A Taste Fur Murder
Page 3
[Yes, that was me. I arrived before Tango and thought I would do some advance scouting before contacting you.]
“So is that big white pit bull your true form?”
[No.]
“What is?”
[All in good time, dear lady. Suffice it to say that in my former life, I was often employed by the military.]
We’d circled the block and now were almost back at my house. “Of course. Your attitude is extremely … professional.”
He’d shifted back into dust mop mode, and now he sat down on the sidewalk just outside my front gate. [As opposed to Tango, you mean? I hope you won’t hold that against me.]
“What? No, not at all. Actually, that kind of matter-of-fact approach is helping me keep my grip on my self-control. Because, well, you know…”
[This all seems insane? Yes, I understand. But I know you have the strength of character and wit to not only adapt to your new circumstances, but also accomplish what needs to be done.]
“Uh-huh. And you know this how?”
[Because you were the one who was chosen to do so.]
I glanced down at my watch. “Uh-oh. Going to have to hurry if I’m not going to be late for work. We’ll talk about this later, okay?”
[I’m afraid not.]
“Excuse me?”
[We’ve already delayed one night. We can’t wait any longer; Tango and I will accompany you to the Zoransky estate.]
“But—how am I supposed to explain you two?”
[Pet-sitting. You’re an intelligent woman; I’m sure you can add enough details to make it convincing.]
I sighed. “And if I say no, you’ll just follow me out there anyway. Won’t you?”
Tiny tilted his head ever so slightly to one side. [We have a job to do, Foxtrot. Let’s get on with it, shall we?]
I resisted the urge to snap off a salute. “Yes, sir,” I muttered, and fumbled in my purse for my keys.
* * *
You know what’s funny? I was driving in to work with two talking animals in my car—one of whom was technically among the nonliving—and I kept worrying about seat belts. My obsessive-compulsive side gets stronger when I’m under stress.
Tiny sat upright in the back, now wearing the form of a golden retriever. Tango lay curled up on the passenger seat, her front paws hanging over the side.
I’d told them about what I’d seen in the graveyard, and they’d both nodded knowingly. [You have certain abilities of your own now,] Tiny told me. [You’re able to perceive animal spirits, such as myself.]
“And talk to them?”
Different species, different languages—I should have seen that coming. “But I can understand you two.”
[We’re speaking English. Well, one of us is, anyway—I don’t know what you’d call the mangled carcass of linguistics Tango chews up and spits out.]
Tango responded with a series of odd grunts and coughs that sounded like they might precede a hairball. “Are you okay?”
[And how many of those are feline dialects?]
Tango didn’t answer.
[That’s what I thought. Very impressive, if the murder we’re trying to prevent takes place at a cat fanciers’ ball.]
“Murder,” I said out loud. It didn’t sound real to me, so I decided I’d just treat it as another problem I had to solve in my long and complicated day—that made it manageable. Whose death would put the graveyard at risk?
Once I thought about it, it was obvious. “It has to be ZZ,” I said. “My boss. Her family owns the graveyard, but she only has one heir, Oscar. He’s been after her to get rid of the land for years—if she dies, he’ll sell it to a developer before ZZ’s in the ground.”
[Which means he’s also our prime suspect.]
“I guess—but I doubt it. Oscar’s a schemer, not a killer. He’d gladly take advantage of the situation, but I don’t think he has the backbone to cause it.”
It’s not a long drive from where I live to where I work, and I usually use the time to go over the day’s itinerary in my head. Not today, though; when I rolled through the front gates, my mind was firmly on how to keep ZZ safe.
I parked in my usual spot in front, got out, and opened the door for my passengers. “This is going to be a little tricky, all right?” I told them, looking around. “Do you think the two of you can stay out of sight and out of trouble while I talk to someone? I’ll meet you back here in fifteen minutes.”
[Absolutely. You can expect one of us to be late, however; cats are notoriously lax about being punctual.]
Tango glared at him.
She went one way, Mr. Tiny the other. In a second they were both gone, Tango into some bushes, Tiny around the corner of the house. I took a deep breath, firmed up my resolve, and went off to find ZZ’s head of security.
* * *
Shondra Destry had converted one of the mansion’s many bedrooms into an office. It was on the second floor of the house and had a great view of the sprawling grounds, though she was seldom there to enjoy it. Shondra spent most of her time prowling the estate like a restless cheetah. With the way she acted you’d think we were under imminent threat of attack: From security cameras to triple locks on the front and back doors, she was prepared to fend off anything from overzealous paparazzi to a horde of invading zombies.
I was lucky, though—I caught her at her desk, drinking an extra-large coffee and scanning the security feeds on the bank of monitors mounted on the opposite wall. Destry was short but lithe, with the build of a runner and hair shaved down to military-grade stubble, dressed in dark pants and a light blue long-sleeved shirt that on her looked like a uniform. She sized me up when I entered and said, “Morning, Trot. Problem?”
I sat down on the chair across from her. “Maybe. I’m not sure.”
“Tell me.”
Sure. Tell her what, exactly? I needed her on high alert, but I had zero evidence, a crazy story, and nothing to point her at. Destry was as dangerous as a loaded gun, but I had to be careful I didn’t shoot myself in the foot. “Well. I think we need to be extra careful about ZZ’s safety for the next little while.”
I swear, the woman’s ears grew points. “Why?”
“I think she might be in danger.”
“That’s twice you said ‘I think.’ Why do you think it, and what sort of danger?” Destry was staring at me now with a focus she must have learned in the military, and it was more than a little unnerving.
“I—well—” I reached desperately for something that wouldn’t sound half-baked. “The salon that’s starting today. I’ve got a feeling about some of the guests.”
“Which ones?”
“I can’t really pin it down. I just feel as if…”
“ZZ’s in danger.”
“Yes.”
She nodded, never taking her eyes off me. “Anything else?”
Okay, that went well … “Not really,” I said, and gave her a lame attempt at a smile.
“Foxtrot, I think you need to slow down for a minute. Maybe take a day off. You’re overworked, overstressed, and just plain frazzled. I’ve checked out each and every guest—like I always do—and none of them is a threat.
Really, everything’s fine.” She gave me back a smile of her own, which was cool and professional and made my smile seem like it needed a straitjacket. “I’m always here, though. If you have any legitimate concerns.”
“Okay,” I said. “Thank you.” I got up and left, trying not to tuck my tail between my legs as I went.
Stupid. I should have had a plan. Not like me to go in without a plan. I could have told her I got a threatening email or something, or saw someone lurking outside. I realized I was a little panicked, that the idea that ZZ could be hurt or even killed had shaken me up more than I was willing to admit.
I liked ZZ a whole lot. She was smart and funny and completely fearless, always taking life in big bites and chewing with gusto. I hoped I’d enjoy myself half as much as she did when I got to be her age—but right now I had to focus on making sure her age didn’t come to an abrupt stop.
Even if Shondra didn’t seem worried, she did respect me—that, plus her own professional paranoia, meant she was now just that little bit more alert than she’d been ten minutes ago. That was something, anyway. And maybe T and T would find the killer hiding in the bushes and this whole mess would no longer be my responsibility.
I sighed and marched myself down the hall. Responsibility always seemed to land on my shoulders, and this time probably wouldn’t be any different. Well, at least I had plenty of practice—maybe that was why I’d been picked for the job.
The next step, I supposed, was telling ZZ herself. That would be tricky; while ZZ believed in intuition, she tended to act as if she were bulletproof, immortal, and immune to bad luck. She relied on me for hard information, and this was one time I just couldn’t give it to her. I wasn’t sure what the solution was, and at this point I couldn’t embellish the story I’d given Shondra without looking suspicious myself.
I went looking for my boss, starting in her bedroom. It was a suite on the third floor, an enormous room with a gigantic four-poster bed, an eclectic mix of furniture ranging from antique divans to beanbags strewn about, and a hot tub. The door to her walk-in closet was open, and I could hear someone moving around inside.
“ZZ?” I said, walking into the room. “Got something I need to talk to you about—”
The occupant of the closet, however, wasn’t ZZ—it was Maria Wong, the head maid. She was a short, stout woman, in a black dress with a white apron. Her usual smile had been replaced by a scowl.
“Oh. Hi, Maria. Have you seen—”
“The crazy lady? She not here. She off doing more crazy things, I bet. Leave all the hard work to me.”
I raised my eyebrows. Maria was generally the cheerful sort, but ZZ could infuriate just about anyone. “Uh-oh. What’s she got you doing this time?”
“All this!” Maria waved a hand at the clothes, shoes, and hats that lined both walls twenty feet deep; the back wall was one large mirror. “She want all her clothing rearranged. Look!” She dug a piece of paper out of her apron pocket and thrust it at me. “All like this. Crazy!”
I scanned the paper, which was all about a new theory of color harmonization and how it affected the moods of people around you. If I was interpreting it right, pretty soon ZZ would be wearing yellow sneakers, a purple dress, and a green hat. I doubted anyone would notice.
I handed the paper back. “My condolences, Maria. I’ll schedule one of the girls for an extra shift to make up the time, okay?”
She gave me a grudging nod. “Okay. Top-floor bathroom in east wing need new showerhead, too. Leaking.”
“I’ll tell maintenance.” I waved good-bye and left her there, muttering as she surveyed the Everest of outfits she was about to scale.
I was on my way to the sitting room when I saw the helicopter.
I don’t mean I saw it through a window, either; it was right in front of me in the hall, hovering around six feet off the floor. It looked kind of like one of those radio-controlled kids’ toys, the kind with four rotors arranged in a square—except a little more industrial, almost military. It was painted a flat black instead of bright primary colors, and made less noise than an electric fan.
Before I could do much more than stare, it darted back the way it came, through the doorway to the sitting room. That’s what ZZ insists on calling it, though it’s more like a brightly lit cocktail lounge than anything from the Victorian era. I followed it in, where I found two of ZZ’s guests and ZZ herself sitting on a tubular, overstuffed couch that snaked around the room like a fat white anaconda.
ZZ perched to the right. She smiled when she saw me and waved me over. “Foxtrot! Good morning, dear. Mr. Estevez was just showing me his fascinating device.”
Juan Estevez, a skinny young man in a polo shirt and jeans, sat next to ZZ, his eyes flickering from the small device he held in one hand to the machine now hovering over the coffee table in front of him. He tapped the device’s screen a few times, and the helicopter settled onto the table gently.
Before I had a chance to reply, there was a deafening screech from the other side of the couch. It came not from the bearded, portly man in the Hawaiian shirt and white Panama hat sitting beside Juan, but from the monkey perched on his shoulder; the poor creature seemed more than a little frightened by the giant, flying bug that had just landed mere feet away.
“There, there, Amos,” the bearded man said softly. I’d met him before, at a previous salon; his name was Kenny Gant, a businessman who’d turned his eco-friendly pet food into a household name through a clever advertising campaign using a variety of exotic animals. “It won’t harm you, I promise.”
“I’m not so sure,” ZZ said, with an all-too-familiar steely smile on her face. I knew that look well; it meant she was about to do the verbal equivalent of slapping someone in the face. “After all, it was designed to kill people—isn’t that right, Mr. Estevez?”
CHAPTER THREE
Juan Estevez looked more like he’d been kneed in the groin than slapped in the face. His eyes widened, his face flushed, and his jaw dropped an inch or so. “That—that’s not true!” he managed after a second. “The GEQ is for gathering information—in a covert setting, yes, but it’s hardly meant to be some sort of, of assassination tool.”
ZZ mock-frowned. “Oh? Then what’s this?” She pointed to the open metal case beside the machine. “Looks like a weapon to me.” I moved over beside ZZ so I could see better.
“I was about to demonstrate that,” Estevez said. He reached into the case and pulled out what looked like a toy handgun: It had a thin, rectangular grip below a long, tubular barrel. There was no trigger, and the whole thing was painted the same flat black as the copter.
“GEQ?” I asked.
“Gecko Enabled Quadracopter,” Estevez said. He picked up the GEQ and clipped the gun to the underside, then took four floppy black ovals from the case and attached them to the GEQ’s landing struts. “The projector is made from plastic and powered by compressed air; it’s far too light and flimsy to fire a bullet.”
“Then what does it fire?” asked Kenny Gant.
“Bugs,” said Estevez. “That is, electronic listening devices designed to adhere to nonstandard surfaces. We’re still fine-tuning different glues—but it’s how the GEQ itself can cling to smooth surfaces that’s really revolutionary.”
He put the quadracopter down, picked up the controller, and tapped the screen a few times. The GEQ whirred to life, lifting off the table in a rush of displaced air. It was eerie just how little noise it made.
The machine darted to the far side of the room, where a large, oval mirror hung on the wall. For a second I thought it would crash right into it—but at the very last moment it flipped in midair, planting its new oval feet against the glass with a soft smack.
The whir of the rotors died. The GEQ stayed right where it was, clinging to the mirror like—well, a gecko.
“Suction cups?” said Kenny Gant, in a voice more amused than impressed.
“Oh, no,” said Estevez. “Those are highly unreliable. The pads on the GEQ�
�s feet work exactly like the toes of a real gecko do—they’re covered in tiny microscopic extrusions that are so small they interact with the surface at an atomic level. They use what are called van der Waals forces—basically, an attraction between particles of very small size.”
“Animal magnetism?” said Gant.
“No, van der Waals forces are present in all matter—it’s just that geckos seem to be the only animals that take advantage of them. It’s very useful for a machine like the GEQ, because it can cling to almost any surface—even upside down.”
I looked down at the device in Estevez’s hands, but it took me a second to understand what I was seeing. “It’s got an onboard camera, too?”
“Oh, yes,” said Estevez, beaming proudly. “It wouldn’t be much good as a surveillance device without one, would it?”
“A surveillance device for the military,” said ZZ.
“Well, I couldn’t really say what its end use will be—”
“But your funding comes from the military.”
“I—I can’t disclose that kind of information—”
“It occurs to me,” ZZ continued, “that you wouldn’t need a firearm to make your little toy lethal. You could use it to deliver something other than a bullet—poison, maybe.”
Estevez’s face had gotten very still. He said nothing, but his eyes looked panicked.
“Of course, I’m only speculating,” said ZZ with a smile. “We can talk more about your plans for this marvelous invention at dinner. And now, if you’ll excuse me—Foxtrot?”
“Yes?”
“I need to have a word with you. Can you meet me in my office in five minutes?”
“Uh—sure.”
* * *
I took the opportunity to duck outside and talk with my new partners. Tiny lay patiently in the shade of a large bush, while Tango crouched inside the foliage.