by Watts Martin
Scava put his hand on the doorknob, then leaned toward Sinvy. “Did you lock it?”
“Of course I locked it,” the mouse snapped.
Gibson turned the knob and the door cracked open. “Two for two tonight, then.” As before, he pushed the door open gently.
The sound of something dropping—a soft thump, an object hurriedly set back on a table or desk—came from inside, followed by running. Gibson charged in. Annie nearly shoved Sinvy off his feet as she bolted afterward.
She processed the scene as she moved. Nice living room. Overturned desk drawer. Open window. Hooded figure scrambling out. Crossbow—
“Watch out!” Annie tackled Gibson, throwing him to the ground just as the bolt flew overhead. She heard Sinvy shriek behind her and hoped it was fear, not pain.
Gibson clawed his way back to his feet as the figure disappeared. He stuck his head out the window, then cursed, running out the front door.
“Are you crazy?” Annie yelled after him. “You’re unarmed!”
“Wait there!”
She cursed, too, then turned toward Sinvy. He hadn’t been hit; the bolt had buried itself in the wall over the door, meaning it’d missed him by over a yard. Even so, he’d curled into a ball on the floor, hyperventilating.
Annie crouched down. “You’re all right. He’s gone.”
“Mother mother mother—“
“He missed you. He wasn’t aiming at you. It’s all right.”
“He could have hit me.” Sinvy uncurled, sitting up and sniffling. “This isn’t supposed to happen to accountants. It’s not like I work for a criminal guild. I’m just in shipping!”
“Mr. Sinvy, it’s exactly like you work for a criminal guild.”
He looked down at the floor.
“Come on.” She took his hand and hauled him back to his feet.
“Th…thank you.” He sniffled.
Gibson walked back in, breathing hard and looking dejected. “Gone. I didn’t think I had much chance of catching him, but it was worth a try.”
She growled. “No, it wasn’t. You had a better chance of catching a bolt in your chest.”
“Why, Miss Swift, is that a growl of concern?”
“It’s a growl of exasperation.”
“I’ll take it for now. All right. Sinvy, pack your bag and let’s be on our way before they send in reinforcements.”
Gibson had the building’s concierge—the building had a concierge—call another taxi carriage for them, and asked the driver to drop them off a good five blocks away from the hotel.
“The Hotel Carmen,” Sinvy said, looking up at its eight-story brick front as they approached the lobby. Doormen held the oversized glass doors open for them as they passed. “This is pretty swank for the Guard to be using as a safehouse.”
“Nothing but the best for our favorite accountants.” Gibson led them to the front desk. “We’re going to need a suite with sleeping arrangements for three people. The smallest one that we can do that in, though.”
The vixen behind the counter nodded. “Very good, sir. For how many nights?”
He considered briefly. “Three, but with any luck we’ll check out earlier.”
She arched her brows but nodded again. “Sign here, please, sir. And here.”
As he went through the paperwork, Annie glanced around nervously. She didn’t think they’d been followed—she’d been keeping her eyes open through the carriage ride and along the walk here as well—but at this point she refused to take anything for granted.
“Relax,” Sinvy said. “They’re going to have guards posted at the door and stuff, right?”
“One,” she said dryly, nodding toward Gibson.
Scava headed back toward them a moment later. “All right, everything’s set. Shall we?”
As they went up in the elevator, Sinvy looked up at Scava suspiciously. “You’re the only Guard?”
“The only one here.”
“That doesn’t make any sense for a safehouse.”
“Technically, I haven’t called this a ‘safehouse,’ I just haven’t corrected you yet.” He stepped off the elevator and motioned them to follow.
Sinvy stayed stock still, eyes widening. “What—”
Annie put her hand on the mouse’s shoulder and nudged him forward. He permitted himself to be pushed along but set his ears back.
Scava turned around and spread his hands, smiling his cheerful smile as he walked backwards. “You really need to be more trusting, George. We can’t be sure my house is safe and we know that neither of your houses are. Ergo, this is a safehouse.” He stopped at the suite’s door and unlocked it.
“You’re mad.”
“I’m fairly sure Miss Swift thinks that, too. But there’s a method to my madness. That’s what you’re supposed to say, isn’t it?” He laughed in an exaggerated, bad-actor villain style.
Sinvy looked up at the wolf. “Is he always like this?”
“You kind of get used to it.” She followed him in and shut the door behind her, making sure it had locked and pulling the deadbolt to.
“It looks like a nice enough room, doesn’t it?” Gibson reached the center of it, dropping his bag and spinning around. The suite was actually two rooms and both did indeed look quite nice: wall-to-wall carpeting, this room featuring a plush sofa-bed, a table and chair set, a writing desk and even a kitchenette with a modern icebox. The other room had two beds—no, Annie saw, just one bed, albeit sufficiently large that two people could sleep in it without feeling like they were sleeping together. She gritted her teeth.
The mouse crossed his arms. “You’re sure the Guard’s gonna pay for this.”
“The Guard isn’t paying for it, I am.” Scava dropped to sit on the sofa. “We’re keeping this one off the books for now. You should know all about that.” He grinned. “It’s a…clandestine operation.”
Yes, so clandestine that we’re keeping it secret from the Guard. Annie rolled her eyes but managed to keep the snark in her head this time.
“Oh.” Sinvy’s voice was doubtful. “So what now?”
“You give us more information.”
“What more information do you need?”
Annie sat down on the other side of the mouse. “Everything, Mr. Sinvy. We need everything.”
He whined. “I don’t know what else to tell you. You know everything I didn’t tell you by now, don’t you? They’re smuggling—uh—exotic furs out of the Empire and laundering the profits through the shipping company.” The mouse thought. “They’re winding it down now because of all of your nosing around, but that’s only temporary. They’ll be doing it again when the heat dies down.”
Gibson made a soft hmm noise, tail lashing. “They’re working with a mortuary, right?”
“Yes.”
“That’s where we need to go to sew this all up, then.”
Annie looked uncomfortable. “We need to go to a mortuary?”
“Maybe just George needs to go to the mortuary. Be undercover for us.”
“What? I’m an accountant. I’ve never been there and I don’t have any reason to go there! Just save time and put up flyers saying ‘Sinvy is your leak! Open season!’”
“You’re right.” Gibson stroked his chin. “You need to go back to work tomorrow like nothing’s wrong—you can’t let them suspect you suspect they suspect.”
“What if they already suspect I suspect they suspect?”
“Don’t let on you suspect that. You need to get us papers about the mortuary. Anything that ties them together in a way that’s unusual.”
“Oh, right, I’ll just ask my boss for documentation on the illegal smuggling operation and he’ll say, ‘Sure, George, it’s in the file cabinet on the left. Top drawer.’”
“You’re smart. You’ll figure out something.”
Annie looked at Gibson. “What do we do?”
“We go to the mortuary.”
She groaned, leaning back and staring at the ceiling. “Terrific.”
“Yes! Documentation from both ends, proof that even our recalcitrant Captain can’t dismiss. You and I will head to the funeral home in the morning, and George will go to work, and we’ll meet at lunchtime. Early lunch. Eleven o’clock.”
Sinvy’s whiskers drooped. “That’s not much time.”
“You’ll only need a few minutes, and once you’ve got the papers you want to be out of the building as soon as you can, won’t you? We’ll meet—well, right back here.”
“Nothing can go wrong with this, I’m sure,” the mouse muttered.
“It’s great to finally have a plan of action, isn’t it?” Gibson slapped the armrest for emphasis and stood up. “All things considered, I think we should order room service rather than go down to the hotel restaurant. It’s a lovely place, but most of its appeal are those huge plate glass windows facing Numlinnea Avenue.” He headed over to the writing desk, finding the menu in a drawer and brought it over to them.
As Annie flipped through it, Gibson went on. “Oh. And we can work out sleeping arrangements. George, do you want to share the bed with Miss Swift, or should I?”
She snapped her head up. “You—”
He was already grinning. “George and I will take the bed and you’ll take the sofa. If that’s all right.”
She glanced over at Sinvy, who looked extraordinarily uncomfortable. “That’s what I would have suggested.”
The mouse nodded quickly. “So would I.”
“Well.” The Melifen took the menu from her and flipped through it himself. “Let’s get a good dinner and a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow will be an adventure.”
Annie and Sinvy exchanged glances with one another.
~
“I hate funeral homes.” Annie trudged behind Gibson up the walk to Barash and Sons Mortuary. In the way of all its kind, the building imposed serenity through artifice. The tastefully understated one-story brick structure almost looked like it could be a real home, one landscaped by an obsessive-compulsive gardener: every hedge squared off in just this manner, each flowering bush trimmed to precisely this height. She suspected they cut the lawn twice daily.
“I hope you haven’t had reason to be at them often enough to develop an aversion.”
“Three times in my life.”
“Well, this time at least no one you know died, right?” He readjusted his tie. “Do I look the part? You look the part.”
“You’re well-dressed but I’m not sure you could do somber to save your life.”
“I’ll try to look more depressed.”
“What if someone here recognizes us?”
“You’ve asked that already.” He walked up the front steps.
“You never gave me a good answer beyond saying ‘they won’t.’”
“They won’t.” He rang the door bell. “Grieving daughter-in-law time.”
A tall, long-faced badger dressed in a perfectly tailored grey suit stood before them. Mustels were one of the least common races in Ranea—all the evidence suggested they weren’t native to the world, although the current theories held that only humans and Melifen had supportable claims to be native—and badgers were uncommon even among Mustels. She wondered what brought him here, not just to Raneadhros but here, working in the funeral industry, party to such a bizarre crime ring.
“Good morning, sir, madam.” The badger bowed slightly. “Bernard Barash at your service. How may I help you?”
“I’m here to talk to you about arrangements for my father,” Gibson said. He kept his voice admirably subdued, with just a touch of a tremor in it. “He hasn’t passed yet, but the doctors say he’s not got much longer. Weeks. Maybe even days.”
“My condolences.” Barash looked credibly mournful. “I must ask if you have an appointment, Mister…?”
“Tern. Gary Tern.” He gestured at Annie. “This is my wife Danielle.”
The badger nodded his head respectfully.
“And no, I’m sorry. We really should have thought to make an appointment, shouldn’t we? It’s just that this has all been—unexpectedly sudden. The illness, the decline.” He sighed theatrically, looking at the floor. “We should have made preparations before this, but we can’t wait any longer.”
“No, no, I understand. It’s a most trying time for you and your loved ones.” He turned and walked in, motioning them to follow him through the foyer. “It’s simply that this isn’t a business that gets many walk-ins.”
He led them to a small, well-appointed office, wood paneled walls and a dark burgundy rug, overstuffed leather chairs facing an imposing mahogany desk, which he moved to sit behind. He withdrew a ledger, equally oversized, from a desk drawer, opened it to a middle page, and produced a quill pen. “Now, then, Mr. Tern. May I have your father’s name?”
“Lan.”
Barash nodded, writing as he spoke. “Lan Tern.” He paused.
“Grandpa always did have an odd sense of humor.”
Annie surreptitiously drove her claws into Gibson’s hip. He winced and flashed her an apologetic expression.
Barash smiled perfunctorily, with the air of someone who’d heard stupider things said in perfect sincerity, and finished writing. “And have you discussed with your father whether he’d like to be interred, or cremated? Or do you have a family plot reserved in a local cemetery?”
“Well.” Gibson leaned back. “There’s a long story there that I think you’ll have to help me with.”
Barash raised his brows, then steepled his hands in front of him on the desk, nodding. “Go on, sir.”
“It goes back to my great-grandfather’s day and his fear of being underground, which came about when his sister was trapped by a cave-in for three days. She was a miner, you see. Now, there weren’t many women miners back then, so maybe I need to back up some…”
After about two minutes of this tale, Annie rose. “Excuse me, but could you tell me where your rest room is?”
“Of course, madam.” Barash gestured toward his right. “Leave my office and go down the short hallway there. It’s three doors down, clearly marked.”
“Thank you.”
The badger nodded gravely, and turned back to Gibson, managing to look sincerely interested.
Annie stepped out of the room, closing the solid office door behind her, and headed down the hall. Instead of making her way to the rest room she opened the other doors, seeing what lay behind each.
The doors before the rest room led to empty offices almost identical to the one she’d left Gibson in; the first door past the rest room, though, revealed itself to be a larger office with smaller, more utilitarian chairs and Barash’s actual work desk—so the nameplate proclaimed—and filing cabinets. This was where the real work got done, and fortunately, it was empty. There had to be other workers here on occasion, and she couldn’t even be sure that the badger was in on the job with Union, but the place seemed as deserted as—well.
She scanned the desk. He kept it almost neurotically clean, even the ink blotter remaining nearly pristine; no framed photos of family or any personal items at all could be seen. She rifled through the drawer. Again, very little interesting: pens, paperclips, a matchbook from a stagecoach office, a half-used roll of stamps.
The file cabinets were locked, but easy to jimmy. It would help if she had any idea what she was looking for, though. Receipts from Union? Receipts from Eastern Shore? Records of any furred “customers”—particularly those with more exotic coats—who’d been cremated?
Yes, all of the above. Easy to locate, if she had a couple hours instead of at most a couple more minutes.
The first drawer—and second and third—held customer records. The next one looked like it had receipts. She rifled through it. Nothing under U. A competent criminal accountant wouldn’t be naïve enough to leave an obvious paper trail, of course, but mortuaries were often very small operations and she suspected Barash kept his own ledgers. Nothing under E—
Wait. Check receipts from the Eastern Shore Caravan C
ompany.
She pulled one out. A payment—of five thousand vars—for “services rendered.”
She pulled out another one. A payment of six thousand vars, also for “services rendered,” drawn on a different bank.
“Maybe evil is stupid after all,” she breathed, tail wagging reflexively. She took the check stubs, slipped them into her purse, and wiggled the file cabinet lock back into place.
Cracking the office door, she glanced furtively in both directions down the hallway, then stepped out, closing it behind her, and made her way back to the office.
“—why it might be better to go with a funeral at sea, although since we’re on a small budget as I mentioned before because of the family avocado farm failing, we might have to make it a lake. Or a pond.” Gibson’s hands moved about animatedly as he spoke. “Burial at pond. Is that something we can do? Do they have ponds set aside for that?”
Barash looked up at Annie with an ever-so-slightly pleading expression, then leaned forward, steepling his hands on the desk once more. “Mr. Tern, as I’d suggested earlier, I think a basic burial plan is your best option.”
Gibson nodded, sighing his melodramatic sigh once more. “If that’s the best we can manage. Papa does like a show, but he’s not going to be there to complain if we cut a few corners, right?”
The badger flashed a small, pained smile. “Now, there are several payment options we can—”
Gibson stood up. “Oh, I can’t talk about that. Not yet. I’ll head back home and talk to Agatha about all this.”
Barash blinked. “Agatha?”
“My mother. She’s the one with all the purse strings. But she never leaves Dad’s side. Not for the last thirty-seven years.”
“I…I see, sir.” He took a deep, steadying breath.
Gibson took Annie’s hand, and smiled jauntily to Barash. “We’ll be back soon. Oh! I almost forgot to ask. Do we bring dad here, or do you do pickup?”
She squeezed the cat’s hand hard enough to make him suck in his breath sharply. “Let’s be on our way, dear. There’s a lot of preparations to make. Thank you for all your help, Mr. Barash.”
“Of course, Mrs. Tern. Let me show both of you out.”