by Lyle, Dixie
I finally gave in. “And what would that be, exactly?”
“That thing you do which I am currently failing to.”
“Stay sober?”
He laughed. He had a good laugh, full and throaty and totally uninhibited. “Guilty! But no—I’m referring to the way you effortlessly sum up things. I may, on occasion, smell like a distillery, but you never fail to function as one. Even when it comes to a concept as inherently subjective and indefinable as ‘fun.’”
That stung a little bit, though I wasn’t sure why; I hid my frown behind a quick swallow of wine. “You make me sound almost mechanical.”
He shook his head. “No. Absolutely not. One cannot comprehend the nature of fun without, on some level, relating to fun. Scratch a mathematician and you’ll find a child who loved counting games. You’re good, bloody good, at your job, Foxtrot—and you wouldn’t be, you couldn’t be, unless you enjoyed not only doing it but the end result.” He spread his hands expansively, spilling a little of his drink in the process. “This. You like making people happy. You do make people happy. And it is appreciated.”
I couldn’t help but smile. “Thank you. I get paid for it, you know.”
“You do?” He boggled at me, almost convincingly. “Well, then, bollocks to all that. You mean this isn’t a clever ploy to win my heart and steal my virginity?”
“Not so much.”
He emitted a theatrical sigh. “Then I shall be forced to drown my unending sorrow in the dubious pleasures of the grape. And possibly that worm that lives at the bottom of tequila bottles.”
He turned to his other side and said, “What do you think, Oscar? You know her better than I do—what’s the proper beverage to sluice her out of my shattered hopes?”
Oscar Zoransky finished his own drink—two fingers of extremely expensive whiskey, neat—and hit the button on the underside of the table that summoned the booze trolley for a refresher. He was a short, round, balding man, with a wide friendly face and the kind of tan you got from lying around at poolside seven days a week. I had a running bet with myself as to where Oscar would wind up: the skin cancer ward or a prison cell. It usually ran about even, but tonight the Big House was definitely ahead. “I wouldn’t know,” Oscar said, pronouncing his words with the care of the mostly drunk. “I drink constantly, but she won’t go away.”
I ignored the jab—Oscar was no doubt still smarting from the decrease in his allowance, and I wasn’t going to let myself to get sidetracked by a pointless argument. I focused my attention on another guest, instead: Hana Kim, the Olympic gymnast from South Korea. She sat across the table from me, sipping from a glass of water and looking a little intimidated.
“How are you settling in, Hana?” I asked her. “Is the makeshift gymnasium we set up for you in the dance studio okay?”
She gave me a quick nod and smile. “It’s fine, Ms. Lancaster. I used it this morning.”
“Well, if you need anything else, just let me know. Our cook here is very good; he’s following the diet specifications Mr. Kwok gave him exactly.”
Was that the briefest flash of disappointment I saw on her face? “Oh. That’s good. Really good.”
I snuck a glance at her trainer, who was talking animatedly with ZZ. She stared intently into his eyes as they talked—ZZ took the art of conversation very seriously.
“Well,” I said, “that’s not to say that you can’t enjoy a little cheating on your regimen. The French pastries Ben makes are enough to tempt an archangel.”
Now Hana was the one to glance at Kwok. She leaned forward and whispered, “Only if the Warden isn’t looking.”
I nodded and whispered back. “I’m sure we can work something out. I know a guard.”
The smile on her face got a lot less tentative. Keene was right about one thing—I did enjoy making other people happy. And I was good at it.
But that wasn’t the question. The question was, how good was I at preventing a murder …
That was the thought running through my head when things got crazy.
Gant’s monkey leapt off his shoulder and bounded down the center of the table at high speed, scattering silverware and napkins as he went, straight at ZZ. Was that a knife in his hand?
But Amos never made it there. The simian veered at the last moment, launching himself like a furry missile at Keene, landing on top of his head. Both of them screeched as the monkey grabbed a fistful of curly black hair and yanked.
“AAH! Bugger!” yelled Keene. He flailed at the monkey with the hand that wasn’t holding his drink. The monkey flailed back with the silverware it clutched in one tiny paw—a fork, not a knife—then threw it across the table. Mr. Kwok caught the fork nimbly.
“Amos!” Gant yelled. “Get back here!”
Amos had other plans. He scampered down Keene’s arm to the elbow, grabbed his wrist, and wrenched the hand holding the wineglass upward. The table watched in astonishment as the monkey guzzled the drink, still in Keene’s hand.
“That’s no way to treat a nice Cabernet,” said Keene.
Amos took the criticism poorly, letting out another loud screech and bounding away. His trajectory took him to the top of the automated drinks trolley, which looked a little like a vacuum cleaner mounted on a rolling cart. Oscar had just used it to refill his drink, which Amos now eyed greedily. Oscar studied the beast, then offered him the glass. “Chin chin,” he said. “Welcome to the party.”
“Oscar!” ZZ snapped.
The monkey gulped half the drink in one swallow, then dropped the glass and leapt for the chandelier. He hung there, chattering and screeching, swinging back and forth. I already had my cell phone out. “Caroline? Get down to the dining room, stat—we’ve got a situation with a monkey. We’ll need containment—”
I heard a sharp pfft! A crimson-plumed dart appeared in the center of the monkey’s chest; he screeched and yanked it out, throwing it in my direction. I ducked.
“Don’t worry,” Kenny Gant said. He holstered the air pistol he’d just shot Amos with. “He’ll be down for the count in a minute or so.”
Amos was already slowing down. He hung from one arm, then dropped down onto the table. He staggered a few steps, then pointed at Gant in a very human and accusing manner.
“It’s okay, little fella,” Gant said. “Nap time.”
Amos swayed on his feet, then decided that curling up and closing his eyes was a good idea. In another few seconds he was unconscious.
“Was—was that really necessary?” ZZ asked.
“Afraid it was,” said Gant. He looked sad. “Poor Amos—he’s been real upset ever since we got here. I thought he’d calm down once he got used to the environment, but after he had that drink—well, the last time he got hold of some alcohol he bit someone pretty bad. Couldn’t risk it.”
“So,” said Keene, who’d recovered his composure and now appeared to be enjoying himself immensely, “your monkey’s a mean drunk?”
Hana Kim shook her head. “I can’t believe you let him drink at all!”
Gant chuckled. “I don’t, I don’t—but monkeys are sneaky, smart, and pick up bad habits real fast. Knew a chimp once that liked to steal cigarettes and smoke them; good enough at it that he acquired one helluva nicotine addiction, too.”
“So,” said Keene, “I had a monkey on my back with a monkey on his back?”
Gant got up from the table and retrieved the dart from where it had landed. “He’s not that far gone—just likes the taste, I think.”
Oscar nodded. “Don’t we all…”
I told Caroline the crisis had passed, but I still needed her; I was worried what the anesthetic mixed with booze would do to the poor creature. She showed up a few minutes later, a little breathless, carrying her medical kit in one hand. Caroline was short, plump, and blond, and preferred jeans and T-shirts to scrubs or white coats. She checked Amos’s breathing, quizzed Gant about the dosage and brand of tranquilizer, and asked how much the monkey had imbibed. When she was done, she f
rowned and said, “He should be fine, but I’m a little worried about the combination of drugs and alcohol. I’d like to keep him for observation overnight.”
Gant shrugged. “Fine by me.”
“Soup’s on,” said Oscar, who had never stirred from his seat. We all returned to the table, and the dinner itself commenced.
That was the most eventful part of the evening. The food was delicious, but I was too preoccupied to pay much attention to what I was actually eating. I spent the meal scrutinizing everyone without being obvious about it, doing more listening than talking. Keene was his usual witty self, Oscar sank into a sullen, alcoholic haze, Hana Kim told a funny story about Olympic drug testing. Juan Estevez, while initially seeming nervous, gradually relaxed and opened up a little, talking about his research. ZZ held court, listening intently, asking relevant questions, occasionally telling a short anecdote of her own or using her tablet to call up some relevant information on the wall screens. Mr. Kwok didn’t say much at all. He spent a lot of time staring at ZZ, though, and she didn’t seem to mind.
When dinner was over, I heard a familiar voice in my head.
I glanced around, then saw a pair of yellow eyes shining at me through the window. I opened my mouth to answer, then shut it again and concentrated. Um. Monkeys shouldn’t drink.
Not so much.
ZZ rose from the table. “Well, this has been most delightful. Feel free to enjoy the pool as late as you like, or any of our other amenities. Don’t let Oscar hustle you at snooker, though; even inebriated, he’s quite capable of running the table. I believe he counts both Prince William and Mr. Springsteen among his victims.”
“Willy still owes me a horse,” Oscar said. “Never take a royal IOU.”
“I’ll see you all tomorrow,” ZZ said.
“Uh—are you turning in already?” I blurted. “I mean, it’s still early.”
ZZ gave me an odd look. “Yes, it is. In fact, Mr. Kwok and I are going into town; a lovely little blues bar just opened up, and there’s a local musician I want him to hear. I expect we’ll be quite late.”
Uh-oh. I couldn’t exactly invite myself along, and there was no way either Tiny or Tango could keep tabs on them there. “Well … have fun,” I said weakly.
“Oh, I’m sure we shall.”
Everybody dispersed, though Keene tried to convince me to have a drink with him by the pool. “No thanks,” I said. “I remember last time. You’re a little too fond of skinny-dipping for my tastes.”
He took my rebuff gracefully, and wandered off with Oscar in the direction of the billiards room. I went outside to let Tiny know what had transpired, and Tango joined us.
“I guess we go home,” I told them. “I know ZZ. She likes cappuccino with her blues, and that means she’ll keep Kwok up all night. In more ways than one.”
[Your assessment is correct. While not in heat, her hormonal level was elevated.]
“You—you can smell that?”
[Of course.]
For some reason, I found that more disturbing than the telepathy, the shape-shifting, or the reincarnation. “Okay. Well, we can’t hang around here all night, and we can’t follow her. I say we go home, get a good night’s sleep, and tackle this again tomorrow.”
[I could stay and patrol.]
[I’ll stay hidden.]
Tango snorted.
[Oh? And what are you going to do if there’s an attempt on ZZ’s life? Meow loudly? Scratch at a window?]
I sighed. “Guys. You’re both right. Leaving either of you here makes no sense. If we’re going to do this, we’re gonna have to work as a team. And as the member of that team with a driver’s license and house keys, I say we retreat for the night.”
There was some more grumbling, but they couldn’t argue with my logic. In the end, we all piled into the car, went home, and went to sleep.
It wasn’t the alarm that woke me in the morning, however. It was the phone.
I was the second person Shondra Destry called.
The first had been 911.
CHAPTER FIVE
We drove right over, not even stopping for breakfast. I slammed to a halt in the front drive, right next to the police car and the ambulance that were already there. Tango leapt out of the car and sprinted for the bushes, while Tiny stuck close to my heels. I ran inside, almost knocking over Shondra.
“What—what happened?” I blurted out.
Shondra studied me gravely. “Paramedics are saying heart attack or possibly a stroke. Happened sometime in the night.”
I swallowed. “I just—I just talked to her yesterday. She seemed fine.”
Shondra nodded. “I know. But these things happen, sometimes out of the blue.”
I shook my head. “Where is she?”
“ZZ’s bedroom. She was working late, reorganizing the closet. Must have felt dizzy or tired and lay down on the bed—that’s where she was found, by one of the other maids.”
Maria Wong. I’d known her for years, and now she was dead. I was sad and shocked, but also a little relieved it wasn’t ZZ and more than a little guilty for the relief. I was confused, too; how could I have gotten the victim so wrong? And how on earth could Maria’s death affect the graveyard?
But despite my conflicted feelings, I was still a professional—and I’ve always dealt with overpowering emotion by concentrating on the practical. Change what you can, accept the changes you can’t. “Does ZZ know?”
“Nobody knows where she is. Victor brought her home last night, but nobody’s seen her since.” Victor Hausen was ZZ’s driver. “She’s not answering her cell.”
“Check Kwok’s room,” I said. I sprinted up the stairs, Tiny right behind me. We passed the paramedics going the other way, their faces composed in the careful way of those who lost to death on a regular basis.
Sheriff Brower stood in the hall outside, the door to the bedroom open. He was in his sixties, with a pork-barrel belly and sparse white hair. He held up a hand when he saw me. “Sorry, Miss Lancaster. Can’t allow you in there.” Tiny stopped beside me, sniffing the air.
“Why not?”
“Someone died. That makes this a crime scene until the coroner signs off on it.”
I’d only met Brower a few times before, but we’d never gotten along. He had the officious attitude of a small-town official who thought he should receive more respect than he got, and probably deserved less. We’d locked horns on zoning ordinances, noise complaints, and even traffic regulations, with most contests going to me. He may have been sheriff, but ZZ had a lot of pull with the town council.
“I thought it was natural causes.”
Brower stuck out his chin. “Most likely. But that’s for the coroner to decide.”
I sighed. “All right. I’ll be downstairs, letting the staff know. If you need to talk to anyone, we’ll be in the kitchen.”
I turned around and headed back the way I’d come, Tiny beside me. [Foxtrot? There’s something you should know, concerning my abilities.]
“Hmmm? What’s that?”
[Most canines have very sensitive noses, and can remember a wide array of scents. As a spirit, I have access to … well, a sort of canine library of aromas. The accumulated olfactory knowledge of all the dogs who have lived and died before me.]
I stopped on the second-floor landing. “That’s amazing. But why are you bringing it up now?”
[Because—though I wasn’t actually in the room, and both were very faint—there were traces of two very distinctive scents in that doorway. One I’ve smelled before. The other I know only from the library.]
He paused, and looked up at me seriously. [The s
tored scent is that of a powerful anesthetic. The other is that of a capuchin monkey.]
* * *
Tiny’s revelation stunned me, but I didn’t have the luxury of sitting down to process it; it was my job to handle crisis situations, and that’s definitely what this was. The first thing I did was to call a meeting of the household staff, so everyone knew what was going on. Word had already spread, of course—we’re a small, tightly knit community, more family than employees. There were a lot of tears, though I managed to keep mine in check for the moment. I told Consuela, the maid who’d found her, she could take the day off once she’d talked to the sheriff, but she refused.
“I don’t know, I don’t know,” Consuela whispered, wiping her eyes. “So sad. I knocked and knocked, but no answer. I try the door, but it was locked. I try my key, but door locked from inside. Didn’t make sense.”
I frowned. “Why didn’t it make sense?”
Consuela sniffed and looked away. “Because—because I know Ms. Zoransky not in there. Victor told me.”
Victor Hausen was ZZ’s driver. If anybody knew ZZ wasn’t in her own bed, it was probably him; he would have driven her and Kwok to the club and then home again. Staff gossip being what it was, news of ZZ’s latest fling—something not exactly uncommon—had disseminated quickly.
“Where is Victor, anyway?” I asked.
“I am here,” said a gruff voice. I turned to see Victor striding in through the kitchen’s back door, looking grim and Germanic—but that was generally what he looked like, anyway. Vic was tall, with a bony face and a severe haircut. He was wearing a gray coverall and wiping his hands with a greasy rag; he must have been working on one of ZZ’s cars. “I was in the middle of changing the oil on the Porsche. I am sorry.”
“That’s okay,” I said. “Consuela, is ZZ in Mr. Kwok’s room?” Consuela hesitated, then nodded.
“If the door to ZZ’s bedroom was locked,” I asked, “how’d you get in?”