A Taste Fur Murder

by Lyle, Dixie

  “It’s working,” Caroline announced.

  We both hurried back and knelt down. ZZ’s eyes were closed now, but she was breathing on her own. “I think you called it,” Caroline said. “She’s not out of danger, but the fact that she’s breathing means the naloxone’s working.”

  “What now?” I asked.

  “We get the paramedics to put her on a respirator, make sure she keeps breathing. Then she’ll have to be monitored closely and given regular doses of naloxone—it has a short half-life, probably shorter than what she was poisoned with. But there’s the possibility she could sink into a coma.”

  “Brain damage?” I asked.

  “Probably not. You got to her fast, right?”

  “Not fast enough,” I said.

  “As long as she wasn’t deprived of oxygen for long, she should be fine. Assuming that an opiate was all she was drugged with.”

  “That’s a good point,” Shondra said.

  [Here’s another one.] I jumped a little; I’d almost forgotten Tiny was there. [How was she poisoned—and is the poison still around?]

  I hadn’t even thought of that. We needed to find the source, fast—what if someone else keeled over?

  At that moment I heard the first faint howl of the siren. And I realized I had a decision to make. “Caroline—ZZ needs to be monitored and redosed, right? Can that be done here?”

  Caroline looked confused. “Here? I suppose—but she needs to be in a hospital, Foxtrot. She needs blood tests, life support, monitoring—”

  “I’ll take care of it,” I said. I pulled out my phone, started searching for home medical services. “Full-time nurse, oxygen, defibrillator in case of a cardiac event, regular shots of naloxone. We’ll set up a hospital bed in her room.”

  Shondra looked at me like I’d just lost my mind. “No. That’s crazy—”

  “No, it’s necessary. We’ll get the paramedics to take blood and get it to the hospital, but ZZ stays here.”

  “I can’t allow that,” Caroline said.

  “You don’t have a choice,” I countered. “In the event of a medical emergency where ZZ is incapacitated, power of attorney falls on me. That includes a Living Will clause that specifies I get to make any and all decisions regarding life-preserving measures and whether or not to pull the plug.”

  Caroline had gone from puzzlement to shock. Shondra, though, was starting to get it.

  “Someone just tried to kill my boss,” I said. “If they can get to her in her own home, they can get to her in a hospital. But here, I can control the situation. I can vet every single person who comes near her. I can hire guards to stand outside her door twenty-four hours a day. Hell, I can rent a tank and park it in the driveway.”

  I looked from Shondra to Caroline and back again. Shondra was on board, and Caroline was on her way. “Nobody gets to her,” I said. “I won’t let them. Are we clear?”

  They both nodded, and then the paramedics were pounding at the front door.

  I was only half kidding about the tank. What I actually had in mind was going to be parked at the foot of ZZ’s bed, and was much harder to get past than a mere armored vehicle.

  Tanks, after all, didn’t have a supernatural sense of smell.

  * * *

  I got to work.

  I put Shondra in charge of finding guards; I knew she’d have the connections and would personally vouch for anyone she hired. Medical services were next, and I lit a fire under the guy I talked to—a fire I stoked with fat, thousand-dollar bonuses for speed of delivery and setup. He promised he’d have someone out within the hour. I went to a different outfit for nursing, because I wanted a larger pool to draw from—better chances of getting someone immediately and fewer problems with scheduling afterward. I did all this while convincing the EMTs she couldn’t be moved off site, making sure the staff knew what was going on, and reassuring the occasional worried guest who wandered in. Hana Kim was horrified, while Mr. Kwok did his best to remain stoic. Kenny Gant was astounded, while Keene seemed heartbroken. He told me he was going to have a specialist flown in from Geneva, this “Absolutely brilliant guy Keith told me about. Knows his way around a seizure, he says. He’ll get her on her feet in no time.”

  And I never left ZZ’s side.

  Tiny, I thought at him. I need you to find out how ZZ was poisoned, but I can’t just let you roam all over the house. Can you change into something small and unobtrusive?

  [I can, but I’ll need to slip away, first].

  Go ahead. I don’t think anyone will notice—we’re all too busy.

  Everyone was still in the atrium. The paramedics were keeping an eye on ZZ, Shondra was talking into her cell phone, Ben Montain was hovering nearby with a worried look on his face, and Kenny Gant was standing in a corner and shaking his head. Sheriff Brower was upstairs, trying to solve the case by stomping around searching through wastebaskets.

  Tiny crawled under a nearby chair, out of everyone’s line of sight. A moment later, a Yorkshire terrier darted out from beneath the chair. It took me a second to recognize it as such; I’ve seen bigger guinea pigs. Tiny’s new form could have easily fit in the palm of my hand, and when it scampered up the stairs no one else seemed to notice.

  All this activity was the easy part. It’s what I do, after all, and the more details I had to manage, the less time I had to actually think about what had just happened. But I couldn’t submerge myself in work; getting ZZ squared away was important, but catching whoever poisoned her was just as vital.

  It took a little under two hours to come together. Finally, I had ZZ in her own room, in a top-of-the-line hospital bed, hooked up to a respirator, with an IV drip in her arm and sensitive equipment monitoring her vital signs. There were two guards at her door, and an experienced nurse was at her side. They’d given her another shot of naloxone about an hour after the first one.

  What I hadn’t managed to do was find her son. Every call I made to Oscar went straight to voice mail.

  I had tracked down ZZ’s doctor, though, a man with the improbable name of Sang Singh. He was tall, thin, bald, and extremely angry with me.

  “You must have her moved to a hospital immediately!” he demanded once he’d finished examining her. “She is in a coma!”

  “I realize that,” I said. “But she’s in no immediate danger. We can monitor her at home just as easily as at the hospital.”

  “Easily? Easily? This is not a question of ease. This is a woman’s life we are talking about. Whether or not you are inconvenienced is hardly the issue!”

  “I misspoke,” I said carefully. “Dr. Singh, ZZ’s welfare is just as important to me as it is to you. But she left very explicit instructions in her Living Will, and I’m legally obligated to follow them. Now, are you going to help ZZ get through this, or spend all your energy fighting me?”

  He glared at me through black, horn-rimmed glasses. “I am familiar with her Living Will. It does not endorse endangering her life through denying her proper medical attention, only that she does not wish to have her life prolonged artificially if there is no hope of her recovering. That is not the case here.”

  “That’s not for you to decide. That’s for whoever has power of attorney—which is me.”

  His eyes narrowed. “I don’t understand why you are doing this. How did this even happen?”

  “Someone tried to kill her.” I paused for a second to let that sink in. “Twice. That’s why there are guards outside, and why she’s not leaving this house. I expect you to come by every day to check on her, and I promise that ZZ will go straight to the hospital once the perpetrator has been caught. Okay?”

  He still looked angry, but I didn’t think it was at me anymore. “A killer? You are sure?”

  “A maid was poisoned two days ago. She didn’t survive.”

  “But—perhaps an accident, something in the house?”

  “No. The maid was injected. ZZ, we don’t know yet.”

  Dr. Singh fell silent. “Injected?” he sa
id at last. “How?”

  “We don’t know that, either. But Sheriff Brower will confirm that there’s an ongoing murder investigation, even if he’s less than forthcoming with details.”

  At that very minute, Brower opened the door and marched in. “I’m going to have to confiscate everything in your kitchen. All the food, anyhow.”

  I nodded. “Understood. I doubt you’ll find anything there, though. Ben already told me what he gave ZZ to eat today, and nobody else who ate the same thing has had any symptoms.”

  “You’ll pardon me if I don’t take his word for it.”

  “No, of course not.”

  [Foxtrot?]

  Tiny? Where are you?

  [Under the bed.]

  There’s not a lot of room under most hospital beds, but then Tiny wasn’t taking up much space at the moment. Find anything?

  [I think so. Empty teacup with traces of both ZZ’s scent and carfentanil clinging to it. Small table in the lounge, beside the couch.]

  “Sheriff? I think ZZ was having tea in the lounge, earlier.”

  “You’re just remembering this now?” he snapped. “Dammit, you better hope a maid hasn’t cleaned that up.” He stalked out of the room, pulling another pair of blue latex gloves out of his back pocket as he went.

  “Sheriff?” said Dr. Singh, hurrying after him. “I would like to speak to you, please.”

  That left just me and Beatrice, the registered nurse, a formidable-looking woman with a craggy face and white hair. “Could you leave us alone for a minute?” I asked.

  Beatrice nodded. “I’ll be right outside if you need me.” She closed the door behind her.

  Tiny scooted out from under the bed. “Good Lord,” I whispered. “You’re … well, tiny.”

  [Two point eight inches tall, to be exact. I’m mimicking the form of a dwarf Yorkshire terrier named Silvia, who died in 1945.] He abruptly ballooned up to golden retriever size. [That’s better. Hard to squeeze into something that small.]

  “Yeah,” I said. “I feel the same way about this dress I bought for New Year’s.” I walked over to the door and locked it. “Okay. Here’s the drill. I’m putting you on guard duty. Anyone comes in here and tries anything, you stop them. I know you don’t need to eat—how about sleep?”

  [A habit I gave up long ago.]

  “Good. But we’re going to need a new cover story. You can’t do an effective job while hiding under the bed, and if you do have to repel a murder attempt, I don’t want to have to explain how a gigantic hellhound materialized out of thin air and saved ZZ’s life. It’s—it’s…”

  [Inversely Baskerville-ian?]

  I stared down at him. “You’re very well read for a supernatural canine. I’m starting to think Scooby-Doo is more than just a cartoon.”

  [Please restrict your comparisons of me to literary ones, please. Television gives me a headache.]

  “Okay, Scooby-Don’t. Here’s the plan. I’m going to take Tiny the golden retriever out, and bring Not-So-Tiny the ferocious watchdog back in. I’ll check in with you periodically, using the pretext of bringing you food and walking you. Tango and I will continue to look for the killer.”

  [Agreed.] That’s what he said, but he didn’t sound happy.

  “Look, I know you’d rather be on the hunt, but I need someone here I can trust. You saved me back at the graveyard—and I know you won’t let anything happen to ZZ, either.”

  [It’s all right, Foxtrot. Guarding is in my blood as much as hunting is; I have no problem with staying put.]

  “Good. Now … let’s pick out a suitable outfit for your new position.”

  He modeled a few for me. The Irish wolfhound was impressive, as was the Great Dane, but I didn’t want to rely on size alone; I needed his appearance to be scary, something that would make any would-be assassin freeze in his or her tracks. Doberman pinscher was close, but I thought he needed more muscle.

  “What about the form you used when you took on Topsy?” I suggested.

  [I’d rather not. That’s a very particular form, and I like to reserve it as a last resort. It tends to attract attention.]

  Fair enough; I had enough to worry about without having to explain where I found such a one-of-a-kind überdog on short notice.

  We finally settled on a rottweiler, a breed—Tiny informed me—that the Romans used as war dogs. To me, it looked like a cross between a pit bull and a Doberman on steroids, which was just about perfect. “Okay. Now shift back into micro-Yorkie mode and I’ll smuggle you out of here.”

  He did, but before I could shove him in a bag there was a knock on the door. Tiny immediately scooted under the bed. “Who’s there?”

  “It’s Cooper,” said a familiar voice. “You want to tell your rent-a-thugs I ain’t the Antichrist so they’ll let me in?”

  I unlocked the door. Cooper had his beat-up straw hat in his hands, and looked like someone had just reminded him that John Lennon was still dead. “All right if I come in?” he asked.

  “Uh—yes, of course.” I hadn’t expected Coop to show up—Oscar, yes, but not the caretaker of the graveyard.

  He went straight to the foot of ZZ’s bed and stared at her, twisting his hat in his hands. “Hey, Zelda,” he said softly. “How you doin’?”

  “She can’t hear you,” I said. “She’s in a coma.”

  “Oh, you’d be surprised what people are aware of, even when they’re like this. I been fast asleep and woke up knowing all the lyrics to a song playing in the next room. You’re just hearing us on another level, aren’t you?” He was talking to ZZ, not me.

  I didn’t contradict him. With all that I’d learned in the past few days, who was I to say he was wrong? Maybe some version of ZZ was hovering over her bed right now, listening to our conversation and trying to figure out what the hell was going on.

  “How’d you hear, Coop?” I asked.

  “Vic came down and let me know. Said she just collapsed, but there were all kinds of crazy rumors about why. Knew if anyone would have the straight goods it’d be you.” He gave me a long, serious look. “So what happened, Foxtrot? What’s wrong with her?’

  “It looks like someone poisoned her, Coop. And Maria, too.”

  His eyes widened. “For real?”

  “Yeah.”

  “That’s monumentally fucked up.”

  “It is.”

  Cooper shook his head. “Who’d do this to her? And why?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m trying to figure out.”

  At that moment a commotion broke out in the hall: Oscar, shouting at the guards who wouldn’t let him in. “The prodigal son finally puts in an appearance,” I muttered. “Excuse me.”

  I strode over to the door and yanked it open. “It’s all right,” I said. “He’s family.”

  “Thank you!” Oscar glared at both guards, who stared back as impassively as stone lions. “I live here, you jackbooted mercenaries. And I don’t appreciate being manhandled.”

  I sighed and ushered him inside. From what I could smell as he stepped past me, he’d been spending the last few hours with his good friends Sherry and Brandy.

  “Oscar,” Cooper said with a nod.

  “What’s he doing here?” Oscar demanded. “Good Lord, my mother’s on her deathbed and she’s being attended by a grave digger? Is this some sort of sick joke?”

  “Cooper came to pay his respects, Oscar.”

  “Did he?” Oscar fixed Cooper with a bloodshot eye. He was a bit more sauced than I’d first thought. “Or did he come to finish the job?”

  “Oscar, that’s enough. You’re way out of line—”

  “I am, am I? I think not. Lines are the purview of this gentlemen, lines and joints and, and … and popping!”

  “Beg pardon?” Coop said, looking bewildered.

  “Cocaine! Marijuana! Pills! I know what you get up to, down in that little shack of yours … you’ve practackly got a phermacy down there.” Oscar swayed a little on his feet.

  Okay, not a b
it more sauced, a lot more. I rolled my eyes. “Terrific.”

  “My dear mother was drugged, and you’re the druggie. Drugger. Drug-using drug person.”

  Coop shook his head again, sadly. “I just came by to see how she was doing. Guess I better go.” He put his hat on and headed for the door.

  “Don’t think I don’t know about you and her,” Oscar growled at his back.

  Cooper stopped.

  “Oh, boy,” I said. “Coop, I’m sorry. It’s just the overpriced booze talking—”

  “I can speak for myself,” Oscar said. “And I know what I know. My mother has always been indiscreet—except in your case, Mr. Cooper. When it came to an actual custodian, even she knew well enough to keep it hidden.”

  Cooper turned around slowly. There was a lot of regret in his eyes, but his back was straight. “I wasn’t always a custodian, Oscar. You take care of her, you hear?”

  Then he opened the door and slipped away.

  “Good riddance,” Oscar snarls. “Grave digger, my arse. Gold digger is more like it.”

  I shouldn’t have been surprised, let alone shocked, but I was. ZZ never cared much for social conventions; it wasn’t the idea that she had an affair with a groundskeeper that bothered me, it was the fact that she kept it a secret.

  “How is she, Foxtrot?” Oscar asked. He hadn’t approached the bed yet, as if he was afraid she was contagious. “She looks … terrible.”

  Which, while not exactly tactful, was true. I’d always thought an unconscious person breathing with the aid of a respirator looked ghastly and unnatural, and seeing a parent like that must have been twice as bad. “She’s going to be all right, Oscar. She wasn’t deprived of oxygen for any length of time, and we’ve got her on a powerful opiate antagonist. When she wakes up—”

  “Which is when, exactly?” He still sounded angry, but with Cooper gone I was the only one in the room for him to unload on. The only one who was conscious, anyway.

  “I don’t know.”

  “How did this happen? Dammit, Foxtrot, you have your pert little nose stuck in every corner of this estate, and yet you stand idly by while someone sneaks into our home and tries to murder my mother?”