Marked Fur Murder

by Dixie Lyle

  I smiled back. “Hi. I hope you slept well.”

  She stopped a few steps into the room and glanced around. Nothing to see but walls of books and sunlight streaming through the windows. She had good instincts, though. What a surprise.

  “I always sleep well,” she said. “How about you?”

  “Not really. I don’t respond all that well when someone tries to kill my boyfriend.”

  Teresa’s smile widened. “Please. A little snow never hurt anyone. Or was he driving at the time? I suppose I do tend to be something of a distraction, especially for men—”

  “Someone shot him. Right in the middle of your little ‘distraction.’”

  That stopped her. Total, screeching, come-to-a-halt stop. All the playfulness went out of her eyes, leaving only cold calculation. “It wasn’t me.”

  “Why should I believe you?”

  “Because you said ‘tried.’ I wouldn’t have screwed it up.”

  I deliberately looked away from her, focusing on the view out the window. “Nobody’s perfect. Maybe you chose an accomplice with bad aim.”

  If there was one thing an egotist like Teresa couldn’t stand, it was being ignored. She stalked forward a few more paces, putting her right into the middle of my field of vision once more.

  Perfect—almost.

  “I’m telling you, it wasn’t me,” she said. “Yes, I was trying to get Ben’s attention. But not to—”

  Whiskey? She needs to back off a little, wouldn’t you say?

  [I would. And I’d say it like this.]

  Whiskey sprang to his feet. His ears went back and his lips curled up. He snarled at Teresa and lunged forward.

  I don’t care how cool you are, having an enraged Australian cattle dog charge at you will make you step back. That’s exactly what Firstcharger did, putting her hands up defensively and yelling, “No!” as she stumbled backward.

  Now, I thought.

  A thick black tentacle of pure shadow shot through the bookshelf, snaking around Firstcharger’s waist. It tightened, yanking her back against the shelves and knocking a few books to the ground.

  She gasped, looking down at what had grabbed her. Then her eyes narrowed and she snarled, “Big mistake, Fox.”

  Lightning crackled over her entire body, sparking from her eyes, her fingertips, her teeth. It played along the length of the shadowy cable that had her ensnared, channeling who-knows-how-much voltage into her captor.

  To absolutely no effect.

  “Yeah, that’s not going to work,” I said. “And before you think about trying it on me, you should know that Topsy can crush your rib cage to powder in the blink of an eye. Which is exactly what she’ll do if you toss a thunderbolt anywhere near me.”

  From the gasp Firstcharger made, Topsy had just demonstrated that with a little squeeze.

  “In case you’re wondering, Topsy’s an elephant. A dead elephant, executed by none other than Thomas Edison himself, over a hundred years ago. The method he chose—electrocution—means Topsy is now pretty much immune to the stuff. But she can definitely affect you.”

  Firstcharger glared at me, pure murder in her eyes. I stared back, impassively.

  “You’re making a mistake, Foxtrot. I didn’t shoot at Ben.”

  “Somebody did.”

  “I don’t even own a gun! And I was here, on the estate, all evening!”

  Interesting that she thought it was a gun—but a clever killer would have said that to throw me off the trail. “Doesn’t matter. As I said, you could have an accomplice.”

  “Look, this is exactly what the killer wants: us at each other’s throats. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about last night.” She was still angry, but had herself under control. Like me, she seemed to do well under pressure.

  I leaned forward in my chair, and rested my forearms on my knees. “Okay. I’ve arranged for us to have some privacy for at least the next half hour—so talk.”

  “Let me go, first.”

  “Sure. But remember who’s watching you, and what she can do.”

  [And that she’s not alone,] Whiskey growled.

  Let her go.

  Topsy’s trunk slithered away from her waist, disappearing into the wall like a phantom anaconda. Teresa put a hand to her stomach, her breathing a little harsh, but she didn’t bolt away from the wall like I expected to. Instead, she took one, slow step, not glancing behind her at all. She kept her eyes fixed on mine.

  “That was well played,” she said. “You’re a more skilled opponent than I realized. You have my respect.”

  “Why are you here? What do you want?”

  “I want my people to return. But something out there wants exactly the opposite—it’s trying to end us, to destroy the Thunderbirds once and for all.”

  “Who?”

  “Those who have tried before. What do you know of our stories, our legends?”

  “Not much,” I admitted. “I’ve read a few online. You people really like fish.”

  She chuckled darkly. “The Thunderbird and the Killer Whale, yes; many First Nation tribes have a version of that one. But the tale I’m about to relate isn’t nearly as well known, because few survived to tell it. It’s the story of how and why the Thunderbirds vanished.

  “We had many duties in the old days. We brought the rains, and the wind, and even the snow, but that was not all we did. We were the messengers of the gods, and traveled their realms as easily as a salmon swims downstream.” She smiled. “Or as a taxi changes lanes, if you prefer a more modern metaphor. However you looked at it, we were important. Valued members of a powerful society, doing a vital job.”

  “That much I know,” I said. “Ben recently brokered a peace treaty between two feline deities.”

  “Tabby and Calico?”

  “Lion and Tigress.”

  Her eyebrows went up. “Obviously Ben is growing into his heritage better than Anna. It took me a long time to find her, and when I did she was as about as dangerous as a baby deer. I needed to fire up her blood.”

  I frowned. “So you slept with her husband?”

  Teresa waved her hand contemptuously. “He was little more than a possession to her—a kept man in a money-lined cage. I didn’t want him—I wanted her. Her fury.”

  “But why? Why did you want her angry?”

  “Because of what’s coming for us. Because of the Unktehila.”

  “I don’t know what that is.”

  She made an impatient noise. “Of course not. Why would you? Well, listen up and I’ll enlighten you.”

  She stalked across the room and perched on a chair across from mine. Whiskey eyed her warily but didn’t object. “The Unktehila were monsters. They came from the depths of the ocean and were the natural enemies of the Thunderbirds. Human beings were their prey of choice—until the Thunderbirds put a stop to it. Permanently.”

  “You wiped them out?”

  She shrugged. “So the story goes. But really, we just laid down the law. No more eating people—stick to deer or antelope or buffalo or even beaver, but human beings are definitely off the menu. They didn’t like the new rules, and there was a war. The Thunderbirds won.”

  “And the Unktehila?”

  “They retreated, to the deepest parts of the sea. Not a place a Thunderbird usually goes.”

  “I’m guessing they didn’t stay there.”

  Her smile was cold. “But they did. They waited, and they planned, and they very carefully worked out the perfect revenge. What’s the one thing that’s absolutely necessary to the job of a messenger?”

  I thought about it. “Reliability.”

  “Exactly. Look at the Internet; no matter how fast your connection is, it doesn’t matter if you can’t trust the information that’s coming through. The Unktehila didn’t go after the Thunderbirds directly; they poisoned our reputation, instead.”

  “How?”

  She grimaced, and leaned back in her chair. “It’s a long story, and one I’d rather not tell twice.
Besides, it’s not safe to speak certain names aloud, not without precautions in place.”

  “I know what you mean. You’ve already met my precautions.”

  Her eyes flickered involuntarily toward the bookshelf that Topsy’s trunk had appeared from. “Yes. But this is a story that both you and Ben need to hear. We should continue this conversation someplace safe.”

  “And where would that be, exactly?”

  “The Thunderbirds’ place of power. Ben knows where it is—or he should.”

  I knew where she was talking about. But any place of power for Ben was also a place of power for her, and Ben was injured. This sounded suspiciously like a ploy to simply get Ben and me somewhere isolated—someplace my backup couldn’t go. “I don’t think so. Ben’s not going anywhere until he’s in better shape, and I’m sure as hell not jumping into another dimension with you. You want someplace safe to talk, we can take a little walk over to the graveyard. It’s protected.” Mostly by me, but I didn’t see any reason to add that.

  She studied me for a second. “There’s one more thing you should know. Thunderbirds heal faster when they’re home; if you want Ben out of a hospital bed and back on his feet, all he has to do is take a little trip. So here’s what’s going to happen: You can tell Ben what I’m suggesting and what the benefits are, and he can decide for himself. If he says no, then we can meet in the graveyard. Work for you?”

  Not really. Even without the inducement of a quick recovery, she was gambling that Ben’s sense of stubborn male pride was stronger than my ability to convince him otherwise, and I honestly wasn’t sure which way that would go. But I could see I wasn’t going to get a better offer. “All right, I’ll talk to him about it. But don’t count on him agreeing.”

  “I’m not,” she said, getting to her feet. “Not with you, anyway.”

  And then she turned around and swept out of the room as elegantly as she’d entered it.

  Thanks, Topsy. You can go now.

  I couldn’t see Tango, but I knew she was just outside the window, on the other side of the wall Topsy had manifested through.

  [While we’re stating the obvious, I’d like to mention that an elephant’s excellent hearing probably has something to do with the size of their ears, and also that Ms. Firstcharger’s proposal sounds like a trap.]

  I frowned. “I’m not so sure. Technically, if she wanted to attack Ben, she could do so right now while he’s doped to the gills and can’t fight back.”

 

  “She didn’t seem to have any trouble pinpointing him last night. Though it might be hard to get at him in a large building like a hospital.”

 

  “A meeting in Thunderspace.” That was what Ben called it; it was some kind of mystical dimension that seemed to be made solely of sky and clouds. Ben had taken me there once, and claimed the place was completely deserted. Being somewhere without solid ground to stand on didn’t exactly put me at ease.

  Which, of course, was exactly what Teresa Firstcharger intended.

  “Whiskey, you’re with me,” I said. “Tango, stay here and keep an eye on Ms. Firstcharger. We’re going to see Ben about setting up a meeting.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  A meeting.

  Meetings have become a universal metaphor for boredom. It’s where people talk about things you don’t care about and they go on forever and there’s a very real chance you’ll expire from sheer tedium. And it’s true, many meetings do fall into that precise category. (By the way, if you’re in a meeting and somebody uses the phrase precise category, that’s the category of meeting you’re in. Precisely.)

  But not all of them.

  I’ve been in meetings where both people and guns were fired. I’ve been in meetings that would have shamed Roman bacchanals. I was in one meeting where someone was thrown out a window—twice. (Different windows, though.) It all depends on who you’re meeting with, and what you happen to be discussing.

  Meeting with two Thunderbirds in a supernatural dimension to discuss the murder of a third was unlikely to be boring. I wondered if I should bring snacks.

  [Are you sure this is wise?] Whiskey asked as we left the library. [Ben isn’t really in shape to make this sort of decision.]

  “Which is why I’m going to convince him to turn her down.”

  But first I was going to have to negotiate the obstacle course that was my working life. I’d already dealt with the temporary loss of our chef, and now it was time to move on to my other responsibilities—one of which was waiting for me at the base of the stairs.

  “Foxtrot!” said Theodora Bonkle. “I’m so glad I ran into you, dear. Really, I have to thank you for introducing me to Mr. Cooper. He and I have been having the most intriguing time.”

  I smiled and said, “I’m not surprised. Mr. Cooper has led a most interesting life.”

  Theodora beamed at me, which was a bit like being grinned at by a bulldog wearing makeup. “Ah, but it’s the afterlife that’s of interest now, my dear Foxtrot. Specifically, that of cats.”

  Well, she had been chasing after a herd of spectral felines earlier, even if she couldn’t actually see them herself. “And what have you found out?”

  “I think that’s best discussed over a cup of tea. If you have a moment?”

  Do you have a moment is the question I get asked more often than any other. Regardless of its accuracy, my answer is always yes; after all, giving my moments to other people is what I get paid for. So, no matter how busy I am, I’ve perfected the art of looking like I have endless amounts of time to toss around like confetti. I grinned back at her and said, “Of course. How about the sitting room? I’ll ring a maid to bring us something freshly brewed and a little to nibble on, too.”

  When we were properly seated, Theodora straightened her skirt over her knees and announced, “Our investigation is proceeding apace. We have cataloged the gravestones upon which marbles have been placed, to the best of our abilities. There are a total of twenty-three so far, though some of the marbles may have been misplaced over time. There seems to be little correlation among any of the dates; they range over a period covering sixty years, from 1950 to 2010. The marbles are all the same size, but differ in color. The names of the cats have no apparent connection to one another.”

  “Doesn’t sound like a lot to go on.”

  [Doesn’t sound terribly rational, either,] Whiskey added. [But then, she is discussing cats.]

  “Now,” continued Theodora, “as Cooper said, this marbling activity has been going on for approximately the last year. He’s never seen the agency responsible, but estimates a new marble turns up approximately every fortnight. Fortunately for our investigation, he can even narrow this down to the middle of the week; he never finds a new one on the weekend, or even on a Monday. So we can surmise a biweekly visit to the graveyard, sometime between Tuesday and Friday.”

  I nodded. “Do you have any theories as to why?”

  “Well, I—what?” She glanced down, toward my feet. “No, Very British Bear, I haven’t forgotten your theory.” She paused, obviously listening to a reply. “It doesn’t have enough what? Plaws? I don’t—oh, I see. No, plausible means ‘believable.’”

  She listened some more, then sighed. “Oh, very well. Foxtrot, Very British Bear thinks you might find it easier to believe his theory than I do. According to him, your believer is in much better shape.”

  I smiled despite myself. My believer had been pumping some heavy concepts lately, and had the muscles to show for it. “I’ll take that as a compliment. What’s his theory?”

  “Um. Very, would you care to explain? I’ll relay it, verbatim.” She listened, then scowled. “No, Very. Verbatim is not a naughty word in German. Please begin.”

  [I
can’t believe we’re going to listen to the theory of an imaginary bear instead of dealing with an actual threat.]

  Quiet. This is part of my job, too. It won’t take long.

  Theodora’s face was intent, her head cocked to one side. Then she began, pausing occasionally to listen again to the words of her invisible companion. “Cats, as everyone knows, love to play with marbles. But perhaps it is also true that marbles love to play with cats. And seeing as these are Ghostly Cats, perhaps they are Ghostly Marbles; and instead of a Mysterious Person placing the marbles on graves, it may be that the marbles—being Ghostly, as well—are playing a Ghostly Game with the cats.”

  “I see,” I said. “Well, there’s just one small problem with that, isn’t there? I mean, the marbles aren’t Ghostly, are they?”

  “Not, says Very British Bear, as such. But other than that, he thinks it’s a very fine theory and absolutely full of plaws.”

  [It’s certainly full of something.]

  “What about you, Theodora?” I asked. “What’s your theory?”

  Before she could answer, Consuela showed up with the tea. I thanked her and busied myself with all the little rituals that go along with, as the British say, a nice cuppa. When that was all sorted and both of us had steaming cups of Earl Grey in front of us, I asked Theodora again.

  “Well,” she said, “my own thoughts on the matter are not quite as fanciful as Very’s. I believe the marbles are being placed by a human agency, but as to their purpose I remain baffled. There’s a registry of which animals are buried here and who buried them, which Mr. Cooper and I are going to peruse this evening. A connection of some sort may make itself evident, though I suspect the truth will prove elusive.”

  Theodora started and jerked back in her seat, her tea sloshing over the lip of her cup. Her eyes widened in surprise, then narrowed into a glare.

  “What’s wrong?” I said. I put down my own cup quickly. “Are you all right?”

  “Fine. Other than the fact I have a rather excitable talking jackrabbit in my lap. Doc, you know I don’t like it when you do that.” She appeared to be talking to something mere inches from her face, her gaze focused downward. Her slightly exasperated but resigned attitude was exactly that of a parent talking to a misbehaving child. “You almost made me spill my tea.”