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Monkey Business

Page 7

by Lois Schmitt


  When I arrived back at the veterinary hospital, Katie was gone for the day. Abby sat behind the desk and stared at the computer screen.

  “I finished earlier than expected,” she said, “so I decided to check out that new animal health and wellness center.” She shut down the computer.

  “So, what did you find?” I asked as she flipped off the light switch and we exited the building into the parking lot.

  “Their website is incredible. I understand why Dad’s so worried. The first center started up six years ago in California. Now there are more than forty facilities in eighteen states, most on the east and west coasts. And the corporation plans to double that amount in the next five years.”

  “I still wonder if it will make it here.”

  “Mom, when I was eight, you claimed computers were a passing fad.”

  Economics is not my strong point.

  But I hoped finding a killer was.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  I had no idea if my plan would work. We exited the expressway and continued down the main road until reaching the village of Rocky Cove. Famous in past centuries as a fishing and whaling center, Rocky Cove had undergone a revitalization of its downtown area. Main Street—now lined with newly planted trees, Victorian-style street lamps, wrought iron benches, and hanging flower pots—featured ethnic restaurants, outdoor cafés, and trendy boutiques.

  Treasures of Zeus sat between a bookstore and an art gallery. I parked in a large municipal lot in back of the buildings. Abby and I entered the restaurant through the rear door and wandered down a short hallway until we reached the dining room with its white stucco walls, wooden beams, and pictures of the Greek Islands.

  This was a summer tourist area so the dining area was crowded, and I regretted that I hadn’t made reservations.

  “I hope we can get a table,” I said.

  Ten minutes later we were shown the only empty booth in the restaurant.

  “Now that we’re here, what’s your plan?” Abby asked.

  “To find out when Ginger Hart left here the night of the murder. Supposedly, the police verified the time, but I can’t believe the staff in a busy restaurant constantly checks their watches. Fifteen to twenty minutes could make a difference.”

  “And how will you find this out?”

  “By casual conversation with the wait staff. Some people love to talk, others clam up. Here comes a waiter now. Let’s hope he’s a talker.”

  “Welcome to Treasures of Zeus,” said the waiter, a short man built like a fireplug. He handed out menus. “I’m Demetrius. I’ll be your server tonight.”

  After we ordered two glasses of the house wine, I said, “One of your regulars recommended this restaurant. Do you know Ginger Hart?”

  He hesitated. “Yes. I’ll be right back with your wine.” He headed for the bar.

  “Sorry, Mom. You got the clam, not the talker.” Abby glanced at her menu. “How do you know Ginger’s a regular customer?”

  “She claims this is one of her favorite restaurants.”

  Demetrius returned with our wine. “Are you ready to order?”

  “My father was born on Santorini,” I said, hoping some ethnic bonding might loosen our waiter’s tongue. “I grew up with Greek food and I love it all. It’s hard to choose. I wish I’d asked Ginger for a recommendation. She was here last Monday. Do you remember what she ate?”

  “I don’t know. But I recommend the spanakopita. It’s the house specialty. Comes with Greek salads.”

  Abby and I decided that sounded like a good choice. He scribbled down our order and turned toward the kitchen.

  “Give it up. You’re not getting information from him.” Abby sipped her wine.

  “You’re probably right.” I rose from my seat. “I need a trip to the ladies’ room.”

  I maneuvered around the tightly packed dining area to the hall where I spotted a poster I hadn’t noticed before. I returned just as Demetrius delivered pita bread to our table.

  “Demetrius, I saw a sign for Taverna Night. It features a Greek buffet and music.” I made a sweeping gesture with my arm. “Where is there space?”

  “We move out the tables and chairs from the middle and set up a long buffet. The band is at the far end. We still have booths so guests can sit and eat, but most of the time, everyone congregates near the bar and in the center of the room.”

  Once he moved out of earshot, I leaned toward Abby. “According to the poster, the last Taverna Night was the evening of McKenzie’s murder. Ginger wasn’t here for a sit-down dinner. Taverna Night is a typical singles cocktail party. Wall-to-wall people, drink in one hand, plate in the other.”

  “I’m sure the police are aware of that. It doesn’t make a difference.”

  “Yes, it does. Ginger had the opportunity to sneak out. The zoo is on the outskirts of town, less than four miles away.”

  “It’s risky. What if someone spied her skulking away?”

  “The ladies’ room is near the end of the hall by the exit. Ginger could have gone there, then easily slipped out and exited through the back door when no one was watching.”

  “And what about coming back? What if someone saw her?”

  “She could say she went to retrieve something from her car.”

  “I still think it’s risky.”

  “Murder is risky.”

  I waited until he put our Greek salads in front of us. “Demetrius, I was in this area last Monday, and I swear I spotted Ginger Hart entering the book shop next door at about eight-thirty.” This was a lie, of course, but it was worth trying. “Do you remember if she stepped out for a few minutes?”

  Demetrius stiffened. “You’re asking lots of questions. Does this have to do with the murder where Ms. Hart works?”

  Abby narrowed her eyes. I could read her mind. She was wondering how I planned to get out of this.

  “Not at all,” I said to Demetrius. “I’m just curious because I’m sure I saw her, but my daughter says it wasn’t Ginger. We have a small bet riding on this. The loser does the winner’s laundry for a week.”

  “I didn’t see her leave, but I was busy. Can I get you anything else? More wine?”

  We nixed the wine and Demetrius left.

  “A laundry bet?” Abby laughed. “That’s so strange it’s hard to believe it’s not true.” She glanced at the curved archway leading to the back hall. “It’s highly improbable that Ginger slipped out of here and returned to the zoo.”

  “To quote Sherlock Holmes, ‘Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth.’ ” I sipped the last of my wine. “Or, to put it another way, Ginger Hart is not in the clear.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  A talking chipmunk? I shook my head. This would be a long day.

  Although temporarily assigned as feature writer, I still performed a few of my old editorial assistant tasks. Since freelance articles accounted for twenty percent of Animal Advocate, I spent the following day at the office, where I read unsolicited stories from the slush pile, forwarding those appropriate to the editor for consideration.

  “How’s it going?” Clara asked when I emerged from my cubicle for my fifth coffee.

  “The last article featured a talking chipmunk who tells the reader about the importance of trees. Before that was a story about a worm who wants to be an eagle. What do they think Animal Advocate is? Aesop’s Fables?”

  “Aren’t there any decent articles in the pile?”

  “A few.” I glanced at the editor’s closed door. “Is Olivia in?”

  “No. She had a luncheon engagement. Why?”

  I hesitated. “Have you heard anything about the feature writer’s job?”

  Clara winced. “Olivia called a few professors of that kid who came in for the interview. She’s checking his references.”

  “We need to stop referring to him as a kid. Does he have a name?”

  “Schuyler Adams.”

  “Why is that familiar?” />
  “His father, also named Schuyler Adams, owns a company operating eco-tours and wilderness camping vacations.”

  “The one advertised in our magazine? The full-page ad in each issue?”

  “Yes.”

  I was ready to call it quits for the day when Clara barged into my office.

  “I’ve great news.” She waved a paper in her hand. “Do you remember the proposed story on wildlife smuggling?”

  “The one Olivia assigned to a freelancer?”

  “The freelancer is out of town on assignment for another magazine. Olivia wants you to write the article.”

  Great news would be the permanent promotion to feature writer. But this was good news. The more I had to write, the better my chances of proving to Olivia I could do the job.

  “Here’s the phone number of Roy Maxwell, New York Director of the United States Fish and Wildlife Service.” Clara placed the paper she was waving on my desk. “Olivia said to start with him.”

  “Thanks.” I picked up the phone to call when I noticed Clara still hovering in front of me.

  “Anything else?” I asked.

  “I was listening to Horatio, the radio talk-show host.”

  “The obnoxious one who’s always being sued?”

  She ignored my comment. “He was discussing Arlen McKenzie’s murder. One of his call-in listeners thinks, just as I do, that the murder involves financial embezzlement.”

  “You may be right.” Sometimes it didn’t pay to argue with Clara. I pointed to the stack of papers on my desk. “I need to get back to work.”

  Once Clara left, I phoned Roy Maxwell at Fish and Wildlife and was lucky enough to arrange an interview. After hanging up, I leaned back in my chair, pondering Clara’s last statement. The argument I’d witnessed between Linda Sancho and Ginger Hart the other day had dealt with federal grant money. Of course, Clara had a vivid imagination, as probably did the call-in radio listener, but maybe the theory concerning misappropriation of funds had merit.

  I grabbed the phone and punched in my brother’s number.

  “Ridiculous,” Tim said after I explained my theory. “When McKenzie took over as zoo director, he hired an accounting firm to check the books. The audit showed no illegal transactions, just sloppy practices.”

  “Sloppy practices? Maybe someone didn’t want their sloppy practices stopped.”

  “Enough to kill for?”

  “What if someone has something to hide? Think about it. Do you pay attention to the finances of departments other than yours? How can I get a look at the zoo’s financial records for the years before McKenzie became director?”

  “Easy. That information is in the annual reports, and I have copies in my desk. I’ll drop them off at your house on my way home.”

  “By the way, do you know anyone at the zoo who drives a black Escalade?”

  “I don’t think so, but I don’t pay attention to what people drive.”

  “What about the suspects in McKenzie’s murder? The ones with the keys to the rain forest.”

  “What about them?”

  I sighed in exasperation. “Do you know what they drive?”

  “Not the make and model, but I’m pretty sure none has a black car. Why this obsession with what everyone drives?”

  “It’s not important. I’ll see you tonight.” I said good-bye, hanging up before he could question me further.

  I punched in the number for the animal hospital. Katie, the office assistant, picked up.

  “I’ll get Abby for you. Let me put you on hold for a minute.”

  After listening to a recorded message on fleas and ticks, Abby came on the line.

  “Can you stop by the house on the way home from work?” I asked.

  “Provided I don’t stay too long. Jason and I are having dinner out.”

  “I thought he was living on pizza until after the bar exam. He’s taking a break?”

  “A short one. That’s why I want to be on time. What’s this about?”

  “Uncle Tim is dropping off some papers that I want you to examine. I need your animal expertise since I may not be familiar with some of the items the zoo purchased, and I don’t know what your uncle knows outside of reptiles. I’d ask your father, but he’s working late. I’ll tell you more tonight.”

  After hanging up, I sat back in my chair, pondering possible financial scenarios. I was anxious to read the Rocky Cove Zoo reports. Follow the money.

  Embezzlement of funds would certainly be a motive for murder.

  Before meeting my brother and daughter, there was something I needed to do.

  I left my office early. Instead of driving directly home, I headed for Ridge River University. I wanted information on the animal behavior conference attended by the zoo’s wildlife nutritionist, Linda Sancho, the night Arlen McKenzie was killed.

  An accident on the Long Island Expressway delayed traffic. I arrived at the Student Union scheduling office at the same moment a young woman, whose hair resembled a lion after a bad perm, exited the room and locked the door.

  “Excuse me,” I said. “Can you tell me where I can get information on last week’s animal behavior conference?”

  “Sorry, I was on vacation last week.”

  “Is there someone else I can talk to?”

  “Professor Patel from biology coordinated the conference. He might be in his office in the Life Sciences building.”

  “Do you know where the conference was held?”

  “Sure. It was in the auditorium at the end of this hall.”

  After grabbing a campus map from a nearby information rack, I wandered over to the auditorium and peeked inside. In addition to the main entrance, two exits were located on either side of the room.

  I left the Student Union and headed to the Life Sciences building. Once there, I found Professor Patel’s office locked, but an idea came to mind. Campus announcements usually stayed posted for weeks after an event occurred, so I searched the department bulletin board and discovered a schedule. It included a video presentation on territorial behavior at eight p.m.

  The lights would be off during the video presentation, making it easy for someone to slip out unnoticed. Without a traffic jam, the drive from Ridge River University back to the zoo would be no longer than fifteen minutes.

  Linda’s alibi was flawed.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  “Not again,” I muttered.

  Upon my arrival home, I saw that one of the dogs had peed in the living room. Luckily, it was on the hardwood floor and not the blue and green area rug.

  I sighed. Another protest against Owl?

  I didn’t have time to think about my animal problem. I’d no sooner cleaned the mess when the doorbell chimed. As I swung open the door, the two dogs barked and rushed into the living room. I stepped aside so Tim could enter.

  “I didn’t expect you so early. Abby’s coming, but she’s not here yet.”

  “Since McKenzie’s murder, no one wants to work late.” He handed me a manila folder. “These are the annual reports. They’re for the last five years of the old administration. I also included the report issued after McKenzie’s first year in case you want a comparison.”

  “Why don’t you make yourself a drink while I read these? And a snack if you’re hungry. I think there’s cheese in the refrigerator.”

  I settled on the sofa and scanned the reports. I would study them carefully later, but for now I wanted an overview.

  According to the reports, zoo spending had skyrocketed during the previous director’s last two years during the time he had been ill. Comparing those budgets to his three prior years, I noted dramatic increases for computers, software programs, lab equipment, office furniture, and exhibit renovations.

  “All legitimate expenses,” I mumbled, “unless . . .” An idea shot through my mind.

  Tim returned carrying a scotch and soda and a small plate of food. While he sipped and nibbled, I read, every so often glancing at my brother, who looked more di
sheveled than usual. Dark, heavy bags appeared under his thick glasses.

  The dogs sat on either side of Tim’s chair, staring up at him with their big brown eyes. This tag team mooching technique usually earned a tasty tidbit from Tim, who was a soft touch, but tonight my brother appeared so absorbed in his thoughts, I >was sure he didn’t notice.

  “Tim, how does your budget process work?”

  “The head of each department submits a budget for the upcoming year to the director.” He paused, cutting a slab of brie and shoving it on a cracker. “In addition to normal yearly expenses, like salary and supplies, we include a wish list.”

  “Seems like wishes came true at Rocky Cove.”

  Tim smiled. “Here’s where it’s a game. We always ask for more than we expect because we know the director is going to eliminate a percentage of the request.”

  “But that didn’t happen the last two years of Jay Allen’s administration, did it?”

  “Jay’s cancer was killing him. He was in lots of pain and couldn’t focus on the zoo. He approved the budget with most requests intact.”

  “So after he died, McKenzie was hired to balance the budget?”

  “Yes. We’re not totally out of the woods, but we’re back on track. But McKenzie didn’t need to propose the drastic cuts and slashing of wildlife conservation projects the way he did, Kristy, especially since he always found money for his pet projects, like refurbishing the administration building.”

  “Let’s get back to the old budgets. Didn’t they need approval of the Board of Trustees?”

  “Our board pretty much relies on the judgment of the director.”

  “I can see that during normal circumstances. But with the director ill—”

  “It fell through the cracks. Remember, our board trusteeships are honorary, volunteer positions. The zoo’s board members don’t get paid, so their businesses come first. The board chairman was involved in a corporate merger of his company during this time. He missed more than half the board meetings. The vice-chairman is a state senator who spends most of her time in Albany. No one minded the store.”

 

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