by Lyle, Dixie
I looked around, then knelt down. “You two find anything?”
[That’s an ostrich, Tango. Apparently there’s a menagerie on the premises—I cataloged quite the inventory of scents. Nothing I couldn’t identify, of course. But I’m afraid I saw nothing overly suspicious, either.]
“My luck wasn’t much better—though I did see ZZ unnerve one of our guests.” I told them about the quadracopter and Juan Estevez’s reaction to ZZ’s questions. “I have to go meet with her right now. I’ll be back as soon as I’m done—”
[I should go with you.]
I thought about that for a second. I couldn’t hide them forever—and the sooner everyone got used to having them around, the sooner they could come and go without causing problems. “All right. I’ll say an old friend dumped you two on me without warning and left the country for an undisclosed length of time. You were raised together so you’re inseparable, but you can’t be left on your own because—no, wait, that’s contradictory. If you’re always together you’re never on your own, are you?”
[Oh, that’s easy. Brain damage. You think I’m a giant bowl of milk.]
Tango’s eyes narrowed.
[I’ll keep that in mind.]
Tango turned and darted deeper into the bushes, vanishing in a second. I started to tell her to wait, then stopped myself. Tango would act the way she always did: She’d leave when she felt like it, and show up when it suited her.
That’s what I told myself, anyway. The truth was, I felt more uncomfortable around her than I did Tiny. I straightened and looked down at him, still in golden retriever form. “You going to stick with that one?”
[It seems the most prudent choice for now. Golden retrievers are largely regarded as utterly loyal, extremely friendly, and just a little dim. It makes, as they say, for a good cover.]
I grinned. “All right, then, Blondie—let’s go meet the woman whose life you’re here to save.”
ZZ’s “office” was on the very top floor of the house, a little corner parapet she had added that jutted up from the rest of the house like an off-center conning tower on a submarine. The exterior surfaces were made entirely of glass, with internal shutters that rose from slots in the floor and let her conjure walls at will. As I ascended the spiral staircase into the room, I saw that today all the shutters but one were up, which indicated a darker mood than I was hoping for. ZZ was at her desk in front of the single pane of glass, studying the monitor of her computer intently.
I needn’t have worried. As soon as Tiny’s shaggy head popped above floor level, ZZ’s serious look brightened to a brilliant smile. “Well, hello!” she said. “Who’s your new friend, Foxtrot?”
“This is, uh, Tiny. I’m looking after him for a friend. He’s a good dog, but a little neurotic—apparently he can’t be left alone or he’ll eat all my furniture, set my car on fire, and write bad checks in my name. I hope you don’t mind that I brought him to work—”
ZZ was already kneeling beside Tiny, scritching behind his ears while he panted at her with a big, doggy grin on his face. [You see?]
“He seems like a very good dog, to me,” said ZZ. “Aren’t you, Tiny?”
Tiny licked her hand enthusiastically, which made her giggle like a schoolgirl. “How is he around other animals? He’s not going to go crazy and start barking if he sees Oswald strutting around, is he?”
“No, I don’t think that’ll be a problem. He’s very … civilized toward other animals.” Tiny cocked an eyebrow at me, a look that ZZ thankfully missed.
“Well, then, I think it’s perfectly delightful that you’ll have a sidekick for a while. Now—the reason I called you in here.” She stood up and crossed her arms. “It’s about Oscar.”
Uh-oh. “What’s he done now?”
“He’s run up a massive bill on an online gambling site. I’ve paid it off and canceled that particular credit card, but he needs to be taught a lesson. I want you to reduce his monthly allowance by twenty—no, twenty-five—percent. We’ll see if that smartens him up.”
I did my best not to sigh. Oscar’s problem wasn’t smarts; he had plenty of those. Ethics, on the other hand … “Have you told him already, or do you want me to swing the ax?”
ZZ blinked in surprise. “Oh, no, dear, I’d never do that to you. You’re here to bring a little order to my life, not handle unpleasant family duties. I told him last night—we had quite the shouting match.”
That was unusual—Oscar was usually too wily to actually lose his temper, and though ZZ could be a real firebrand in service to a worthy cause, she was normally terrible at disciplining her own offspring.
“You must have really laid down the law,” I said.
She nodded, her eyes unhappy. “I did. It’s been a long time coming, but I don’t know who was more surprised when it finally arrived—him or me. He stormed out and hasn’t been back since.”
“I’ll take care of it.” I paused. “ZZ, will you do me a favor? Will you be … careful for the next few days?”
She studied me for a second before replying. “What do you mean, dear? Careful about what?”
“Your—” I swallowed, then forced myself to say it. “—your personal safety.”
She raised her eyebrows in astonishment, then burst out laughing. “What? My goodness, you’re not suggesting that Oscar might try to harm me, are you? That’s absurd!”
“Not Oscar himself, no. But—” I reached desperately for a plausible explanation, and actually managed to come up with one. “He hangs around with some seedy characters, and he drinks too much. What if one of them gets the wrong idea?”
She frowned. “It’s true, he has awful taste in friends. But I don’t think—”
“Just promise me, all right? Humor your gal Friday?”
Her frown dissolved into a smile. “All right, Foxtrot. I’ll stay alert for villains skulking in dark corners. But I’m sure I have nothing to worry about—not with your new friend around, right?” She leaned down and stroked Tiny’s head.
“Well, I hope not…”
“Will we be seeing you for dinner tonight? The first night of a salon is always entertaining.”
I hesitated, then said, “Yes, I think you will. As long as I can bring Tiny along.”
“If he’s as well behaved as he is right now, I don’t see why not.”
[Well done, Foxtrot.]
“Thanks,” I said. “I’m sure it’ll be interesting.”
* * *
I spent the day doing what I usually did, which was a flurry of everything. I checked on deliveries, did some online ordering, talked to a plumber, three contractors, and two antiques dealers. The morning went by in a blur. I had a quick lunch at my desk, then scheduled a meeting with the household staff for the afternoon. Through it all, Tiny stayed by my side, rarely talking, going out of his way to make friends with everyone he met. I’ve always taken the sociability of dogs—well, most dogs—for granted, just part of who they are, but I was starting to view that trait in a different light: Tiny wasn’t just being nice, he was evaluating potential suspects.
I asked him if he wanted anything for lunch, and he politely declined. [I don’t require sustenance, as such.]
I talked around my mouthful of roast beef on rye. “So you don’t eat or drink?”
He gave my sandwich a longing glance. [I don’t need to
. But I can … if the situation calls for it.]
I grinned and tossed him some roast beef. He snatched it out of the air and wolfed it down. [Thank you.]
“You’re welcome. Does this mean you’ll have to … you know … later?”
[Most definitely not. Ectoplasmic digestion is one hundred percent efficient.]
I held the staff meeting in the main kitchen, which was big and modern and wouldn’t have looked out of place in an upscale restaurant. It was pretty informal, with me filling in the maids on the guests’ personal quirks (Mr. Gant’s monkey should never be fed by anyone by him; Mr. Kwok requires solitude in the morning to perform tai chi in his room) and discussing a few dietary restrictions and preferences with the kitchen staff. I had Tiny wait outside—I knew he wasn’t a health risk, but there was no way to explain that.
When the meeting was over, the head chef approached me. Ben Montain was tall, with sandy-blond hair, dark eyes, and the sort of rugged, broody look that seemed more suited to jeans and a denim shirt than a chef’s whites. Which made sense, if you knew where ZZ found him: One minute she was eating breakfast at this tiny diner in the wilds of New Jersey and the next she was marching into the kitchen and demanding to know who’d made her omelet. When Ben asked her if there was a problem, she said, “Yes. This is the best omelet I have ever eaten, and if I were to abandon its creator in this godforsaken place then mine would surely punish me in whatever afterlife exists.” Then she offered him a job as her personal cook for three times his salary and four weeks’ paid vacation every year. Ben’s worked for her ever since.
“Hey, Ben. Everything all right?”
“Sure, Foxtrot. I was just, uh—well, I was wondering…”
“What?”
He had that wretched look on his face that men get when they’re about to put their ego on the line. “I was wondering if maybe you’d like to have lunch with me.”
“Um—thanks, but I just ate. A really spectacular roast beef sandwich, which I believe you made.”
“Thanks. But I meant—some other lunch. Some other day. I mean, I’d still make you lunch, but I’d like to eat it, too. Not your lunch, I mean.” He started to look a little panicked. “I’d make your lunch, I just wouldn’t eat your lunch. That would be yours. I’d eat mine. Lunch, that is.”
I blinked. “Together?”
He nodded, obviously avoiding opening his mouth again for fear of what might jump out.
“Sure,” I said. “How about tomorrow?”
The panicked look subsided, replaced by relief. “Yeah, that’s good. I eat a little later than most—say one o’clock?”
“Sounds good.” I smiled. “See you then.” And I turned around and walked out the door.
Wow. Ben Montain just asked me out.
I really wasn’t sure what to think about that. My default response to being asked for a favor was usually to say yes—not because I was a pushover, but because it made people easier to deal with in the moment. I could always say no later, when I’d thought of a plausible excuse and could let them down easy. That might seem dishonest, but you needed to strategize when you had as many balls in the air as I usually did—and it was funny how often people remembered your initial “yes” more than your follow-up “sorry, we’re going to have to reschedule.”
But did I want to reschedule?
I really should. Dating in the workplace was tricky at best, disastrous at worst. I hadn’t been on a date in ages, mostly because I just didn’t have the time. And now, with this whole crazy supernatural craziness? A romance that could get me fired was the last thing I needed. No, better if I just called him later and told him I couldn’t make it; the poor guy looked flustered enough that he probably wouldn’t try his luck a second time.
But still … that jawline. Those shoulders. That easygoing, country-boy grin of his …
I shook my head and put those thoughts firmly out of my mind. Focus, girl. You’ve got enough on your plate already without staring longingly at the dessert cart.
No matter how yummy it looks.
CHAPTER FOUR
The day went by faster than I expected. Tango didn’t make an appearance until shortly before dinner; she suddenly popped up at poolside, where I was tapping away at my laptop.
“Hi. And how was your day?”
Tiny lifted his head from where he lay at my feet. [Ah, yes. The rigorous demands of the feline lifestyle. How do you manage on only sixteen hours of sleep per day?]
“Did you find anything out?”
“What? Yes! Is that what you saw?”
[Agreed. Never trust anything that’s fifty percent tail.]
“I’ll keep that in mind if anyone is killed by acorns.” I filled her in on the fight between ZZ and Oscar. “That’s motive, I guess, but I still don’t see him as a murderer. He’s not here right now, anyway. Tiny and I are going to attend tonight’s dinner—he might show up for that.”
<’Kay. Gonna grab some shut-eye now.>
I tried to get some more work done, but it was impossible to concentrate. Who knew that reincarnated telepathic cats snored?
She dozed for almost an hour, then sprang to her feet and darted into the bushes with no warning. I looked up from my laptop to see ZZ, now dressed in a stunning floor-length gown made of equal parts iridescent blue fabric and delicate cream-colored lace. She had a string of black pearls around her neck and high-heeled shoes that seemed to be made of feathers. “Foxtrot? Time for dinner, dear—you’re off the clock.” She paused. “Did I see a cat just now?”
“Uh, yes. Not sure where she came from. She seemed friendly, but you know how cats are.”
ZZ smiled, a little incredulously. “First a dog, now a cat? I thought Caroline was our resident animal magnet.”
I smiled and shrugged. “I’ve always loved animals—I just don’t have the time for pets.”
“I’m a little surprised at how your new friend took it. He must be used to cats.”
[One never gets used to cats.]
“Oh, he grew up around them. He’s doesn’t mind them at all.”
[The best you can do is build up a tolerance. It’s akin to smashing your head into a rock until your skull starts to go numb.]
“He’s quite fond of them, actually.”
[Of course, having your head caved in holds the promise of death’s sweet release, whereas the mere knowledge of the existence of cats is an unending torment—]
“Dinner,” I said, getting to my feet. “Yes. A good meal, that’s exactly what we need. Tiny, you stay out here, all right?”
[Where else would I go?]
The dining room was about what you’d expect in a mansion: big, tastefully decorated, with a highly polished wooden table huge enough to put a sail on and take for a cruise and an immense crystal chandelier overhead. But ZZ had added a few modern touches for her salons, including replacing all the antique chairs with high-backed, plush ones so comfortable you could fall asleep in them, an automated drinks trolley that rolled around delivering whatever alcoholic refreshment might be required, and three massive, high-resolution flat-screen monitors mounted on the walls. They were currently in default mode, showing a steadily changing montage of art, and were controlled by the tablet ZZ placed in a filigreed silver stand next to her wineglass as she sat down. “Hello, everyone!” she said in a loud voice.
People paused in their conversation and called hello back. There were eight of us that evening: ZZ and me; Juan Estevez, the roboticist; Kenny Gant, the pet-food magnate; Hana Kim, a teenage Olymp
ic gymnast, and her trainer, Mr. Kwok; a British rock star named Keene, who’d been there before and always flirted with me; and Oscar, ZZ’s son.
ZZ didn’t bother with formal introductions, as she liked to keep things loose. I found myself seated beside Keene, and across from Kenny Gant and his monkey, perched on his shoulder. It was a tiny thing with a pink face, the fur on its upper body and head white but black everywhere else.
Gant smiled at me. He’d changed out of his Hawaiian shirt and into long-sleeved linen of a pale green. “Nice to see you again, Foxtrot.”
“You, too, Kenny.” Gant had stayed here before, and made a favorable enough impression to be invited back. “No cockatoo this time?”
He chuckled. “No, I try not to repeat myself. Amos here is a little spooked tonight—I’m not sure why.”
I thought about the graveyard next door, and the impending doom I was supposed to avert; I’d bet every animal within twenty miles was spooked right now, and with good reason. Poor Caroline—she’d have her hands full tonight.
“I’m so glad you brought a monkey,” said Keene. His accent was a little thicker tonight, which was what happened when he’d had a few drinks. “Far as I’m concerned, it’s just not a party until a monkey shows up. Wouldn’t you say, Foxtrot?”
Well, at least he wasn’t calling me “Foxy” anymore. “I would say, Mr. Keene. Fun, barrel of, right?”
He flashed me a dazzling, rock-star smile. Keene was tall and slim, with curly black hair down to his shoulders and eyelashes that were far too long for his DNA. In the right clothes, from behind, you could mistake him for a supermodel. Right now he had on the kind of puffy-sleeved, deep purple silk shirt only pirates and lead singers could get away with, and he was probably wearing leather pants tight enough to qualify as paint. I asked him once how he was able to move in those things; he grinned and said, “Lots of yoga, plenty of lubrication, and a willingness to suffer. It’s much like my dating life, really.”
“That’s what I like about you, Foxtrot,” he said, then paused. He had features just this side of pretty, with a wide mouth, killer cheekbones, and dark, gypsy eyes. I waited, but he just met my gaze and said nothing.