by Dixie Lyle
“Epicrates cenchria? What kind of snakes were those, exactly?”
ZZ smiled. “Rainbow boas, dear. Different coloration from species to species, but they all had the same lovely iridescent sheen when the light struck them. Beautiful creatures; I hope they lived long and happy lives after their time with me.”
And then, with a wave of her hand, she was off. Leaving me with a dumbfounded expression on my face and way too many questions.
* * *
I’d been having this argument with Tango ever since she woke up. She’d caught the last part of my conversation with ZZ and had, with maddening feline logic, abruptly, completely, and stubbornly changed her opinion on what it was we were chasing.
“Look, I agree it’s something of a coincidence that ZZ used to own snakes—”
“Yes, all right, but this is ZZ we’re talking about. She’s owned practically every kind of animal at one time or another, and rainbow is her favorite color.”
[Hardly the most reliable of witnesses,] Whiskey pointed out.
“That still doesn’t prove—”
I thought back to our conversation. “No,” I admitted.
“Not … as such.”
Tango has the annoying habit of grooming when she thinks she’s winning an argument. Which is to say, constantly.
[You have the singular ability to trivialize the most momentous events.]
[That wasn’t—]
“Guys. A woman was killed. Now, I know I’m a little unclear on the rules, but I’m pretty sure deceased, limbless pets don’t go around murdering people with paralytic anesthetics.” I paused, then dug out a notepad I’d crammed in my hip pocket earlier.
[What are you doing?]
I scrawled a note on a page and then stuck the book back in my pocket. “I decided to keep track of how many ludicrous yet factual comments I actually speak aloud from day to day.”
“I’m gonna need a bigger book.”
[Let me enumerate all the ways in which your theory is unsound. First, this began in Australia. The python in question would have originated in South America.]
[For over fifty years?]
[And yet, it presumably followed Anna from Australia to here in a remarkably quick fashion.]
Whiskey looked at her in that way dogs have, like they’re simultaneously intrigued and confused by something. [None of your lives were terribly long, were they?]
I stared at her. Whiskey stared at her. She ignored both of us and cleaned the tip of her tail.
After a moment, I said, “You know, you might actually have a point.”
[I reluctantly concur.]
“Okay, you can quit showing off how smart you actually are. You’re right—for a creature that should be a master of concealment, it’s been awfully obvious. Maybe it had no control over Cooper’s dreams, but Caroline’s been getting phone calls from people in the neighborhood who’ve actually seen it. That sounds more like it wants to be seen.”
[Or doesn’t care.]
“I thought you said Firstcharger was being paranoid. That sounds more like she’s playing us.”
I leaned back in my chair and shook my head. “Oh, man. That’s almost a coherent theory. I mean, it would explain how the snake got here from Australia so fast—”
[Foxtrot. I cannot believe you’re seriously considering this. If Firstcharger and the rainbow snake are, as Tango says, “in cahoots,” then it logically follows that Firstcharger must have manipulated virtually every event that has occurred. She would have needed to locate an appropriate ghost snake to play the role of the Unktehila, transport it to Australia to intimidate Anna, then transport it back to America to haunt the local environment. And even if she managed to do this, how did she know ZZ once had a pet snake, let alone locate its spirit?]
“Those are all good questions,” I said. “But just because we don’t have the answers doesn’t mean there aren’t any to be had. Firstcharger as the mastermind behind all of this is just barely plausible. And there’s one more factor that tips the scale, too.”
[Motive.]
“Yeah. If she’s going to these kinds of lengths to scare us, then Tango’s probably right—she wants to play the heroine and rescue everyone. That would position her as the top bird on the totem pole.”
“Maybe. It’s still pretty far-fetched as a theory … but then, what about this isn’t?” I sighed. “About all we’ve accomplished is to eliminate a single suspect—then put her right back on the list twenty minutes later. And that very same suspect is the one who’s challenged my boyfriend to a supernatural duel tomorrow…”
* * *
Tango, now convinced she was on the right trail, announced that she was going to track down this ghost python once and for all, and bounded off before I could stop her. Whiskey stared after her in dismay, then gave a low grunt of annoyance and lay down with his head on his paws. [Hmmph. I will never comprehend what passes for rational thought in that animal’s head.]
“I think I do, at least a little. Tango hates to admit she’s scared of anything, and she is afraid of snakes—live ones, anyway. Gigantic superpowered ones, too. So she came up with an explanation that eliminated both those possibilities, relegating the perpetrator to a scaly phantom that can’t hurt her.”
[Ah. Of course. Mere reality is no match for the stubbornness of a cat.]
“Of course not. Ignorance may be bliss, but willful denial of the facts is—well…”
[Feline.]
“I just hope she doesn’t find more trouble than she’s looking for.”
[If she does, we’ll just have to rescue her.]
I beamed at him, then scratched behind his ears. “Aw, that’s sweet. You look out for her, no matter how irritating she can sometimes be—”
[It’s sheer self-interest, I assure you. If she dies, we’ll have to wait for her to reincarnate—and as annoying as cats can be, they’re not nearly as unendur
able as kittens.]
“Oh, please. Even you aren’t immune to that amount of cute.”
[You’ve never had one decide your nose is a rodent. Or that it’s going to be the first thing they ever kill.]
I glanced at the time. “Okay, enough investigating for now. I have to meet with the chef who’s filling in for Ben and go over tonight’s dinner.”
The chef’s name was François. He wasn’t our usual substitute, but he was the one who’d stepped in after Ben was injured, and had done a perfectly acceptable job. For some reason I couldn’t get hold of our regular stand-in; I’d left several messages on his voice mail but he still hadn’t gotten back to me.
I was going over the evening’s menu with him when Whiskey stuck his nose through the kitchen’s swinging door. “The soup looks good,” I said. “Now, about the mains—”
“No!” François abruptly snapped—not at me, but at Whiskey. “No dogs in the kitchen! Shoo! Away!”
Whiskey gave me a long-suffering look. [Will you please tell this interloper that I’m allowed in here?]
“Sorry, Whiskey,” I said, “chef’s kitchen, chef’s rules. Even if he’s not permanent.”
[Hmmmph.] He shot me a reproachful glance and withdrew.
“I’m sorry,” François said. “The only place for animals in my kitchen is on the plate.” He glared suspiciously at the door as if he expected Whiskey to make another attempt. “Also, I am very allergic.”
I raised my eyebrows, then glanced at Tango’s bowl in the corner. He followed my eyes, then shrugged. “Also, I was bitten by a dog once, as a child. Keep him out, please.”
“Not a problem.”
After the menu was finalized, I did some paperwork and made half a dozen phone calls and talked to Consuela about vacation days and arranged for the stables to be painted next week. You know, all the stuff I actually get paid for.
Then it was time for dinner.
ZZ’s dinners are, quite rightly, legendary. They’ve been attended by Nobel Prize winners, sports legends, movie stars, and royalty. The food is always excellent and the discussions tend to be lively, which is just how ZZ likes it. I decided that tonight I’d take my boss up on her standing invitation to attend; I needed to keep an eye on my suspects and see how they were behaving.
Especially Teresa Firstcharger.
I changed into something a little more formal: higher heels, a shorter skirt, a pearl necklace. Simple, elegant, and no dry cleaning required. I went downstairs and took my customary place at the table, which meant any spot that wasn’t taken and looked like it needed to be filled; in this case, it was between Teresa Firstcharger and Theodora Bonkle. Oscar was directly across from me, Rustam Gorshkov was next to him, and Hayden Metcalfe was at the end of the table.
Hayden looked even worse than the last time I’d talked to him. According to the staff, he’d spent most of his time sleeping or drinking in his room. He’d ventured out once—the night Ben was shot—and came back almost sober. That hadn’t lasted.
Gorshkov glanced at me with a neutral look on his face when I came in, but said nothing. Whiskey sprawled in the corner, where he wouldn’t be underfoot but could still keep an eye on everyone. Mostly, though, he seemed to be staring at Gorshkov.
“Ah, Foxtrot,” said Oscar. “I was wondering if you would put in an appearance. In fact, I was on the verge of Iktsuarpok.”
“Yes,” said Keene. “As was I. But only if that word means ‘about to have a large amount of drinks.’”
“Already there, my good man,” Hayden muttered.
Oscar raised his own glass in salute to Keene. “While I applaud the sentiment, the actual translation is ‘the frustration felt while awaiting someone’s arrival.’”
“I see,” said Keene, nodding vigorously. “Klingon, is it? It sounds Klingon. They’re notoriously impatient. Like to set fire to waiting rooms is what I hear.”
“Inuit, actually,” said Oscar.
“Well, of course you knew it,” said Keene, pressing the button for the drinks trolley repeatedly. “You said it, didn’t you? Unless this is Foxtrot practicing her ventriloquism again.”
“I keep telling you,” I said. “I’m not a ventriloquist.”
“Then why is your voice coming from that potted plant?” Keene demanded.
“A question you should really ask your psychiatrist,” Oscar said. “Or possibly your pharmacist.”
“But not your lawyer,” Hayden interjected. His voice was slurred. “Lawyers only give you bad news.”
We all more or less ignored this non sequitur, except for Theodora. She was watching with the fascination of a cat studying a badminton match. “Oddly enough, this is a conversation I feel qualified to join. Law, psychiatry, pharmacology, and voices coming from strange places—all subjects I’m intimately familiar with.”
Keene grinned at her. “Ah, an expert! Just what we need. However, if you didn’t just say that and Foxtrot is having me on, I apologize.”
Theodora chuckled. “No, I’m fairly certain that was me. I—” She stopped in mid-sentence, a surprised look on her face. She stared accusingly at the floral centerpiece on the table and said, “Very! What do you think you’re doing? Doc, I expect that sort of behavior from, but you?”
“This should be interesting,” Oscar murmured.
Theodora listened attentively to something the rest of us couldn’t hear, then glanced down at the floor. “Oh, I see. Doc, that is not the proper use of a catapult. You’re just lucky poor Very landed in the flowers.”
“Are they here?” asked Keene eagerly. “Doc Wabbit and Very British Bear? Oh, this is bloody exciting.”
“That’s one word for it,” said Teresa Firstcharger. She looked amused but tolerant.
“Could you introduce me?” Keene asked. “Asking for an autograph is obviously out of the question, but I would consider meeting them a huge honor.”
“Of course,” said Theodora. She gestured with one hand toward the floor. “The little barbarian with the siege engine is Doc. Doc, say hello to Mr. Keene.”
“Just Keene. Mr. Keene’s my willie. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to say that out loud.”
“And the somewhat bashful creature peering out from behind the centerpiece is Very British Bear.”
“Hullo, Bear,” said Keene. “I’m a big fan of yours, you know.”
Theodora paused, listening, then said, “He says he didn’t know. And that you don’t look much like a large fan at all. A bit like a toothbrush, though.”
Keene laughed. “Well, I’ve been called worse. A pleasure to meet you.”
Efram Fimsby walked in and took a seat next to Teresa Firstcharger. “Good evening, everyone,” he said. “Looks like we’re all here but our host.”
“She’ll be along soon,” I said. “ZZ never misses a dinner.”
“Sadly,” said Fimsby, patting his belly, “neither do I.”
“Ah, here she is now,” I said. ZZ swept in—she’s great at sweeping—in a long, elegant turquoise gown, a brilliant abalone-shell comb holding her orange hair in an elaborate pile on her head. She took her place at the head of the table, greeting everyone by name, and the dinner began.
The new chef did fairly well: smoked lobster bisque; a salad of mixed organic greens, mandarin orange slices, and candied pecans; then a poached salmon for the main course. I was a little disheartened by how good everything was—it seemed to underscore what Ben had said about him being a charity case. Not that I believed that for a moment, but none of us is quite as irreplaceable as we like to think. Even me.
“This certainly is wonderful, ZZ,” said Teresa, gesturing with a fork full of salmon. “My compliments to your chef.”
“Thank you,” ZZ said. “He’s new, actually.”
“Oh? Well, he certainly gets my vote. It’s nice when someone finds their niche, don’t you think?” She glanced ever-so-casually in my direction.
“I don’t believe in niches,” said ZZ. “It’s just another word for ‘rut,�
� as far as I’m concerned. People should stretch their wings whenever they can, and there just isn’t enough room in a rut.”
“Well put,” said Teresa. “Niches are comfortable, but boring. It’s nice to have a nest to return to, but there’s a whole sky out there to explore.”
“Yes, indeed,” said Fimsby. “A sky full of increasingly chaotic weather, unfortunately. Civilization generates heat, and heat is simply energy; pour enough energy into any enclosed system and it will generate violent results.”
“A shame we can’t find a way to control such things,” said Gorshkov.
“Tame them, you mean?” said Teresa. “I’m glad we can’t. Some things are meant to be wild and free. We need to adapt to the world, not adapt it to us.”
“And what an odd world it can be,” said Theodora. “Still, no odder than human beings, eh? You have to go pretty far to outstrip our strangeness.”
“Hear, hear!” said Keene. “And by that, I mean here, here.” He pointed two thumbs at himself.
“What happened to your old chef?” Teresa asked ZZ.
“He needed some time off to take care of a few personal matters,” ZZ said.
Teresa dabbed at her perfect lips with a linen napkin. “We all need that, from time to time. I hope things work out for him.”
She looked directly at me, and smiled. It may have been a trick of the light, but something seemed to flash, deep in her black eyes.
“Yes, by all means,” Hayden said, raising his glass and sloshing half of it onto the table. “Let’s hear it for good old Ben Montain. Stood up for himself. Found out the truth and it set him free.”
“That’s enough, Mr. Metcalfe,” said ZZ. “I understand that you’re in pain—”