Uncle John quickly went through the papers attached to the clipboard, flipping through rapidly enough that it was clear he was looking for something specific.
“What are you doing?” Vera asked.
He didn’t respond, instead moving his lips soundlessly as he scanned the pages. Finally, he came to what he must be searching for and whispered, “Thirty-one.” And then, to Vera’s absolute befuddled horror, he lifted his seventy-whatever-year-old body up into the back of the truck.
“Uncle John!”
He turned back to her, finger to his mouth insisting on silence. Then he selected one of the remaining crates and pushed it to the edge before carefully climbing down. “It’s heavy, but I think it’s manageable if we work together.”
“Whatis manageable?” Vera whispered, eyes darting around to ensure neither Murphy or any of his colleagues could see them.
“Carrying this away,” he said, voice strained as he tilted the crate toward them.
Vera had no choice but to grab a corner before it hit the pavement—or her toes. “Uncle John!” She could no longer keep the alarm from her voice. “What are youdoing?”
“Keeping a promise,” he said with an odd smile, and hoisted the crate off the truck.
—
The five blocksVera helped her great-uncle carry the heavy crate were the longest of her life. Every time they passed someone, she was certain they would be caught. They hadstolensomething from the American Museum of Natural History. A bird, she guessed, based on the conversation leading up to the heist. And that’s what this was, wasn’t it? A heist.
It would be exciting if it weren’t so absurd. Absurd and terrifying.
Her parents could absolutelyneverfind out about this or they’d make her come home for the remaining weeks until the semester started so that she wouldn’t be influenced into committing any other criminal activity by her elderly relatives.
An amazing, amazing coincidence, Uncle John had said. But was it really?
“How did you know that…whatever this is…would be there?” she asked as they crossed what would—thank god—be the final intersection before they got to John and Ora’s apartment.
“I didn’t. Not for sure,” he said. “But when I heard the Smithsonian’s ornithology department was lending some of its collection to the renovated exhibits here, I thought it was worth looking into.”
She didn’t have time to ask any further questions, because they’d arrived beneath the awning of the art deco building her uncle and aunt called home.
The doorman, Wally, immediately stepped in to help them get the crate into the elevator and up to the sixth floor. “What’s in this thing?” he asked.
“Bird,” Uncle John said simply.
Wally’s only response was, “Ah.”
The city sure was a strange place.
Uncle John entered the apartment holding the crate all by himself, and promptly lowered it onto the rug in front of his wife’s feet. Aunt Ora, seated in a leather armchair, looked up from the book she was reading and asked, “What on earth is this?”
Vera leaned against the doorframe, attempting to catch her breath. Sweat beaded on her forehead. Ugh. And she’d just washed her hair last night!
Instead of answering his wife, Uncle John disappeared into the apartment, returning shortly with a crowbar, which he used to pry the crate open with as much haste as an old man can manage after hauling something heavy for a quarter mile. He removed the top and reached in, tossing the paper and straw used as cushioning around the mystery contents out onto the floor.
“John!” Aunt Ora protested. “You’re making such a mess.”
“Never mind that,” he said. “I’ll clean it up.”
“Yes, you will. And I don’t want to hear a thing about your back hurting—” Vera’s great-aunt’s words were stopped in their tracks as her husband pulled a…a goose from the box?
Agoose?
She was only an aspiring biologist herself, but Vera was pretty sure that’s what it was, even though it looked different from any other she’d ever spotted.
Even a neat bird wouldn’t putthatlook of shock on Aunt Ora’s face, though. There must be something more to this story, she thought.
