Crouching Buzzard, Leaping Loon

by Donna Andrews

  “He used to belong to one of those militant animal-rights organizations,“ Mother said. “Remember how Aunt Cecily told us about the protests they kept having at dog shows a few years ago?“

  “Only vaguely,“ I said. As a child, I'd found Aunt Cecily fascinating, because she was the only grown-up who got away with talking about sex – not to mention using the word “bitch“ – at my grandmother's dinner table. But like most of my cousins, I learned to tune Aunt Cecily out once I'd reached the age where hearing about Pomeranians mating became boring instead of titillating.

  “They would register dogs for a show – genuine dogs – but then they'd show up with some of their human members in cages, wearing collars, and try to take them into the ring. And then there were the anti-hunting protests, when the members dressed up like deer and went running through the woods.“

  “I remember that,“ I said, recalling a newspaper shot of the earnest protestors, wearing synthetic fur ponchos and headgear topped with giant papier-mache antlers.

  “Apparently your veterinarian friend left the group after a hunting protest that ended in a very unfortunate shooting incident.“

  “Really,“ I said. I could feel adrenaline starting to wake me up. “Do you think it could be another murder?“

  “No one was killed, dear,“ Mother said. “But your friend was shot… in the derriere. And instead of taking him to the hospital right away, the other protestors tied him to the hood of their Volvo and drove around town honking for several hours. He was quite put out, and they had a parting of the ways. I gather he's become much less radical – shortly after that he joined the ASPCA and applied to veterinary school.“

  Mother grilled me for details of what Doc was doing now, and then signed off, presumably to relay his current whereabouts to Aunt Cecily. I made a note to share her information with the chief, next time I saw him. Would his history as a radical animal-rights activist make Doc more plausible as a murder suspect? Probably – after all, Ted had only two legs.

  After that flurry of excitement, my energy level dropped again. I actually dozed off at the switchboard at some point in the morning and woke up to find Luis shaking my shoulder.

  “Are you all right?“ he asked.

  “I'm fine,“ I said, although I noticed that I didn't sound fine; I sounded cranky. Realizing that only made me feel more cranky.

  “Here,“ Luis said, handing me a diskette.

  “What's this?“ I asked.

  “The collected works of Anna Floyd,“ he said, glancing around to make sure no one was there.

  “So I was right,“ I said. “It is a pseudonym for someone at the office.“

  “Bet you can't guess who,“ he said with a Cheshire Cat smile.

  “What's-his-name,“ I said. “One of the therapists, the mousy little guy. Dr. Lorelei's husband.“

  “You knew all along,“ he said.

  “I suspected, but I didn't know,“ I said.

  He shook his head.

  “How's the other research project going?“ I asked.

  “More slowly,“ he said. “I assume you'd rather not tip off whoever runs the porn sites that someone's checking them out.“

  “You assume right,“ I said. “Just let me know when you have something.“

  He nodded and left.

  So now I knew who the Bodice Ripper was, I thought as I stuck the diskette into the computer and began checking the files Luis had copied.

  I found copies of letters to and from publishers – fairly big publishers, I presumed, since I'd heard of them. Complete drafts of two of the books I'd seen in print. And a file that was clearly the first half of another novel.

  I couldn't think of anything else I could do while stuck on the switchboard, so I began to read the unfinished book.

  Which turned out to be rather interesting. You found out in the first chapter that the heroine, a typical blond, statuesque Anna Floyd kind of gal, was already married to a mousy, bespectacled man who greatly resembled Anna's usual heroes. But the wife was bored with him – she was contemplating having an affair with a sexy neighbor who'd been flirting with her. A sexy neighbor who, the reader quickly deduces, might well be the local Jack the Ripper or Hannibal Lecter. Was the heroine so mesmerized by Sexy Neighbor's pecs and cleft chin that she couldn't see fava beans and a nice Chianti in her future? Or had I heard so many analyses of real and literary serial killers from Dad that I suspected the worst from Sexy Neighbor long before most people would?

  Eventually, even the heroine began to have a few nagging doubts about Sexy Neighbor – though of course she paid no attention to her intuition, probably because doing so would bring the book to a screeching halt about one hundred pages short of the minimum required length. Still, having read three of Anna's books, I figured I didn't have to worry about the heroine. Sure, she'd let Sexy Neighbor lure her to his den of iniquity, but Mousy Husband would turn up just in time. He would burst on the scene, eyes flashing, and save her from certain death, or a fate worse than death, whichever Sexy Neighbor intended to come first.

  Imagine my surprise when Sexy Neighbor turned up dead. And Mousy Husband began acting… well, highly suspicious. Was this just a ploy to keep the two lovers apart for a few more chapters? Or would Mousy Husband turn out to be the real serial killer, thereby allowing the heroine to find happiness with the mousy, bespectacled but perhaps secretly heroic homicide detective who had just turned up to investigate the neighbor's death?

  The husband and the homicide detective were in the middle of a duel of waspish wit and mousy spectacle polishing when the manuscript broke off in midchapter.

  “Aarrgghh!“ I exclaimed. I wasn't sure which was more provoking: not knowing how the story ended, or realizing that I'd actually gotten caught up in Anna Floyd's hokey plot.

  Although perhaps my interest was less related to the plot than to the question of what, if anything, it had to do with Ted's murder? Was this rather dark and brooding story really the product of the same mind that had produced the other three mildly amusing if somewhat predictable works I'd previously read? Was there any significance to the fact mat Anna Floyd was writing about murder instead of the usual abduction and seduction themes?

  Most interesting of all – since all Anna Floyd's statuesque blond heroines and mousy heroes clearly resembled Dr. Lorelei and her husband, was this plot inspired by something in real life? If Lorelei was having an affair with a patient, she'd probably done a certain amount of sneaking around. And if Ted had been blackmailing her, an observant eye – say, a jealous husband – could have detected a certain emotional tension between them. What if the husband had put the evidence together and come to the erroneous conclusion that Dr. Lorelei had been having an affair with Ted? Was the book some kind of wish fulfillment? Or, better yet, a game plan? In the book, Sexy Neighbor had been bludgeoned, not strangled, of course, so the book wasn't a finished game plan. But what if the blow to Ted's throat was a bludgeoning attempt that had failed, forcing the killer to fall back on the mouse cord to finish his victim off?

  I'd have to consider the husband a suspect. And decided that if he was a suspect, I should make a better effort to remember his name. I looked him up on the phone list. Dr. Glass. I'd work on remembering that. Dr. Glass whose motive, if he turned out to be the killer, would be transparent.

  I was rereading passages of the manuscript, trying to figure out if the mousy homicide detective resembled anyone else around the office or if he was another version of Dr. Glass. And also looking for clues that the deceased Sexy Neighbor was intended to represent Ted. He wasn't my idea of a dream-boat, but maybe he looked that way to Dr. Glass. He was taller and younger, anyway. And perhaps his breezy attempts at charm had gone over better with Dr. Glass than they had with me.

  I still had my nose buried in the book when the door opened. I glanced up to see a cleaning cart rattle into the reception area. I focused back on the screen, and then realized that there was something odd about the figure pushing the cart. I loo
ked up at her. Her shoulders sagged in typical tired fashion beneath the usual faded blue smock the building cleaning service staff wore. A few wisps of gray hair escaped from her bandanna.

  Odd that she would be here so early, I thought. Usually the cleaners didn't show up till after five. Probably someone had called for a special cleanup of some kind, I deduced, and was about to turn my attention back to my computer screen.

  The cleaner stopped for a moment before pushing her cart through the opening into the rest of the office, and sighed heavily as she eased her obviously aching back. As she did, her bandanna slipped up a little, revealing an earlobe pocked with odd, assorted earrings.

  The rabid fan.

  “You again!“ I shouted, furious that the intruder had very nearly gotten past me in her cleaning lady disguise. I vaulted over the reception desk to catch her. She turned and tried to ram me with the cleaning cart, but I had more momentum. I batted the cart aside, shoved the bandanna-clad figure to the floor, and sat on her.

  Four of the office dogs thought this was enormous fun, and danced around us barking. Jack and Frankie, who had been talking in the hallway, ran over and Waded through the dogs to help.

  “Hold on to her,“ I said. “And turn her over.“

  “Her again,“ Frankie said.

  “This time we arrest her for trespassing, I hope,“ Jack said.

  “Definitely,“ I said. “And just maybe a little more than trespassing.“

  I went back to my desk, rummaged in my carryall, and pulled out the computer gaming magazine I'd found in Ted's cache. I opened it to the article he'd marked and studied the pictures briefly.

  “Take a look,“ I said, holding out the magazine to Jack. “That's her in the middle picture. Read the caption.“

  “What's up?“ Frankie asked.

  “She's not a fan,“ Jack said, looking up from the magazine. “She's a spy.“

  “Let me see that,“ Frankie said, reaching for the magazine.

  “She works for The Four Gamers of the Apocalypse,“ I said.

  “Those sleazy copycats,“ Frankie growled, which was mild compared to what some of the programmers said about Mutant Wizards' biggest and most hated competitor.

  “Hang on to her while I call the police,“ I said.

  “I'll leave quietly,“ she said.

  “No, you'll stay here till the police arrive,“ I said, from the switchboard, where I was dialing. “I think they'll want to hear why the vice president of one of Mutant Wizards' major business rivals has been hanging around here in disguise for several weeks. And I bet they'll be fascinated when they hear that the first person to see through her disguise turned up dead shortly afterward.“

  “I had nothing to do with that,“ she said quickly.

  “Yeah, right,“ I said. I was mentally congratulating myself. I'd identified another of the code names on Ted's blackmail list. Our rabid fan turned corporate spy had to be Mata Hari.

  As I expected, the police were very interested to hear about a case of trespassing on the scene of the murder. The chief, they promised, would be right over. I hung up feeling quite cheerful. Surely Mata Hari would draw some of the heat away from Rob.

  “What's the problem?“ We looked up to see Liz standing a few feet away, looking anxious.

  “It's that fan again,“ Frankie said.

  “She was attempting to enter the building, disguised as a cleaning woman,“ I said. “Do you think we can charge her with trespassing?“

  “We can't possibly charge all the persistent fans with trespassing,“ Liz said.

  “I don't see why not, but never mind,“ I said. “This one's more than a fan.“

  I handed Liz exhibit A in the case against Mata Hari. She studied the photo and our captive.

  “I'm not a prosecutor, but I suggest we call the police and see what they can do,“ she said finally.

  “I already did,“ I said.

  “Wait a minute,“ the intruder protested. “You don't understand. I was just – “

  “And someone be sure to jot down anything she says,“ Liz added. “Some of it may prove useful in court.“

  The intruder stopped protesting.

  “By the way,“ Liz said, motioning for me to follow her out into the hall. “While the chief is here, do you think you could find out if he's learned anything about our other unwanted visitor?“

  “Other unwanted visitor?“ I said, drawing a blank. “Oh, you mean Eugene, the disgruntled employee.“

  “Eugene Mason,“ she said, glancing over to make sure the door was closed. “Yes.“

  “I meant to ask – what's he so disgruntled about, anyway?“

  “It's completely ridiculous,“ Liz said. “He signed a noncom-pete agreement when he came on board. Standard practice; all the staff do. And part of the exit interview is that he's supposed to initial the agreement to confirm that he understands the terms and will abide by them. And he won't.“

  “Why not?“

  “He claims that the agreement is too onerous, and the copy we have on file isn't what he signed.“

  “I don't get it,“ I said. “He's phoning in threats and lurking around just because we asked him to initial something he doesn't want to initial?“

  “He doesn't get his final paycheck until he initials the form,“ Liz said.

  “Okay, now I get it,“ I said, frowning. “Isn't that a little harsh?“

  “Not really,“ she said. “He knows a great deal about the software architecture, not to mention our plans for future releases. We need to make absolutely sure he isn't going to peddle what he knows to one of our competitors – or if he does, that we've got the documentation we need to sue them. Or defend ourselves if he tries to sue us.“

  “Is that likely?“ I asked.

  She shrugged. “Depends,“ she said.

  “Depends on what?“

  “On whether he finds an attorney stupid enough to take his case,“ she said. “It'll never hold up in court – he can't even find his own copy of the noncompete agreement, which is probably why he's so off base about what it says. Of course, he claims someone stole it, for heaven's sake. At any rate, it's not very likely he'll get someone to take it on contingency, and so far he hasn't convinced anyone he's got the wherewithal to pay.“

  “I almost think you enjoy these legal battles.“

  “Of course not,“ she said, frowning. “I'd rather prevent them. But I do feel a certain satisfaction when I know I've done whatever needs to be done to take care of a problem. Which reminds me – according to your father, you're close to solving the murder.“

  “I wish,“ I said. “Dad's an optimist. I'm a realist. I'm just trying to keep the chief from railroading Rob.“

  “Wouldn't solving the case be the best way of doing that?“

  “Naturally,“ I said, fighting back a yawn. “But that's easier said than done. I'm just trying to dig up enough dirt on enough people to convince the chief that Rob isn't the only one with a motive for killing Ted. As soon as I've accomplished that, I'll give up sleuthing so I can catch up on my sleep.“

  She studied my face for a moment, then nodded. “Makes sense,“ she said. “I should get back to work.“

  I followed her back into the reception area.

  “Make sure the police know about as many of the trespassing incidents as possible,“ she said, and headed back to the library.

  “Tough lady,“ Frankie said.

  Why did I have a feeling he'd have said something shorter and less complimentary if I hadn't been there. Jack's face didn't give away anything; he just nodded and headed back to his desk, leaving Frankie to guard our captive.

  So she was tough – did they really want one of their former coworkers to steal everything they'd been working on so hard and hand it to the competition? They were all so excited about their stock options – didn't they understand that the stock options weren't worth beans unless Mutant Wizards continued to prosper? light suddenly dawned. I'd be willing to bet that Liz was the Ir
on Maiden on Ted's list. And what had Ted said about the Iron Maiden? I went back to my desk and fished in my drawer for the blackmail printout.

  “No dice,“ read the notation beside the Iron Maiden. “Can't even get time of day.“

  Made sense.

  And what about Eugene Mason's claims that someone had stolen his copy of the agreement? What if someone had? What if Ted had stolen it, and Mason had found out, and Ted's murder was the result?

  Next time Liz spotted Mason lurking outside, I'd have to go out and interrogate him, I decided. And I should study his personnel file, to see if perhaps he seemed to match any of the names on Ted's blackmail list.

  The front door opened and the chief walked in, accompanied by several uniformed officers.

  “That was fast,“ I said.

  “We were already on our way over,“ the chief said.

  I wasn't sure I liked the sound of that.

  “Anything we can do for you?“ I said.

  “You've done a great deal for us already, thank you,“ the chief said.

  I frowned and looked more closely at him. Usually when people said something like that to me, they were being sarcastic. The chief seemed serious.

  “How?“ I asked.

  “That computer printout you gave us,“ the chief said. “That proved to be very useful. So what seems to be the trouble here?“

  “We caught her trying to break in,“ I said, indicating the intruder.

  I could tell Frankie really wanted to hang around, but now that I didn't need him for guard duty, I didn't think Jack would appreciate my keeping him from work, so I shooed him off. The chief took a short statement from me and then dispatched two of the uniformed officers to take her down to the station.

  “Anything else we can do for you?“ the chief asked.

  “That's about it,“ I said.

  “Then we'd like to go back and talk to one of your staff, if you don't mind.“

  “Of course not,“ I said.

  Actually I minded plenty, but asking my permission was obviously only a formality. The chief nodded pleasantly and went through the opening to the main part of the office, followed by a very young officer in a uniform that looked brand new.