Monkey Business

by Lois Schmitt

  I explained my theory about Arlen McKenzie blackmailing Linda.

  “I can see McKenzie tarnishing Linda’s reputation with her peers,” Abby said. “The man is capable of blackmail. But there’s a major flaw in your thinking.”

  “What kind of flaw?”

  “The police never discovered who was responsible for raiding the pet stores. Why do you think Arlen McKenzie did?”

  “Because the police need to prioritize. They lack time and resources to devote to one case. But as the case fades in the background, tongues slip and people involved become sloppy. Besides, it doesn’t matter if Linda was part of the radical faction. Some people hold you guilty by association. McKenzie would capitalize on that type of thinking.”

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Returning home, I found a bouquet of red roses on my front step.

  If Matt brought the flowers, they wouldn’t be outside. But I couldn’t imagine who else would drop off a bouquet.

  I carried the flowers into the kitchen while examining the attached card. Addressed to Kristy Farrell, it omitted the name of the sender.

  “These are flowers, not food,” I said to Archie and Brandy, who stood with tails wagging on either side of me as I filled a vase with water.

  I heard a car pull into the driveway.

  Matt entered through the side door into the kitchen. “Nice roses. Who sent them? Do you have a secret admirer?”

  “Could be. Just what I need—another mystery. Ouch!”

  “Thorns?”

  “That’s the problem with roses.”

  Blood oozed from my finger. After rinsing my hand in the sink and arranging the flowers in the vase, I was still bleeding. “I’m getting a bandage. Oh, I forgot to bring in the mail. Will you get it?”

  Before I located a bandage, Matt returned with an assortment of letters and a small brown box. “Here’s another mystery,” he said. “This package is addressed to you. I found it in the mailbox, but there’s no return address and no postage.”

  “No postage? Maybe the same person who brought the flowers dropped it off. I’ll bet there’s a letter inside.”

  Matt placed the box along with the rest of the mail on the kitchen table, then opened the refrigerator door and pulled out a bottle of water. Owl, who had come downstairs, jumped onto the table and pawed the package. Archie cautiously approached, sniffing. Brandy trotted to the table and joined them.

  Normally, the dogs and cat never stayed in the same room together. But today they ignored each other and appeared to be focused on the box.

  Forgetting about the bandage, I shooed the animals away and tore open the package. Instantly, something sprung out, brushing against my arm. The creature appeared to be a frog or toad, but a most unusual one. It had golden-colored skin.

  “Is this someone’s idea of a joke? I don’t think it’s very funny.”

  Matt, who hadn’t been paying attention, spun around. Seeing the creature on the table, he paled. “That’s a poison dart frog.”

  I was about to grab the frog, but Matt pushed me away. “Its skin is poisonous. Don’t touch it. You’ve got an open cut on your hand.”

  The three animals approached the table where the tiny frog sat motionless.

  “We’ve got to get the dogs and cat out of here,” Matt said. “If they grab the frog with their mouth, they could die.”

  Owl jumped onto the table and crouched down, haunches raised, ready to pounce. I scooped her up around the middle. The frog leaped to the floor.

  Matt grabbed hold of Brandy and Archie. Meanwhile, Owl struggled to get out of my grasp. Anyone who has ever held a cat that didn’t want to be held would realize my difficulty.

  I locked Owl in the bedroom and then put the dogs in the study. When I returned to the kitchen, I saw Matt had grabbed a large pot from the cabinet and was trying, unsuccessfully, to capture the frog. Less than two inches in length, it was difficult to see despite its bright color.

  “Be careful. Don’t touch it with the hand that has the open cut,” Matt warned as I tried to grab the frog. “Stand back. I’ll get him.”

  When the frog leaped to a spot near the refrigerator, Matt captured him.

  “We need to call the police,” he said.

  I nodded. “But not the local precinct. This must be tied to the zoo murders.” I sighed. “As much as I dread this, I think we should call the homicide detectives assigned to the case.”

  “You call. I’m putting this little guy in a terrarium. Afterward, I’ll find a home for him.”

  Matt made his way to the basement where he kept extra veterinary supplies, including a few cages and tanks. Meanwhile, I phoned police headquarters. After a bureaucratic runaround, I connected with Detective Wolfe.

  “You again. I thought I told you not to bother me with your half-baked theories.”

  I explained the reason for my call.

  “You’re telling me someone is trying to kill you with a poison frog?” he said.

  “Someone wants me to stop asking questions about the murders. Maybe I’m getting too close.”

  “Your story sounds farfetched,” Wolfe said, “but I’ll be over in about an hour.”

  Two hours later, Detective Steve Wolfe arrived and parked himself at the kitchen table.

  “Would you like coffee or water?” Matt asked.

  He shook his head.

  “Donut?” I smiled sweetly. The detective glared at me.

  “Where’s Detective Fox?” I asked.

  “He’s out sick today.” Wolfe narrowed his eyes. “What? You don’t think I can handle this alone?”

  Before I could reply, Matt carried in the terrarium now housing the frog. He placed it on the table.

  “This is it?” Wolfe said as he peered inside the glass at the frog. “Touching this thing could poison you? You gotta be kidding.”

  “The skin of this species is highly toxic,” Matt explained. “At one time, Columbian tribes preparing for a hunt dipped the darts for their blowguns in the toxins from these frogs.”

  “And it can kill a human?”

  “Poison frogs lose their toxicity in captivity. But if it just arrived from South America, and you have an open cut, it could kill you. We have no way of knowing where this frog came from or how long it’s been here. It may or may not have a high level of toxins.”

  “Who do you think sent the frog?” Wolfe asked.

  “That’s what I want you to find out.” I mumbled. I don’t think Wolfe heard me.

  “We’ve no idea where it came from,” Matt said. “I found the package in the mailbox. No identifying marks. Just a plain brown box.”

  “We’ll canvass the block and see if your neighbors saw anything.”

  “I doubt that will help. No one’s home during the day.”

  “He’s right,” I agreed.

  “Yeah, okay. We’ll still check with the other neighbors. Who knows?” Wolfe frowned as he jotted notes on his pad. “Let’s get this straight. You believe the killer suspects you’re close to solving the case and sent the frog to scare you?”

  “I can’t imagine who else would.”

  “Where would a frog like this come from?”

  Matt shrugged. “If you know how to use the Internet, you can buy almost anything.”

  “As sick as it is, it might have nothing to do with the murders,” the detective said. “This could be someone’s idea of a joke.”

  Matt ran his hand through his thinning hair. “Detective, I don’t think you realize how serious this is. The frog’s skin might be highly toxic. I knew because I’m a veterinarian, but my wife had no idea. If I hadn’t been home, she probably would have picked it up.”

  “When I came home today, I found a bouquet of roses on my front stoop, sent anonymously. I pricked my finger on one of the roses.”

  “Whoever sent the frog, sent the flowers,” Matt said.

  “Yeah, sure. No one could guarantee your wife would cut herself on the roses. Chances are, she wouldn’t. I can’t i
magine a more inefficient method of murder.”

  “Maybe someone wanted to scare me. Or maybe the plan was to kill off my dogs or my cat. I don’t honestly know. But I’m sure someone wants me to stop asking questions. Someone is framing my brother.”

  “Framing your brother. Really?” The detective narrowed his eyes while shutting his notebook. “Why are you so sure your brother didn’t commit the murders? Or send the flowers and the frog?”

  “I’m his sister. He wouldn’t send me a poison frog.”

  “Yeah, sure.” Detective Wolfe rose from his chair and made his way toward the door. “Most premeditated homicides involve family members. Maybe he doesn’t want you digging into this. Maybe he’s afraid you’d uncover proof he committed the murders.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  I stared at my computer screen.

  “It’s time for a break.” Matt approached me at the kitchen table. He carried two mugs of steaming coffee.

  “Thanks, but how do you break from doing nothing.” I grabbed a mug. “I’ve been trying to come up with an idea since Wolfe left.”

  Matt leaned over my shoulder to view the screen. “I see you’ve listed all the suspects, along with motives and opportunity.”

  “No one has an alibi for the time of Mei’s death, so I can only check opportunities for McKenzie’s murder. We know Linda left the animal behavior conference, and all we have is her word that she went to her mother’s house. It’s also possible that Ginger didn’t stay at Treasures of Zeus, and that Saul slipped out of his house and returned to the zoo.”

  “I guess you can eliminate Amanda since she was drunk.”

  “I’m rethinking that. Maybe she’s one of those people who act like they had more to drink than they did. She may have sobered up enough to drive back to the zoo.”

  “Unlikely.”

  “Unlikely but possible. And I’ve reached a dead end with Mei’s journal. I’m sure there’s something there, but I can’t figure it out.”

  Matt rubbed my shoulders. “What are those numbers next to the names?”

  “I’m ranking everyone on a scale of one to ten according to their ability to handle dangerous reptiles. Ginger Hart is a one. She’s a public relations expert with no background in zoology.”

  “Why rank Saul and Amanda as fives?”

  “They’re scientists, but their specialties are in areas other than herpetology. They have no expertise with snakes or poison frogs.”

  “That you know of.”

  “Linda is a different story. As a wildlife nutritionist, she’s involved with mammals, birds, and reptiles.”

  Matt wandered over to a chair and sat down. He remained silent while sipping his coffee.

  “What’s bothering you, Matt? I have a feeling there’s more on your mind than my murder theories. Are you worrying about the new veterinary facility?”

  “No. Right now I’m thinking about your safety. Two people have been killed. Now it looks like they’re after you. When I saw that frog . . .” He ran his hand through his hair.

  “Matt, I’m nervous myself. But I’m not backing down.”

  “You have this naive idea that nothing will happen to you.”

  “Not true. But if I did, it’s certainly better than thinking something will happen to me. I’d rather be overconfident than overfearful.”

  “Just promise you’ll be careful. Don’t go off alone with anyone at the zoo and don’t take risks.”

  “I promise. Besides, I’m leaving tomorrow, remember? I’ll be in Ohio checking out Malur’s Animal Auction for my article on wildlife smuggling.”

  “That doesn’t make me feel any better. Those animal dealers aren’t going to be happy if they discover what you’re doing, and they play real rough.”

  I shut down the computer and flipped off the light. As Matt and I headed into the bedroom, my thoughts flashed back to the two murders, the black Escalade that had almost run me off the road, and now the poison frog.

  I hoped the bumpy flight to Ohio wasn’t a harbinger of things to come. During the flight, I read a packet of background material Roy Maxwell had sent. Clayton Malur was a bad one. It appeared the United States Fish and Wildlife Service wasn’t the only thorn in his side. The auction house owner had a history of run-ins with other federal and state agencies.

  The most serious occurred three years ago when the United States Department of Agriculture had revoked Malur’s license to operate an animal auction for eight months and fined him $25,000. The charges involved multiple counts of neglect under the Animal Welfare Act. Inspectors had discovered malnutrition, parasitic infections, hacking coughs, and lameness.

  The report cited examples. Monkeys had torn out hunks of their fur and a few were missing limbs, caused by self-mutilation from living in cages that fell under the minimum size requirement set by law.

  According to Maxwell, Malur’s customers consisted primarily of hunting ranches, roadside zoos, research labs, traveling circuses, rare pet dealers, and exotic meat vendors. Drug dealers purchased lions and alligators to bolster macho images. A few buyers simply sought unusual animals as conversation pieces. No one knew where these creatures wound up when the owners became bored with their acquisitions.

  At an average auction, more than a thousand animals changed hands, with Clayton Malur grossing nearly a quarter of a million dollars.

  The packet also included a list of animals available at last month’s auctions.

  Animals for Auction

  Bear cubs—Russian hogs—cougars—elk—wallabies— Brazilian tapirs—llamas—lemurs—macaques—marmosets—chimps—gibbons—camels—zebras—panthers— kangaroos—miniature horses—ibex—reindeer—tigers— lions—cheetahs—sugar gliders—black-footed penguins— emus—swans—macaws—parrots—falcons—homing pigeons—peacocks—ostriches—monitor lizards—sawscaled vipers—boa constrictors—pythons—Australian kraits—black mambas—diamondback rattlesnakes— iguanas—baby alligators—Madagascar hissing cockroaches.

  The more I read about this strange place, the more anxious I was to investigate. With its past violations for wildlife smuggling, it would add a unique twist to my story.

  I rented a car at the Cleveland airport and drove more than ninety minutes through rural communities until I reached the Razorville Motor Lodge where I had reservations for the night. Deciding on an early dinner, I freshened up and strolled to the restaurant adjacent to the lodge.

  Hurricane lamps illuminated each wooden table, and paintings of nineteenth-century farm scenes adorned the walls, along with heads of dead animals. I had just picked up the menu when a lanky, red-headed man, with legs and arms like limp linguine, entered the room and slipped into an adjacent booth.

  Soon a middle-aged couple joined him. The man, who was big, bulky, and round faced with a bushy beard, reminded me of Henry VIII. The woman had buttery blond hair, long dangling earrings, and heavy makeup. Over a pair of tight-fitting jeans, she wore a purple spandex top that emphasized her ample breasts. The three started discussing exotic animals. From their conversation, I learned they planned to attend tomorrow’s animal auction.

  “He can put in a special order. If anyone can get a golden lion tamarin for you, Clayton Malur can,” said the red-haired man.

  I strained to hear their conversation about the endangered golden lion tamarin, a small Brazilian monkey with fur around its face resembling a lion’s mane.

  “I heard a tamarin is difficult to obtain,” Henry VIII said.

  “There’s no question it’s gonna cost you plenty.”

  “And you’re sure there’ll be no trouble with the law?” The woman appeared to study her long scarlet nails.

  “None at all. Listen, the government doesn’t have the manpower to check out these things. You let us handle it. That’s what you’re paying for.”

  I sat back, processing what I’d heard. The redhead hadn’t said anything incriminating. He didn’t mention smuggling, but the couple didn’t ask. They only wanted to cover
themselves.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  By dawn, traffic to Malur’s auction backed up on the main road for nearly a mile. Arriving at the parking lot entrance, I rolled down my window and stretched out my arm, attempting to hand my twenty-dollar admission to the fee collector, a skinhead with muscles like those found on a heavyweight wrestling contender.

  He didn’t grab the money. He leaned forward, apparently trying to check out the inside of my car. “No photos are allowed, including cell phones.”

  “I understand.”

  “You’re not with one of those troublemaking groups, are you?” He eyed me suspiciously. “Are you a newspaper reporter?”

  “No. I’m here to buy an exotic animal for my husband. It’s a birthday gift.” I had decided that would be my cover.

  The fee collector gave me the once-over, his eyes focusing on my breasts.

  I drew a deep breath wondering if he would refuse me entry. Did I come here for no reason?

  He snatched the money from my hand. “Okay. Go ahead.”

  I hit the gas, not giving him a chance to change his mind.

  The auction didn’t start for another hour, but the parking lot was nearly full with trucks, trailers, and a handful of sports cars and luxury autos with license plates from more than a dozen states. As I trekked up the dirt path, carefully avoiding the occasional mounds of manure along the way, brays, roars, and squeals, along with an assortment of barnyard smells, wafted through the air.

  Upon entering the grounds, I surveyed my surroundings—a small, white clapboard house, three barns, and a large auction arena. I wandered through the narrow aisles of the first barn, crowded with prospective buyers and sellers.

  This building’s interior had been gutted, making room for row upon row of long tables. Placed atop these tables were terrariums holding hundreds of snakes and lizards. On the floor near the back sat two large crates, both marked: DANGER— VENOMOUS REPTILES.

  The next barn echoed with the screeches of dozens of birds, most in cages so small their feathers stuck through the wire mesh. I jumped when a large mouse—or perhaps a rat, I wasn’t sure—scurried across my shoe. I decided to leave.