Marked Fur Murder

by Dixie Lyle

“Mary, Mrs. Gonzales’s charge, is suffering from Alzheimer’s. Mary’s recall is erratic at best, but there is one thing she seems able to hold on to: the memory of a cat she once owned. She named her Marbles, after her love of playing with them.

  “Mary’s life has not been an easy one. Both her parents are dead. She has no siblings. She has never had a job or known romance. Mary, you see, was born with Down’s syndrome—and while it’s entirely possible to enjoy a full and happy life with that condition, it’s very hard to do so without help.”

  Theodora took another tissue and wiped her eyes daintily, then blew her nose with less aplomb. “Excuse me. I’m sure it comes as no surprise that children can be cruel, especially when it comes to those worse off or different; some sort of barbaric genetic response intended to prune the species of weakness is my theory, though that’s hardly an excuse. In any case, the children in Mary’s neighborhood were less than kind to her, deriving the usual pleasures of bullies through name-calling and pranks. But the cruelest torment of all was when her cat disappeared.”

  “Oh, no.”

  She shook her head. “Oh, yes. You see the crude elegance of their evil, do you not? A chance to panic a victim and inflict what they thought was a clever taunt at the same time? ‘You’ve lost your Marbles,’ they jeered at her.”

  Theodora stared at me with red-rimmed, mascara-smeared eyes. “And she never saw her again…”

  She collapsed onto my shoulder, sobbing. She wasn’t the only one with tears running down her face.

  How could people be so … so inhuman? To not just be indifferent to someone else’s pain but actively enjoy it? Even now, decades later, just hearing the story reduced two people who didn’t know Mary to tears. I couldn’t even imagine the sort of sick mind that would take pleasure in causing that sort of torment.

  Eventually we broke our hug—which I was grateful for, because Theodora wasn’t exactly a lightweight—and both of us grabbed some tissues.

  “That’s absolutely horrible,” I said.

  “It gets worse,” she said. “Marbles is supposedly buried here, but Mary can’t remember where the grave is. According to Mrs. Gonzales, they’ve searched the entire cemetery and haven’t been able to find it. Cooper and I checked the records, and there’s no trace. Either Mary got it wrong and Marbles isn’t buried here, or somebody lied to her.”

  I nodded. “Sure. Tell her a comforting fib and assume she’ll never know any different. But she does, doesn’t she?”

  “Yes. Her world has never been very large, and now it’s shrinking every day. Marbles seems to be the one thing in her life she refuses to give up, and all she wants to do is to find where she’s buried. I’ve done my best to help … but I’ve failed.”

  “I’m so sorry, Theodora.” I was, but I was also thinking this didn’t have to be the end of the story. Maybe Mary couldn’t find Marbles’s grave … but I knew someone who probably could. “I’ll have Consuela bring up some tea and those cookies you like. I know this hurts, but you did your best.”

  She sniffled. “Not quite. There’s still something I can do.”

  “What?”

  Her face hardened. On Theodora, that was scary. “A crime was committed, Foxtrot. The perpetrators were never brought to justice. I can do that.”

  “But—that took place decades ago. How could you possibly—”

  “I can because I must. And I will, Foxtrot. I will.”

  I didn’t try to argue with her. “You know, I believe you. Good luck—and let me know if I can help in any way.”

  “I shall.”

  I told her I had to go, and she thanked me and told me she’d be all right.

  It wasn’t until I was out the door and halfway down the hall that I realized she hadn’t mentioned her imaginary friends once.

  * * *

  Then I went looking for my partners.

  Neither of them seemed to be in the house, and I couldn’t find them on the grounds. That left the graveyard, which I didn’t have to search; I just stepped through the gate and yelled Tango! Whiskey! in my head nice and loud.

  I waited. After a few seconds, I heard a cautious

  “I’ll get over it. Can we talk?”

 

  “Did you learn anything when you were spying on Fimsby?”

 

  “That’s all he does? Read and eat tuna fish?”

 

  “Really? I didn’t think anyone had used the pool since Anna died.”

 

  “What smell?”

 

  “Chlorine, you mean. And bathing suits.”

 

  Swimming. Fimsby had been in the pool—and from the timing, he must have done so the night Anna died.

  “Thanks, kitty. You can come out now, okay? I’m not going to punish you.”

  She stepped out of the bushes, still looking a little wary.

  “Well, apparently so did Ben. He quit.”

  She sat down and licked one of her paws.

  “What makes you so sure?”

 

  “I hope you’re right. Teresa Firstcharger challenged him to some sort of Thunderbird duel in their home dimension. He, of course, accepted.”

 

  “Sure you can. Well, maybe you can’t. And I guess he can’t. Me, I have more important things to do. Like, Whiskey and I found out that Anna slept with Keene the night she died.”

  Her ears perked up.

  “Not really, no. So Fimsby and Keene are now on the top of our list of suspects.”

 

  I glared down at her. “I do not have a crush on Keene, unrequited or otherwise. And I think we should start with Fimsby, because he’s the one who’s been all mysterious and behind-the-scenesy.”

 

  “Head-on, I think.”

 

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  She yawned.

  Cats. You gotta love ’em—because if you don’t, they’ll leave and find someone who will.

  “Have you seen Whiskey, by the way? I sent him to find you and now I can’t find him.”

 

  “Oh. Guess I should go find our current artist-in-residence, then.”

 

  “But Whiskey’s—you know…”

 

  “Well, yeah.”

 

  That was true enough. Tango’s last crush had outweighed her by half a ton and expired shortly after they met, but she didn’t let little details like that stop her.

  I sighed. “Fine. Let’s go look for the meteorologist, instead.”

  We found Fimsby on the front lawn, playing croquet with Oscar. I was a little surprised to see Oscar spending time away from his current scheme, but then I remembered how adept he was at separating our guests from their pocket money. I strolled up to Fimsby and said, “How much are you playing for?”

  Fimsby, dressed in khaki
shorts and a ragged plaid sweater, said, “Mmm? No, no, we’re not wagering—strictly for fun.”

  “Ah, he must be losing, then. Wait for the rematch—he’ll offer to make it ‘interesting.’”

  Oscar approached, his mallet over one shoulder. “Don’t fill the man’s head full of nonsense, Foxtrot. We’re just passing the time.”

  I gave him a skeptical look. “Sure. That’s what you said when you fleeced George Clooney.”

  “He was the one who insisted on playing for money. I was happy just to be outside, getting a little exercise.”

  I looked back at Fimsby. “Oscar gets most of his exercise from lifting other people’s wallets. Metaphorically speaking.”

  Fimsby grinned. “I see. I’ll be careful.”

  Oscar wandered back toward his own ball. I studied Fimsby for a moment before replying. “Yes, you’re very careful, aren’t you? As a scientist should be. But sometimes you have to take risks whether you want to or not.”

  Fimsby looked down, and carefully lined up his shot. “Very true, especially out in the field. I have a friend who chases tornadoes for a living—you don’t get much riskier than that. Personally, I like to mull my data over inside, next to a warm fire and a cold drink.”

  “You’re not inside now,” I said softly. “You’re out in the field. Anything could happen—you might even get struck by lightning.”

  He smiled, ever so slightly, before drawing his arm back and taking his shot. His ball rolled a good twenty feet, straight through a hoop.

  “Well done,” Oscar called out.

  Fimsby straightened up and regarded me. “That seems rather unlikely,” he said calmly. “Unless one were able to call such a thing out of the clear blue sky.”

  “Let’s stop fencing. I know what Ben is and Anna was, and so do you. If you want me to say the word out loud, I will. Thunderbird.”

  He seemed to come to a decision. “Very well. No more fencing; we shall put our swords down and our cards on the table, so to speak. Anna could manipulate weather patterns, by a means I was unable to quantify. She came to me for advice and assistance in controlling these abilities, as she was afraid she might lose control and cause some sort of massive disaster. Though I was skeptical at first, she quickly proved her claims. After that, I did my best to help her in any way I could.”

  “Which was doing what, exactly/”

  He met my gaze squarely. “I tried to measure the extent of what she could do, without endangering her or anyone else. That was fairly straightforward. Then we devised a series of exercises designed to refine and direct her control. I’m happy to say we were quite successful, and Anna was eager to share her discoveries with her brother. But then—there was a problem. A threat. Convinced her brother was in danger, Anna insisted we meet here, and that we do so without revealing our true purpose.”

  “And I know why,” I said. “Thunderbirds are powerful entities, and as such have powerful enemies. Like the Unktehila.”

  He looked away, then back at me. “So you know.”

  “Yes. A shape-shifting monster that can psychically manipulate people into trusting them? I understand now why you were being so cautious—but you still haven’t given me much reason to trust you.”

  He hefted the croquet mallet in his hand, as if testing its balance as a weapon. “I understand. Shape-shifting and mind control … hard to trust anyone under those circumstances, isn’t it? Still, you’re here talking to me; I assume that means you’ve granted me at least temporary human status.”

  I squinted at him in his baggy shorts and ragged sweater. “For now. But there are still a few things I’d like to clear up before I share any more information with you.”

  “Such as?”

  “Such as why you lied about sharing the swimming pool with Anna Metcalfe on the night she died.”

  I couldn’t prove that, of course, but I suspected it was true. He hesitated, then shook his head. “Ah. Yes, it’s true. The conversation I mentioned having with Anna that night took place down at the pool, not in the hallway as I claimed. She insisted on meeting there, though she wouldn’t say why.”

  “Why did you lie about it?”

  “Because it looked suspicious, of course. As you said, you don’t have much reason to trust me—and becoming a murder suspect certainly wasn’t going to help my cause. I apologize; it was an error in judgment.”

  “Your shot, old boy,” Oscar called out.

  I considered what Fimsby had just told me while he took his turn. What do you think, kitty?

  Tango had been stalking a yellow croquet ball nearby, and now she pounced, leaping on it and batting it away with one paw. Then she sat down and stared at it, tail twitching like she expected it to counterattack any second.

  That’s my cat. Utterly focused and easily distracted at the same time—not to mention cute as the Dickens and bloodthirsty as Jack the Ripper.

  Fimsby lined up his shot and tapped his ball. It rolled a short distance toward the next hoop and then stopped. Fimsby rested the head of his mallet against the ground and stared down at it. When he spoke, his voice was low and measured. “I realize you have little reason to trust me, Foxtrot. A woman is dead and I was most likely the last person—other than the killer—to see her. You don’t know me, and I’m sure recent events have left you as bewildered as I. But please, listen to what I have to say.”

  I crossed my arms. “I’m listening.”

  “Though I only knew her briefly, Anna impressed and astounded me. Confronted with the onset of vast and mysterious powers, her first instinct was to go somewhere she wouldn’t hurt anyone else. Power may corrupt some, but not her. Once she was certain she was no danger to others, her second instinct was to seek out someone who could help her understand her situation. That was me, and I’m both honored and terrified by her choice. I’m a scientist, you see; I live—or did, until recently—in an ordered world, one bounded by rules I understand. Meeting Anna has upended that world, emptying out the rules to shatter on the unforgiving terrain of a strange and unknowable realm. My initial reaction was one of horror—but the scientist in me soon prevailed. Information, no matter how disturbing, is always a good thing.”

  “Is it?” I asked. “Some people don’t take well to that kind of change. They even react violently.”

  He shook his head, a sad smile on his face. “That’s the kind of emotion a true scientist can’t afford. The truth is what it is, regardless of how it makes us feel, and those of us in my profession have a responsibility to that truth and the world at large. I’ve always taken that responsibility very seriously—so I swore to Anna I would help her in any way I could.”

  He took a step closer to me, tossing the mallet aside. “Thunderbirds and shape-shifters and murder—it’s all a bit much, isn’t it? But in such an uncertain world, allies are vital. I can help, Foxtrot—I can help Ben understand and control his abilities, just as I did for Anna. Please—let me.”

  I studied him, and considered how I felt about his offer. Hesitant and unsure, mostly, with some trepidation sprinkled on top. I smiled. “Tell you what, Mr. Fimsby. I’ll talk to Ben about this and see what he says. But right now, I’m leaning toward trusting you. Know why?”

  “Because I’m telling the truth?”

  “Nope. Because I don’t know whether or not you’re telling the truth, and that means you probably are. Probably.”

  He looked a little confused, but I didn’t feel the need to explain any further. “Thank you,” he said. “I suppose I should finish this game.”

  “Go right ahead,” I said. “I’ll talk to you later.”

  I turned and walked away. After a few moments, Tango scampered after me in a way that suggested we both just happened to be going in the same general direction and she wasn’t even aware of my presence.

  Tango asked.

  “Still not sure,” I murmured. “But I get the
feeling he genuinely wants to help.”

 

  So that was two votes for. If Whiskey gave him the okay, we might actually have found a friend.

  Or made a horrible, horrible mistake.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Whiskey finally turned up, in my office. I didn’t notice at first, because I couldn’t see him; my first clue he was in the room was a faint, almost imperceptible whine in my head. “Whiskey?” I said. “Where are you?”

  [Under the couch.]

  I have a dark-brown leather couch against one wall, long enough for me to stretch out on if I really need to. No way there was enough room underneath it for a blue heeler, which meant Whiskey had assumed a different, much smaller form. “What are you doing under the couch?”

  [Meditating on the absurdity of existence.]

  “Ah. Well, hanging out with dust bunnies always makes me go all Zen, too. Contemplative little buggers, aren’t they?”

  [I assume that was a rhetorical question.]

  “Assume away. Would you care to do your assuming face-to-face, or are you really grooving on the whole furniture underworld vibe?”

  [I’m fine down here.]

  “Haven’t seen you all afternoon. What’s up?”

  [Nothing. Where’s the cat?]

  “Using her litter box. Anything you need to tell me, Whiskey?”

  There was a long pause. [Perhaps.]

  “I’m all ears, doggy.”

  When he crawled out from under the couch, I knew I wasn’t going to like what he had to tell me. He was wearing his Chihuahua form, all big eyes and tiny, quivering body. He looked up at me with that universal look all dogs mastered long ago, the one that says I know I’m bad but don’t hate me.

  I groaned. “Okay, okay. What did you do?”

  [I suppose you could say I went on a date.]

  “Mmm. I don’t have to ask who with, do I? And yes, that was a rhetorical question. What did you—”

  And that’s when the smell hit me.

  I bolted up from my chair and leapt for the window. Actually, after getting the window open I considered leaping through it, just to escape the stench. No, it wasn’t the aroma of skunk—though it might have been a former skunk.