by Erin Johnson
I arched a brow. “You don’t have any idea who that other woman is?”
Mark scoffed. “None. I’d like to know who the shell she is and how she got in here.”
I sniffed. Yeah, Mark, you and me both.
Daisy’s tail wagged. True.
Peter licked his lips. “So you have no idea how the phoenix either escaped or was smuggled out?”
Mark took another drag, looking too calm for my liking. I glanced around at the thick foliage, imagining the firebird could spontaneously combust at any moment and turn us all to dust, and edged closer to Peter.
“No clue how the bird got out or where it is now.”
10
MARK
Peter’s notes magicked into his hands. While he bent his head and reviewed them, I toed the springy sticks that made up the nest. A few downy red feathers floated loose. We didn’t know who this other woman was, but it was likely she and Malorie had killed each other. Mark might not know who she was by sight, but maybe his boss had talked about her enemies with him. He’d worked with her long enough that they might have gotten close.
“Do you know of anyone who might have wanted to harm Malorie?”
Mark snorted, smoke gushing from his nose. “She’s made plenty of enemies. There’s her stepdaughter, Rebecca, for one.”
Peter and I exchanged knowing looks. Quincy had mentioned her as well and that she’d crashed the party tonight.
Mark crossed one arm over his chest and leaned further into the straight trunk of the palm. “Rebecca’s her stepdaughter from her first marriage to Richard Rutherford. Neither Rebecca nor her mother were friendly to Malorie—saw her as a home-wrecker.” He raised the cigarette hand to the side of his mouth. “Which she was.”
Huh. Had this Rebecca gal sought revenge on Malorie for breaking up her parents’ marriage? If so, though, why wait all these years and do it now? And how had the other woman ended up dead? Had she been some sort of ’70s-themed assassin Rebecca hired?
Mark went on after blowing out another puff of smoke. “I saw Rebecca here tonight. It surprised me—I didn’t think they were in contact.”
Peter narrowed his eyes. “How did she seem?”
Mark shrugged. “Agitated, I guess. Twitchy. She and Malorie left the party together and headed to the back.”
I frowned. “The back?”
He nodded. “Yeah, the sanctuary.” He gestured around us.
Hmm. Had Rebecca lured Malorie back here and then she and the mystery woman had gotten into a fight to the death?
Peter nodded as his quill scratched away at the parchment. “We’ll be looking into that, thank you.” He lifted his broad palm. “Did she have any other enemies that you know of?”
The vet curled his full lip. “Well, our head zookeeper Libbie just left after working here for six years. Malorie claimed it was on amicable terms, but I heard raised voices coming from the office a week ago—it was them two arguing over something.”
Now this was interesting. Quincy had been under the impression that it’d been an amicable split—just more evidence of how much his wife kept him out of the business. Why? Did she not trust him?
From what little I’d seen, he certainly seemed nervous and timid, maybe not someone she could lean on. Or was she protecting him by keeping him out of some less-than-aboveboard business dealings?
I leaned into one hip. “Do you know what their argument was about?”
Mark shrugged. “Not sure, but if I had to guess, it’d be that fellow Zane Perez from WWAAC—Witches and Wizards Against Animal Cruelty.”
Peter and I looked at each other again. Quincy had also mentioned this dude.
Mark rolled his dark eyes. “Pains in our tails. Those people are net cases. A few weeks ago, before Libbie left, I overheard her and Malorie talking about Zane. He’d only worked here a couple months, but Libbie seemed to think he was a plant from WWAAC.”
“And he no longer works at the sanctuary?” Peter’s quill magically scribbled away.
Mark snorted. “Shell, no.”
I drummed my fingers on my arm. “Is that common? For animal activists to pose as employees?”
Mark tilted his head side to side, as if debating. “I don’t know of it happening here before, but I’ve heard of it happening at private zoos. They’re always looking to jump down someone’s throats about this perceived mistreatment or that—but it’s all detritus. They just don’t like animals being behind bars, period.”
I frowned. I could sympathize with the activists. The curse Ludolf Caterwaul had placed on me took away my magical powers, as well as my ability to shift into an owl. Every night I missed taking flight and soaring over the island, the night breeze blowing under my wings.
My stomach tightened as I thought of the phoenix and the other animals in here. At least I still had freedom in human form to move about and do as I wished—these animals couldn’t fly, swim, or roam free at all. Still, it had to be odd that these activists would target a sanctuary. I felt again that they should’ve been on the same side.
Peter’s firm but kind voice jolted me out of my misgivings. “Thank you for your time. If you think of anything else, please let us know.”
Peter, Daisy, and I wound our way back out of the enclosure with Mark leading the way. Peter sent the vet home, then found a couple of cops and asked them to cordon off the phoenix enclosure. We moved off a little ways away from the other cops and stood among a dense grouping of palms that overhung the wooden rope bridge walkway.
I turned to Peter and rattled off the theory I’d been working on. “Okay, so we have a missing phoenix and a woman who looks like she hugs a lot of trees.”
Peter grinned.
“Maybe while Zane Perez worked here, he made mystery woman a copy of the key to the phoenix’s cage. Maybe she’s one of his buddies at the activist group WWAAC.” I splayed my hands. “She gets in, lets the phoenix out, but is interrupted by Malorie when she walks back here with Rebecca, her stepdaughter. A struggle ensues, and maybe Malorie kills the hippie woman with the talon necklace she was wearing, and the woman hits her with a dart that maybe she had on hand to drug the phoenix? Then Rebecca flees?” I scrunched up my face, waiting for Peter’s take.
He nodded. “I could see that.” That thinking crease appeared between his brows. “But the dart was poisoned, we believe, not a sedative potion. Why would an animal lover have a poison dart on hand? And where did the phoenix go?”
I pulled my lips to the side. “Maybe they had more accomplices. They took the bird while the hippie lady stayed behind to keep Malorie from chasing after them or sounding the alarm, and they ended up killing each other?” It sounded flimsy even as I said it.
Peter shook his head. “There are no signs of a struggle, though—no scrapes or scratches on either of them. Just that wound to Malorie’s head, the dart in her neck, and the talon in the mystery woman’s chest.”
I fanned myself, the humidity making me sweat. “So what next?”
Daisy panted with her tongue hanging out of her mouth. She glanced up and growled. You think you’re hot? I have a fur coat.
I woofed back. We can shave you. I raised my brows. Or have you waxed? I think you could rock the bald look.
Her ears flattened, and her growl deepened. Try it and see what happens.
I shrugged and whined back, a grin playing at the corner of my mouth. Look, Days, I’m a pet psychic—
She interrupted me with a growl. Lie.
—not a pet aesthetician, but I’m sure I could find somebody. You want your nails done, too? We could have a girls’ spa day. I winked.
She bared her teeth in a vicious snarl, her dark lips twitching. Touch my paws or my nails and it’ll be the last thing you do.
I grinned wider, and Peter shook his head at me, smiling. “You’re egging her on.”
I shrugged. “It’s not my fault she’s so fun to tease.”
The dog looked from one of us to the other, dark eyes narrowed, and growl
ed. Tell Peter, right now, that you’re being rude and—
I shot her a flat look and whined. Oh, relax—next time I make bacon, I’ll put the grease in your food. Happy?
Her pointy ears pricked up, and her eyes grew round. Really? The tip of her bushy tail wagged just the tiniest amount.
I rolled my eyes. Did you detect a lie?
She considered a moment, then her mouth split into a wide, toothy grin, and she panted. Okay. Deal.
I squeezed Peter’s hand. “I think we’re cool.”
His smile widened as he looked from me to his dog. “I think so, too.” He patted Daisy’s head, and her tail swished from side to side in big sweeps.
I raised my brows. “Now what?”
Peter lifted his chin in the direction of the rope bridge. “Let’s head to the sanctuary’s office and check in with the other officers there.”
11
THE BLOW GUN
“Wow.” I let out a low whistle as I took in the Magical Animal Sanctuary’s office. Apparently, the animal print theme wasn’t reserved only for the party this evening—it was part of everyday life. A few cops moved about the large space and collected evidence, searching drawers and dusting for fingerprints.
They nearly disappeared, camouflaged as they were among the busy mix of wood African masks on the wall, tiger skin rugs, and zebra print upholstery on the stuffed chairs and sofa in the reception area up front. My eyes widened as I spotted the wood cabinet to my left, painted a gold leopard print, and the antler chandelier that cast most of the light.
I leaned close to Peter. “Guess they just can’t hide their enthusiasm for animal skins.”
He glanced down at me, the corners of his mouth tight, like he was fighting a smile.
I rolled my eyes. “Oh come on, that was a solid pun.”
He raised a thick brow. “It was spot-on.”
I groaned, then frowned again at the decor. The mounted heads and sheer amount of leather seemed a bit of an odd choice for a place that purported to keep animals alive, but hey, who was I to judge? My own place’s interior design consisted of furniture I’d found on the street and piles of laundry.
Which was probably why I’d been enjoying spending so much time over at Peter’s. My cheeks grew a little hot as I relived some of our recent evening activities—well, it was one of the reasons.
Peter checked in with a couple of the cops collecting evidence while I hung back beside Russo, who’d brought in Quincy Rutherford in case we had any questions for him. I frowned as I took that in. Malorie had married Richard Rutherford as her first husband, which meant...
I spun to face Quincy. “You took Malorie’s name when you got married?”
His cheeks turned a little pink, but he lifted his large nose in the air, his jowls wobbling a bit. “Yes. And?”
I pressed my lips together and nodded. “Very progressive of you.” I turned away. And odd. Quincy and Malorie had no doubt kept the Rutherford name because of the clout it carried among the elite, but neither of them had been born Rutherfords.
A middle-aged cop with her blond hair tucked into a low bun under her cap rummaged around the papers stacked in piles on the huge wooden desk in the back of the room. She tossed some over her left shoulder, others over her right. They magically floated into various evidence bags. Peter sidled up beside her.
“Hey, Rochester, were you among the first in here?”
She barely spared him a glance, then nodded and went back to sorting evidence. “Yep.”
Peter nodded. “Was the door locked?”
She shook her head, eyes on her work. “Nope. Door was ajar, in fact.”
Peter and I exchanged looks. If someone needed a key to get into the office and grab the blow gun, that limited our suspects considerably. But Quincy had mentioned he was forgetful and often forgot to lock the office up, which would open our pool of suspects up to basically all the hundreds of party guests, plus staff.
The blond looked up. “Speaking of which, we checked the door to the second-story viewing platform in the phoenix’s cage. Also unlocked.”
I turned to face the widower. “Hey, Quincy, did you go into the office today?”
His throat bobbed. “Yes.”
Daisy stood in the middle of the room under the antler chandelier, looking between Peter and me. Her dark eyes locked onto Quincy, and she wagged her tail. True.
I nodded and turned back to him. “And the last time you were in here, do you remember if you locked it up behind you?”
He wrung his long hands. “I—I’m not sure, but I don’t think I did.” He hung his head.
I sighed. So just about anyone might’ve had access to the keys.
Peter watched him. “Where was the blow gun kept?”
Quincy looked up and gestured at the wall behind Peter. It was covered in peacock feather wallpaper with several wood racks supporting a row of blow guns, all carved and painted intricately. “Right there at the top.” His deep voice cracked.
Peter looked it over and muttered something to the cop beside him. She stopped her sorting of the desk and turned to bag up the other blow guns. Beside them, a rack held an assortment of feathered darts—one in the middle conspicuously missing.
Peter turned back to us. “The last time you were in here—do you remember seeing the blow gun on the wall?”
Quincy moved closer, eyes on the wall. “Yes—yes, I do.” He seemed almost entranced by the spot that would’ve held the missing feathered dart.
Daisy let out a whine that slid into a growl. Mixed read.
I narrowed my eyes as the back of my neck prickled, feeling suddenly suspicious. “Quincy—”
He snapped out of it and whipped his head around to stare at me, wide-eyed.
I stepped toward him. “Did you use the blow gun on your wife, Malorie?”
12
DARTS
Russo’s thick brows jumped up, and he hastily shoved the bridge of his glasses up his nose. The other cops all looked up from their work to hear Quincy’s answer.
He glanced at Daisy, who held very still, then squared his thin shoulders. “No. No, I didn’t use a blow gun on my wife or on anyone else, for that matter!”
Everyone’s eyes turned to Daisy. The German shepherd whined. True.
I cocked my head. “And you didn’t ask someone else to use it on her?”
Quincy’s cheeks reddened. “No!”
I nodded. “Right. Thanks.” Guess I’d been on the wrong track there.
Peter looked around as the other officers returned to their work. He moved to the painted leopard print wood cabinet and paused with his hands on the pulls.
Quincy pointed. “We keep some of the meds chilled in there.” He gulped.
Peter pulled the double doors open, and cold air poured out. Goose bumps prickled my arms, and I rubbed them. It felt downright nippy in the humid air.
Peter bent to look over the shelves, all lined with tiny glass vials full of glowing potions. Quincy, frowning, rushed closer. “Why—so many are missing. This doesn’t make sense!”
I joined them, as did Daisy and Russo. Shivering, I looked over the shelves. Big gaps in the vials indicated that a lot of them were gone.
Peter frowned. “Could this be related to your wife’s murder? Were these vials valuable?”
Quincy craned his skinny neck forward, blinking at the empty spots. “I—I don’t know, to be honest.”
I pointed at a bare bit of middle shelf. “What was kept here?”
He shrugged. “No idea.”
The tip of Daisy’s tail wagged as she lifted her nose, sniffing the air. True.
I shot Peter a look. What did this guy know? He was clearly not very involved in the running of the sanctuary; he’d admitted so himself. Maybe the vials weren’t even missing—maybe they’d just been used up and the sanctuary was waiting on a shipment of more meds.
Peter seemed to be thinking something along the same lines. He nodded and stepped back. “Alright, no worr
ies, we’ll look into it.” He scanned the office, frowning. “As far as the office being unlocked, does it appear anything else is missing or could have been stolen?”
Quincy turned from the cabinet, wringing his hands, and looked around. “I—I don’t immediately see anything else that was stolen.” He let out a whimper. “Though, Malorie handled most of everything related to the sanctuary. I didn’t spend much time in here, typically.”
Something glinted in the candlelight cast by the antler chandelier overhead, and I pointed at the item in Quincy’s hands. “Souvenir?”
He blinked at me, then down at his hands and jumped, nearly dropping the little glass vial. He ducked and fumbled with it, catching it before it smashed on the ground. “I, uh, no.” He turned and replaced it on the shelf in the chilled cabinet.
He adjusted the bow tie at his throat. “Just a—just a nervous habit of mine. I tend to pick little things up and fidget with them. I’m not even aware I’m doing it most of the time.” He paled, his gaze far away.
I drummed my fingers on my crossed arms. Right… I looked around. The furnishings, though tacky and over-the-top for my taste, were clearly expensive. I cocked a brow at Quincy. “Were you not worried about money being stolen from the office?”
He shook his head, jowls wobbling slightly. “Again, it’s not like I made a point of leaving the door unlocked. It’s just—I’m a bit absentminded, as Malorie put it.” He dipped his chin and let out a wistful sigh.
I glanced at Daisy, wondering if his recently deceased wife might have put it a little stronger, but Daisy continued to sniff the man’s shiny shoes and didn’t call him on any falsehood.
He looked up suddenly. “Oh, plus there’s a hidden safe where we keep the valuables and the day’s cash.”
Peter raised his brows, and Quincy jumped. “Oh. Right.” He led the way to the back wall. To the left of the huge wooden desk hung an oil painting in a gilded frame of an enormous spider fighting a tiger. Quincy lifted it off its nail and set it on the desk behind him, revealing a silver safe set into the wall.