Marked Fur Murder

by Dixie Lyle

  “No, no, not at all. Lots of people have their own zoo.”

  She chuckled. “At the time, I thought my father was being heartless. But that wasn’t it; in fact, it was my heart he was worried about. The death of a pet is often the first real experience with loss a child has, and it’s always traumatic. Having the graveyard right next door emphasized the harshness of that reality. My father wanted to protect me from that; a misguided notion, but ultimately a caring one. He did, however, allow me to have riding lessons. I don’t think he really understand just how deeply a little girl can fall in love with a horse.”

  I did, though. “What was her name?”

  “His. His name was Zephyr. He was a four-year-old pinto Saddlebred, and for a while he was my best friend. I only rode twice a week, but I looked forward to those times like nothing else. I was eleven years old.

  “But then we had the accident.

  “I was out riding him one day, and I took him off-trail. Not very far, but far enough. I don’t even remember why; there was something I wanted to look at, a flower or a tree or something. Anyway, the footing wasn’t good, and he stumbled. He limped back to the stable, but I wasn’t worried. It didn’t seem that bad.”

  “But you were wrong?”

  “Yes and no. It was an incomplete fracture, which in a human being isn’t serious at all. But a horse’s physiology is very different from someone with two legs; they weigh a lot more and the limbs that support them are highly specialized, complex tools. When one of them breaks down, the consequences are far reaching.

  “The fracture was in the lower leg, which made it worse. A horse has fewer blood vessels there, which means an injury will heal slower.”

  “I’m not going to like where this is going, am I?”

  “Bear with me, Foxtrot. You’re right, the news wasn’t good. The owner of the stable said Zephyr would have to go away for a while. Then my father, as much as he dreaded telling me, confirmed my worst fears. Zephyr would have to be euthanized.”

  She paused, then smiled. “I wanted him buried here, of course. Father refused. He wanted the whole thing over with, didn’t want a constant reminder of his daughter’s hearbreak that close. I carried on for days, completely inconsolable. Eventually they took me to a therapist, who helped me get over it. It took almost a year.”

  “I’m not seeing how this is relevant.”

  “You will. You see, the man who owned the stable was a friend of my mother, not my father. He was rich, too. But unlike my father, he was a romantic—he believed in miracles, I suppose. And a year to the day after Zephyr’s accident, he gave me one.”

  “A new horse? Zephyr’s offspring, maybe?”

  ZZ’s smile widened. “No, Foxtrot. Zephyr himself.”

  “But I thought—”

  “So did I. But when Mr. Montain told me Zephyr had to go away for a while, that’s exactly what he meant. My father was sure the horse would be put down, and he didn’t want to get my hopes up; better to have them euthanized, too, and get it over with.” Her smile faded. “It’s just the sort of man he was. Not really surprising we didn’t get along.”

  “Montain? So the owner of the stable—”

  “Was Ben’s grandfather. A sweet man, who decided to spend an inordinate amount of money on healing a little girl’s heart. Do you have any idea how difficult it is to get a horse’s leg to heal properly? Even today, it rarely succeeds. There’s some hope for prosthetics, but nobody’s managed it yet. It’s the weight of the animal itself they can’t solve. You can’t put that kind of pressure on the injury, and if you try to redistribute it to the other legs it causes a condition known as laminitis. Even slings under the body don’t work properly—you get bedsores and problems with breathing. It takes a great deal of persistence, expertise, and luck to do what he did. That, and the willingness to spend lots of money. I don’t know exactly how much Phillip Montain spent rehabilitating that horse, but it was several times what the animal was worth. In terms of money, anyway.”

  I wasn’t feeling quite as outraged anymore. “That must have been quite the reunion.”

  ZZ’s eyes gleamed with tears, but it was her smile that really shone. “Oh, Foxtrot. Even now, that memory can make my day. How many people get to have someone they loved given back after death has taken them away?”

  [I know at least one. Though the story isn’t nearly as touching when the one returning is a cat.]

  Oh, crap. My anger was getting harder and harder to hold on to. “I think I might know what that feels like.”

  “Then you’ll understand how much I owe Phillip Montain. He was the one who asked me to take Ben in, not Ben’s father. And I couldn’t say no.”

  I sat there, not saying anything. ZZ waited.

  [Foxtrot? What are you going to do?]

  I don’t know. Let me think.

  I wanted to be angry. I wanted to be righteously angry, playing the role of avenging heroine in this little drama. But I couldn’t, because there was no villain to point an accusing finger at. There was just a worried grandfather who wanted to fix things for someone he loved, and a grateful woman trying to repay a miracle. How could you be angry at any of that?

  “Okay, I get it,” I said at last. “But it’s still a lie. One that’s going to hurt Ben a whole lot when he finds out.”

  “Then maybe he shouldn’t find out.” She looked at me steadily, not tiptoeing around the issue.

  “So you want me lie to my boyfriend?”

  ZZ sighed. “No. If he asks you, you should tell him the truth. But if he doesn’t ask, then you shouldn’t tell him.”

  “How is that any different?”

  Now her smile was sad. “It’s all about who’s willing to carry the pain, Foxtrot. Telling him will get rid of your guilt, but it’ll hurt him. Keeping quiet means you hurt instead. And you’ll hurt a whole lot more if he ever finds out you knew and didn’t tell him.”

  “But what about the truth? Don’t you think he has a right to know?”

  “Yes, he probably does. But protecting the people you love isn’t always about doing the right thing. Sometimes it’s about doing what you have to.”

  “Yeah. I guess it is.”

  ZZ opened her mouth, then closed it again. When she spoke, her voice was firm. “Whatever you decide is up to you. I’m not going to tell you what to do, and I’m not going to hold your decision against you—whatever it is. You understand?”

  “I do.” I got to my feet. “I have to think about this. Whatever I decide, I’ll let you know first. That’s only fair.”

  “Thank you, Foxtrot. You know that I trust your judgment, dear; sometimes even more than my own.”

  That made me grin. “Yeah, but then you go ahead and do whatever you want anyway.”

  “True. But at least you slow me down.”

  I nodded good-bye silently, and left. There didn’t seem to be anything else to say.

  Not to her, anyway.

  * * *

  I didn’t have a lot of time to mull things over, though. In my job, that was usually the case; you needed to deal with more than one problem at a time.

  My next problem walked up to me as soon as I stepped out the front door. I was hoping for a quiet walk in the gardens, but no such luck—I was going to have to deal with a visibly upset Germanic chauffeur, instead.

  Victor was ZZ’s driver. He was tall, stern looking, sharp featured, and stern. Today that sternness had been cranked up a little higher, courtesy of what he held in his hands: one of Kaci’s paintings.

  “Ms. Lancaster,” he said stiffly. “I do not wish to disrupt your day, but I must register a complaint.”

  Uh-oh. Victor wouldn’t complain if someone set him on fire. He might demand a fire extinguisher in a cold, formal tone of voice, but there would be no complaining.

  “About?” I asked.

  “This.” He thrust the painting at me like a prosecuting attorney confronting a witness with damning evidence. “It is inexcusable.”

  I
squinted at it. “No, I think it’s a butterfly. Or a bird.”

  [Really? I would have said an orchid.]

  “That is beside the point,” he said, glaring at me in a way that suggested the point was not only very, very sharp but about to be plunged into my chest. “It is my responsibility to operate and maintain Ms. Zoransky’s vehicles. I cannot do this if they are continually being misused and maltreated.” He continued to glare at me from over the top edge of the butterfly-bird-orchid painting, which had been executed in a vivid scarlet. It felt a bit like being studied by a vulture over the remains of a bloody corpse.

  “And how, exactly are they being misused and maltreated?” I asked him.

  “By Mister Zoransky. He’s using the Rolls-Royce as if it were a pickup truck.” Victor was practically quivering in indignation. “Filling the trunk and even the backseat with canvases. And some of them aren’t even dry yet!”

  I nodded. “Okay, Victor. I’ll have a word with Oscar. I’m sure we can arrange a more suitable means of transportation for the paintings. I’ll have one of the rental agencies drop off a van, okay?”

  He nodded sharply. “Thank you. I will return this to the garage.” He wheeled about and retreated, holding the painting like he intended to shoot someone with it if they tried to stop him.

  [I’m not a huge fan of art, but I know what I like,] Whiskey said as we continued on our way. [That painting was exceptional.]

  “Oh, absolutely. But an exceptional what? A bug? A flower? The rare and elusive Rorschach bird?”

  [I sense a certain amount of sarcasm.]

  “You sense correctly. Anyway, if you like her paintings so much, why not tell the artist?”

  [I’m not sure that would be proper.]

  I rolled my eyes. “Please. If you can’t even tell her you like her art, how are you ever going to tell her you like her?”

  [I’m not. I mean, I don’t. That is, I am not going to because I do not. Ahem.]

  “Oh, ahem yourself. For a detective dog with a keen nose, you sure can be clueless. Come on, Romeo—time to step up.”

  [I must say I’m finding your remarks highly inappropriate.]

  “Oh, am I being a little intrusive? Unlike you, who sees nothing wrong with commenting on changes in my menstrual cycle?”

  [I simply noticed you’d introduced more asparagus into your diet recently. Really, it was obvious to anyone with a nose.]

  “And your interest in Kaci is obvious to anyone with eyes. Or is there some sort of rule against fraternization with the living?”

  [No, of course not. But honestly, how could I—]

  And that’s when we were interrupted by Teresa Firstcharger.

  “I think you’ve avoided me long enough,” she said, stepping directly in front of me. Whiskey and I were walking down one of the garden paths, flanked on either side by towering green bushes; Firstcharger must have been standing behind one, though there didn’t seem to be room.

  She wore a brown leather jacket over a black T-shirt printed with a Native American art design—one that looked oddly familiar—black jeans, and cowboy boots. Her long black hair was held back with turquoise-inlaid silver clips. She was tall and slender and strikingly attractive, her cheekbones high and sharp, her eyes dark with long lashes. She wore little to no makeup, and she didn’t need any.

  “Uh, hello,” I said. “Ms. Firstcharger. I’m sorry, were you trying to reach me? I thought I’d given all the guests my cell number—”

  “And hello to you, too, Whiskey,” she said, ignoring me and looking down. “You look as surprised to see me as Foxtrot is. Your nose letting you down?”

  [I assure you, madame, that my nose is functioning perfectly. You were simply downwind of me.]

  “I suppose I was. How lucky for me the wind seems to be on my side.”

  It took me a second to realize what had just happened.

  Teresa wasn’t talking to me.

  She was talking to Whiskey.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Teresa Firstcharger grinned at the expression on my face. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Did I interrupt a private conversation?”

  I looked down at Whiskey, who was staring at Firstcharger as intently as a sheepdog at a recalcitrant ewe. I looked back at Firstcharger, who had her arms crossed and a lazy smile on her face.

  “No, I—wait. What?” I said cleverly.

  “Nicely put. How about you, pup?”

  Whiskey said nothing. His gaze was so steady you could have balanced an egg on it.

  Firstcharger laughed. “Nothing to say? What’s the matter, Tango got your tongue?”

  I tried again. “Wait. I … No. What?”

  “I can see I’ll have to hold up this conversation all by myself. All right, then. You’re investigating Anna’s murder. She and I had a very public confrontation the night before. I was one of the very first people the police talked to, but you haven’t. Why not?”

  Okay, third time’s the charm. Except she kept lobbing bombshells at me and I hadn’t even been able to dodge, let alone react intelligently. “What makes you think Anna was murdered?” Okay, that’s better.

  “Maybe I have animal spies of my own,” she said. “A little bird could have told me. Or a fish.”

  “There aren’t any fish in the swimming pool,” I said. Ooh, good one, Foxtrot. Tango would have mocked me for a good five minutes if I’d said something like that to her.

  Firstcharger let it pass, as apparently she had bigger fish to mock. “Are you afraid of me?”

  “Should I be?”

  “Depends on how smart you are. I thought you were fairly bright, but maybe I was wrong.”

  I felt a surge of anger. Dammit, this woman was playing me like a … fish. Or a violin. Or a violin made out of a fish. Get it together, Foxtrot. “All right, Teresa. Where were you when Anna died?”

  “Alone in my room. Asleep.” The amusement in her voice was a challenge.

  I accepted. “Guess you didn’t do it, then. Not that I ever thought you did.”

  “Oh? Why not?”

  “Too obvious. Nobody planning a murder starts a public fight with the victim hours beforehand, unless they’re extremely stupid. You’re not.”

  She nodded graciously. “True. Even so—”

  I cut her off. “But you can converse with my dog. Not a lot of people know that trick, and one of them is a Thunderbird. Just like you, right?”

  For the first time, she looked at me with respect on her face. “So I wasn’t wrong about your intelligence. Good. That’ll make things more interesting.”

  It may have taken me a few minutes to get up to speed, but my brain seemed to have finally kicked in. “That’s what you meant when you said the wind was on your side. You’re controlling it. And since you know Anna was murdered, you must have known what she was, too.”

  “And what her brother still is. For now, anyway.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Someone killed one of us, Foxtrot. Two more are still here. You think the killer’s going to stop?”

  [No one else is going to die.]

  Firstcharger looked back at Whiskey. “Found your voice, did you? Good—I was beginning to think I’d offended you.”

  [I wasn’t offended, merely cautious. Why are you here, Thunderbird?]

  “Just like a dog. Straight to the point. Sadly, I’m not that transparent. You’ll learn why I’m here soon enough.”

  Whiskey growled. I knew how he felt. [Be advised that this place is under our protection. Any attempt to cause trouble will be dealt with harshly.]

  She snorted. “Yes, I’m sure you’ve pissed on every available fence post to mark your territory. But I’m more than just a dead canine who dug his way out of a grave, or a cat who can talk to spirits. I’m the messenger of the gods, the voice of lightning and the heartbeat of thunder. If blood still pumped through your veins, I could freeze it solid or make it boil. You don’t frighten me, little ghost dog.”

  “Then you’re no
t as smart as you think you are,” I said.

  “No? We’ll see. Good-bye, Foxtrot. I’m looking forward to chatting with you at dinner.” She stepped past me and sauntered away.

  We watched her go until she was out of sight. Neither Whiskey nor I said a thing for a moment.

  Then Whiskey sighed. [I believe the situation just became somewhat more complicated.]

  “You think?”

  * * *

  Another Thunderbird. It seemed so obvious now, but I’d never even considered the idea before. Maybe it was subconscious political correctness, or maybe it was just that my mind really wanted all this supernatural craziness to stay contained within my own little group.

  But that was the thing about craziness: It didn’t want to be contained. It wanted to sprawl, and flail, and generally be as inconvenient as possible. Until little old me came along and wrestled it back into the corral.

  [Really? You’re making cowboy references?]

  Um, sorry. I’m a little rattled.

  We’d continued on our walk, heading toward the zoo. I was still reeling, trying to figure out my next move; I should really talk to Ben, but after what ZZ had revealed to me I found myself dreading the idea. If I didn’t tell Ben ZZ’s secret right away, I’d be lying by omission—but if I did tell him, it would add more chaos to an already turbulent mix. Then again, I really had to tell him about Teresa Firstcharger …

  Argh.

  [Excuse me?]

  “Argh. It’s a universal human term loosely translating to ‘I’m overwhelmed and frustrated, somebody make this stop.’”

  [I see. Comparable to a good whine, then.]

  “Yeah, pretty much.”

  We got to the zoo. I nodded hello at Oswald, our resident ostrich and escape expert. He gave me that idiotic look ostriches do so well, which is really just intended to make you forget they’re descended from giant, meat-eating dinosaurs. Then he usually tries to eat your cell phone. If that doesn’t work he makes a mad dash for the exit; if it does, he disables the GPS tracking and then makes a mad dash for the exit. Idiotic, yet cunning.

  Which is when I saw Caroline hurrying toward me, looking worried. Caroline’s our vet, in charge of a wide variety of exotic animals. Just seeing the expression on her face reminded me that Argh also acted as a universal beacon, drawing even more trouble your way. It was the wounded wildebeest of epithets.