Dad arrived to second-

guess him. And the fact that he was willing to try was good

news for the other patients, who presumably were stable,

under observation, and in no need of anything urgent.

“Well played,” Denton said. “I wonder if I should drop

your father’s name next time I show up here.”

“Can’t hurt,” I said. “What can I do for you?”

“If you have time to talk,” he said, glancing around.

“Dr. Gridwell can’t do anything until someone gets here

with the Mayo tray,” I said.

“Mayo tray? He’s sent out for sandwiches?”

“That’s what the medical people call that metal rolling

cart that you or I would probably call the suture tray. That

thing,” I added, as the med tech rolled it in.

“I’d probably call it the thing they use to bring in the scis-

sors and the sutures and the ban dages and all the other

stuff the doc needs to put you back together again.” Stanley

shuddered slightly as the tech began arranging the contents

of the tray. “Anyway, I want to ask you something about a

case.”

“Ask away,” I said.

“I was wondering if you could come down to Riverton to

help me out.”

I closed my eyes and sighed slightly.

“It’s only about forty miles from here, and—”

“Look,” I said. “I know my dad seems to think I’m Caer-

philly County’s answer to Nancy Drew or Miss Marple, but

he exaggerates my sleuthing skills. And I’m pretty busy—



now that we have a reliable babysitter, I plan to get a lot of

blacksmithing done for the fall craft- fair season.”

“Not with that hand.” Gridwell was back. “Trust me, you

won’t want to be doing much blacksmithing for a few days.”

“That’s perfect,” Stanley said. “This won’t take long. And

I really don’t need for you to do anything. I just need to bor-

row your face.”


the good, the bad, and the emus (excerpt)

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