Marked Fur Murder

by Dixie Lyle

  Which apparently hasn’t changed her routine at all.

  she said for the umpteenth time, trying to get comfortable on my lap.

  I gave up trying to work the keyboard and give Tango a comfortable spot to sprawl at the same time. “I used to be a limber tween with a hammock, an overstuffed armchair, and a pillow fort. Currently I have to make do with an overpriced office chair designed to keep my back straight. Sorry if that inconveniences you.”

 

  I glared down at her. “Bony? You know how many hours with a ThighMaster I put in to get those things in shape?”

 

  “How did I have you for all those years without realizing you’re made of pure evil?”

  [If you were a dog, you’d have figured it out much sooner.] Whiskey was relaxing on my office couch, which I let him get away with because ectoplasmic fur doesn’t really shed. [Probably before birth.]

 

  “Stop. I’m trying to do research, here. I don’t have time for—for—”

 

  “Stop.”

 

  “Cut it out.”

 

  “I’m serious—wait, what?”

 

  “Are you drooling on my skirt?”

  [Fortunately, evil diluted by gluttony tends to be less worrisome for the general public. Though not for the local population of songbirds and small rodents.]

 

  [Our amazement knows no bounds.]

  Tango jumped off my lap and trotted out the door of my office. Whiskey and I watched her go.

  [And how is your research coming along?]

  I leaned back and stretched. “Unsuccessfully. I know a little more about Fimsby, but not much. He’s a meteorologist who studies unusual weather patterns. He’s chased tornadoes in the Southwest, braved monsoons in Asia, and studied blizzards in Alaska. Could be a really useful person for a newly fledged Thunderbird to know, actually.”

  [Which is, no doubt, why Anna went to him in the first place.]

  I frowned, studying the screen. “And apparently trusted him enough to enlist his help. But what kind of help? What sort of trouble was she in?”

  [When one animal is threatened by another, it’s almost always for one of two reasons.]

  “Which are?”

  [Either the other animal is competing with the first for the same resources, or it’s attempting to turn said animal into a resource. Usually by eating it.]

  I sighed and swiveled my chair away from the computer. “Unfortunately, there’s not a lot of research to be done on Thunderbirds. Native American weather spirits, can take on human form, used as messengers to the gods. And a tribe of them apparently settled on Vancouver Island in Canada quite a while ago and interbred with the locals. Humans, I mean, not birds.”

  [Perhaps we need a more immediate source. There is a Native American presently on the grounds.]

  “Firstcharger? Well, yeah, but how am I supposed to start that conversation? Hey, mind if I ask you about a few Native myths? I’m sure you must be an expert on the subject, what with being a genuine Indian and all. It would be like strolling up to Shondra and quizzing her about Zulu marriage rites.”

  [Humans are so touchy about their cultures. We canines have a saying: No matter how high it is off the ground, it still smells the same.]

  “Please tell me that doesn’t refer to what I think it does.”

  [Granted, like many sayings it’s not literally true. I mean, they do all smell different—otherwise, why bother sniffing them? The point is, whether you’re talking about a Great Dane or a dachshund, their hindquarters—]

  “Yes, yes, I get it. Everybody’s butt is equal in the great butt-sniffing go-around that is life. Maybe if human beings all used that as a universal method of greeting things would be a lot more equal, but we don’t. We have all these protocols and prejudices and social conventions, and I can’t risk alienating one of ZZ’s guests by saying the wrong thing to her. Besides, Thunderbirds are part of a coastal tradition; with a name like Firstcharger she’s probably descended from a Plains tribe.”

  [A bit odd her being here in the first place, though.]

  “I suppose. Still, no odder than Theodora.”

  [That’s an entirely different sort of odd. Less coincidental and more…]

  “Schizophrenic.”

  [Exactly.]

  “I’ll talk to Firstcharger eventually, but I think I’ll skip the supernatural stuff. She’s a suspect because she slept with Anna’s husband, not because of her race.”

  [I don’t know why humans are so touchy about their breed, either. A terrier doesn’t get upset when you assume he’s fond of rats.]

  “You know, sometimes I’m really, really glad I’m the only one that can hear you talk.” I got to my feet. “Come on. I’ve found out all I’m going to about Thunderbirds on the ’Net. Time to go converse with actual people.”

  We headed downstairs and then outside. I was looking for two guests in particular, and thought I knew where I’d find them.

  They weren’t in the gardens, though, or the menagerie. Caroline, our resident vet, said they’d been there but left a short while ago. Then she told me where they were going.

  The cemetery.

  The Zoransky estate abuts one of the largest animal graveyards in the United States, housing upward of fifty thousand former pets ranging from mice to thoroughbreds. It’s also a mystic nexus, kind of a Grand Central Station of beasty souls; a place where animals can leave their respective afterlives and enter a human one, in order to visit those they loved—and still do.

  Most people are completely unaware of this. They think of the cemetery as a final resting place for their pet—or, as I used to, as just a resting place. It’s quiet and pretty and there are benches; in fact, not too long ago it was my favorite spot for a tea break and some peaceful meditation.

  Now, not so much.

  Other people still take advantage of its bucolic charms, though, and those often include our guests. Keene enjoys strolling among the headstones and reading the epitaphs for inspiration, while others prefer to take pictures. Annie Leibovitz got some spectacular shots of Lady Gaga riding a marble horse here.

  And some people like to paint. Though in this case, people means “Border collie.”

  Whiskey and I found them over by Davy’s Grave, of course. It’s a nice setting, surrounded by tall trees, with a number of benches. Davy was the first resident of the graveyard, way back at the end of the nineteenth century, and as such his grave has been afforded special status over the years. I’ve never actually seen Davy in the ectoplasmic flesh myself, but not every dog likes to roam. He might be content in doggy heaven, or may have moved back in with his former (and long-since-deceased) owner.

  Anyway, the current dog occupying the space was Kaci, a sprightly brown-and-white Border collie. She sat gripping a rubber bone tightly between her jaws, the bone lashed crosswise to a short artist’s brush. She stared intently at the canine-height easel before her, which held a square white canvas about two feet across. The canvas showed a few bold strokes in black, but I wasn’t sure what they were supposed to be. Several small cans of paint were lined up neatly in a row beside Kaci.

  On one of the benches, around ten feet away, were two men. One of them was stout, with an elegant gray goatee and mustache: Rustam Gorshkov. He wore an expensive topcoat, pin-striped trousers, and square-toed boots; his hands rested on the head of an elaborately carved cane upright between his knees, and his eyes were closed. The expression on h
is face was one of deep concentration.

  The other man, sitting beside him and staring at him with rapt interest, was Oscar. Oscar wore a wide-brimmed white Panama hat, khaki shorts, and a pale-green silk shirt. He looked a little strange to me for a second, and then I realized it was because he didn’t have a drink in his hand.

  Whiskey, of course, was focused on Kaci. Dead or not, he was still a dog, and as such had dog concerns. And to dogs, with their deeply ingrained sense of pack structure, the most important thing upon meeting another canine was to immediately establish exactly what their relative social positions were. I’ve wondered what it would be like if people meeting each other for the first time ranked each other with the same obsessive precision:

  ELDERLY BANKER: Hello. I drive a Mercedes, I own five homes, and my wife is thirty years younger than I am.

  YOUNG LAWYER: Hello. I’m a junior partner in a large firm. A number of professional gangsters owe me favors. I have a large penis.

  Yeah, I know. But it’ll take those two all evening, half a bottle of scotch, and several anecdotes to impart that information, whereas dogs do pretty much the same thing in under thirty seconds without saying a word.

  Whiskey approached Kaci carefully, his head slightly lowered. They were approximately the same size, which is always the first factor that comes into play. A large dog will sometimes ignore a much smaller one; a small one will never do the same for a dog that’s significantly bigger.

  Kaci knew he was there. I saw her eyes flicker toward him, and she gave an almost imperceptible whine. Other than that, though, she didn’t move.

  “Focus, Kaci, focus,” Gorshkov rumbled. His eyes stayed closed.

  Oscar gave me an irritated glance. “Foxtrot, please. Can’t you see she’s working?”

  I could have called Whiskey back, of course. But I was curious to see how Kaci reacted to him. Ignore me, I thought loudly. “Whiskey, get back here!”

  Whiskey sniffed the place dogs always sniff first. Kaci stayed perfectly still. It went on for what I thought was a little too long. C’mon, Sherlock. Unless she’s smuggling the Crown Jewels up there, I think you’ve done just about all the investigating that’s required.

  [Ah, yes. Almost done. Just give me a minute…]

  Seconds ticked by. Okay, seriously. That’s enough.

  [Hmmm. Yes, yes, absolutely.]

  “Whiskey!”

  He shot me a furtive look, then trotted back with an innocent expression on his doggy face. His voice, however, held some embarrassment. [I’m so sorry. Certain instincts simply won’t be denied.]

  I don’t have to remind you that you’re dead, do I? I’m not even sure what suffix to attach here. Necrovoyeurbestialisomething.

  [Please. The only breach of protocol was when you called me back before she could reciprocate. That was rude.]

  I suppose by canine standards, it was. “Sorry,” I said, though not to Kaci. “How’s today’s masterpiece coming?”

  “It is not, I am afraid,” said Gorshkov. His eyes were open now, and he was staring at Kaci with a disapproving look on his face. She, in turn, was studying Whiskey intently. Green paint dripped from the end of her brush and onto the ground. “Her concentration, it is broken. We must take a break and refocus. Excuse us.” He got up abruptly and limped over to Kaci. He spoke a word in Russian, and she dropped the paintbrush into his hand.

  Well, that wasn’t the effect I was trying to produce. “I’m sorry,” I repeated. “I’ll take Whiskey back to the house. It won’t happen again.”

  “No, no,” said Gorshkov. “Is all right. The inspiration, it was not coming anyway. We were about to take break. Really, is fine.” He began to put lids back on the paint cans.

  Oscar’s glare could have blistered said paint off the side of a house. “Really, Foxtrot. You’re supposed to assist our guests, not hinder them.”

  Gorshkov straightened up. “Oscar. You must learn first lesson of art. Creative urge have no master, or mistress. Blaming Foxtrot or her nice dog like blaming car wash for making the rain.”

  Oscar’s look softened. “Very well. I don’t suppose there’s any way to make the rain come back?”

  Gorshkov shrugged and went back to putting lids on cans. “We wait, we have a little walk, we try again. Maybe have lunch first.”

  Oscar sighed. “Yes, of course. One can’t hurry art, can one.”

  Gorshkov finished what he was doing and snapped a short lead to Kaci’s collar. He spoke another word in Russian and she trotted off with him—but not without more than a few backward glances at Whiskey.

  Good luck, Kaci, I thought at her. She didn’t react, but then it wasn’t like I’d asked her a direct question. Or maybe she only understood Russian.

  I sat down next to Oscar. “I really am sorry—though I’m also still a little skeptical about the whole Leonardo da Doggy thing.”

  Oscar favored me with a tolerant sigh. “Oh, Foxtrot—you, of all people? I thought you’d embrace the notion of an artistic animal, since you’re always extolling the virtues of your own hairy companion.”

  “Whiskey’s smart, but I don’t claim he can paint my portrait. Intelligence and creativity are two different things.”

  [I’m afraid I have to agree. Dogs tend to think more like engineers than artists.]

  Oscar shook his head, but he wasn’t arguing with Whiskey—he couldn’t hear him, after all. “No, but neither does one preclude the other. Human beings can be clever or creative, and animals can, at the very least, be clever; doesn’t that suggest they might be able to manifest the other talent, as well?”

  “I’ll grant you that,” I said. “It’s not the possibility that Kaci’s actually creating art that I have a problem with. It’s what you said before that, about humans being clever or creative. Some humans even manage being both at the same time.”

  The faintest trace of a smile bobbed to the surface of his face. “Ah. You doubt not our guest’s capabilities, but their sincerity.”

  “Convince me otherwise, Oscar.”

  He chuckled. “I, Foxtrot? And why would I know anything about Mr. Gorshkov’s possibly deceitful conduct?”

  “For the same reason sharks study lawyers. Professional curiosity.”

  He conceded the point with a graceful nod. “Very well. If this is a scam, it’s a good one. I’ve watched him closely while Kaci paints, and have been unable to detect any way he might be influencing her actions other than what he claims—with his mind. He does not speak, or even move. Kaci seems to consider various brushstrokes, depending on what she’s painting, and that varies widely. It’s not simply a question of rote learning, which I understand a Border collie is quite capable of; she appears to actually be concentrating on the object in front of her, and doing her best to capture it.”

  “Mmmm. If that’s the case, then how exactly is this a collaboration?”

  Oscar shrugged. “That part is much murkier. Gorshkov goes on about artistic synergy and how Kaci is actually tapping into the artistic area of his own brain, but it’s all very metaphysical and ill defined. Then again, this is art, not science; one can’t always expect a simple and concise explanation in such matters.”

  [In my experience, one can rarely expect such an explanation from Oscar in general.]

  “True,” I replied. “So very, very true … so. Is she any good?”

  Oscar smiled. “Have you ever heard of Miracle Mike?”

  “Wasn’t that a movie about male strippers?”

  “He was a chicken destined for the roasting pan in 1945. However, the aim of the axman was a trifle off, and his blow only took off the top of the cockerel’s head as opposed to severing it cleanly. Any chicken will demonstrate the ability to run around—for a few moments, anyway—immediately after having his head chopped off, but Mike did them one better: He not only ran around, he refused to fall down.”

  “Wait. Are you saying this chicken had his head chopped off and lived?”

  “Indeed. Apparently enough of his br
ainstem was left to keep autonomic functions going. The wound healed, in time, and his owner discovered it was possible to feed him by the simple expedient of dropping food down the hole on the top of his neck. Mike survived for another eighteen months.”

  I eyed him warily. “This sounds like the setup for an elaborate punch line.”

  “I have no punch line to offer you, but I do have a point. This chicken could not dance, or perform magic tricks, or do anything of note other than breathe. But he became quite famous, Foxtrot; Mike the Headless Chicken toured the country, and people paid money to see him. At the height of his popularity, he earned four and a half thousand dollars a month and was featured in both Time and Life magazines.”

  He paused. “Kaci is a dog who paints. The quality of her artwork hardly matters, does it? The point is, her work was created by a canine, a species that has yet to master the most rudimentary forms of self-expression. That alone means whatever she produces is sure to be valuable—and become even more so.”

  I suddenly saw his point. “Oh, for—you see this as an investment opportunity?”

  He sniffed. “And what’s wrong with investing in art? If it weren’t for the patronage of the wealthy, many famous artists would never have produced their most stunning works.”

  “Sure. But the value of an artist’s work always goes up after they die—and the life expectancy of a Border collie is considerably shorter than your average paint-stained wretch laboring in a studio.”

  “Twelve years, on average. But up to seventeen, in healthy specimens.”

  “And Kaci is how old?”

  “Four,” said Oscar. “Meaning I can expect a sizable return on my investment in somewhere from eight to thirteen years. Barring unforeseen accidents or sudden illness, of course.”

  [I’m guessing he could recite a list of medical ailments Border collies are prone to from memory.]

  No doubt. “So you’re convinced they’re the real deal?”

  “My dear Foxtrot—again, you miss the point. Reality, in this case, is much like art: entirely subjective. It doesn’t matter whether or not Kaci’s creations are ‘real’; what matters is whether or not other people perceive them as such. I believe they will. And I believe they’ll back that perception with cold, hard cash.”