A Taste Fur Murder

by Lyle, Dixie

  “More mumble mumble?”

 

  “Charming.”

 

  * * *

  Tango and I went back to the mansion. I needed to know if the controller was at the bottom of the pond, and I couldn’t really find that out until the residents were awake. We’d return after dark—and I’d use the time between now and then to prepare.

  First, I did some serious research.

  Despite being herbivores, hippos were considered to be the most dangerous large animal in Africa—maybe even the world. Statistics varied wildly, but it was generally agreed they killed more people than crocodiles or lions. The average hippo weighed between one and a half and three tons, their teeth were up to twenty inches long, and they could outrun a human being. Weirdly, despite spending most of their time in the water and having webbed feet, they weren’t very good swimmers; they hardly ever went into deep water. Mostly they just waded, using the water to help support their weight.

  They were only kind of nocturnal; in areas with little human habitation they liked to bask in the sun, but in more populated regions they stayed in the water during the day and came out at night to feed on vegetation. The two in the pool might have seen something, or they might not have—either way, I couldn’t count on them being cooperative.

  Then I looked up hyenas. After a few minutes, I glanced down at Tango—who was curled up on my lap, napping—and said, “Okay, you were right.”

  She didn’t bother opening her eyes.

  “Our pal Mr. Chuckles. Or Ms. Chuckles, I should say. I find this hard to believe, but … females hyenas have boy parts.”

 

  “This is amazing. Why aren’t you amazed?”

  She lifted her head and opened her eyes halfway.

  “They have an actual, functioning, you-know-what.”

  Her head sank back down and her eyes closed.

  “She gives birth through it. I can’t even imagine that.”

 

  “Did you know this? Is this why you’re all who-cares and let-me-sleep?”

 

  “Oh. Sorry.”

  A few minutes went by.

  “Oh, wow.”

  No response.

  “I know the honey badger is supposed to be fierce and all, but—you’re just not going to believe this.”

 

  “It’s got incredibly thick skin, like flexible armor. When our potty-mouthed little friend said he’d shrugged off arrows and spears, he wasn’t exaggerating. Plus, these beasties are rated as the most fearless animals alive—they’ve been known to drive lions away from a kill and eat it themselves. In fact, there are stories about honey badgers biting off a male lion’s … you know.”

 

  “You could say that. Though I’m guessing that afterward his pride didn’t stick around and he didn’t get much joy. Know what a honey badger’s natural enemy is?”

 

  “It doesn’t have one. It shares the same continent with some of the nastiest predators on the planet, and none of them will go near this oversized weasel. You familiar with the Cape buffalo?”

 

  “They’re aggressive African bovines that weigh up to a ton and have sharp, curving horns. And should a Cape buffalo also be dumb enough to step on a honey badger’s burrow, the badger will attack it. The buffalo, not the burrow.”

  Tango finally gave up, rose to her feet, and stretched.

  “They’ll eat anything—animals, plants, insects. And when they do eat other animals, they eat every last piece, from the fur to the bones. They never seem to get tired, they’re so strong they rip apart turtles with ease, and they consider cobras to be a tasty snack.”

  Tango yawned so hugely all I could see was her open mouth, then jumped off my lap.

  “Sorry. I can get a little carried away when I go into research mode.”

 

  “Knowledge is power. I’m charging up.”

 

  “I’ve got an idea how to find that out, too. But it’s sort of dangerous.”

 

  “Not so much. I thought we’d let it slip at dinner that I think I know where the controller is and see if anyone tries to retrieve it.”

 

  I got up and slipped my shoes back on. “There’s always that possibility. But I’ve got allies the killer doesn’t know about, right?”

 

  “Well, we can’t have that, can we?”

  * * *

  I checked in on ZZ while Tango roamed around the house and did her best to make friends with as many people as possible. Tiny had nothing new to report; ZZ’s condition hadn’t changed, and nobody but medical personnel had come near her. I told him to keep up the good work, then spent the next little while tracking down each and every guest.

  I told all of them the same thing: that ZZ was expected to make a full recovery shortly, and that she would be very disappointed to wake up to an empty house. I insisted that they all put in an appearance at dinner, and that I would be hosting in ZZ’s place.

  Nobody gave me an argument, though I had to settle for leaving Oscar a voice mail—according to Shondra, he was last seen staggering toward his bungalow and presumably sleeping off his bender.

  I had quite the list of suspects, but I hoped that tonight I could at least narrow it down; if my insinuations provoked any sort of response later, I could pretty much guarantee the killer was one of the guests. If not, I was hoping I might actually find the controller itself—though that was going to be tricky, too.

  I looked at Tango and sighed. “Okay, so my after-dinner plans including snorkeling with a pair of thousand-pound killer animals in the dark, while a more human murderer may or may not be lurking in the bushes.”

 

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Normally, ZZ would go over the menu with the chef for the nightly meal and make suggestions or deletions. When she wasn’t available, I did it—but before I could, I had to make sure there was actually food to eat. Sheriff Brower had confiscated every edible scrap from the kitchen, even though the carfentanil had clearly been put in ZZ’s tea.

  Ben Montain, dressed in crisp chef’s whites, sat across the dining room table from me. He seemed a little nervous, though this was hardly the first time I’d had to stand in for ZZ. “Thought we’d start with a cold soup course. Got a nice gazpacho I been meaning to try out.”

  “Sure, that’d be great in this heat.” I tapped away at my laptop, ordering supplies from an online grocery store that delivered. “Salad?” Tango, in my lap, purred as I worked. She seemed to have won over the house pretty quickly, though Victor wasn’t a fan. Allergies.

  “Wild greens with thinly sliced pear and Gorgonzola.”

  I frowned. “Mmm—that could be a problem. Kenny Gant is la
ctose-intolerant.”

  “Really? Huh.” He had some handwritten notes in front of him, which he shuffled through. “Oh, yeah. Uh, sorry—how about goat cheese for his, instead?”

  “If you think it’ll work, sure.” I studied him as he muttered to himself and scribbled on a piece of paper. It wasn’t like him to make a mistake like that—he was usually very detail-oriented. “Everything okay, Ben?”

  “Sure, yeah, fine.”

 

  No, I had a lobotomy and my eyes removed while you were out shamelessly seducing the household staff. Sssh. “You seem uncomfortable. Is this about our lunch?” I deliberately avoided using the word date; best to keep this professional for now.

  He looked up, his eyes wide. “Hmm? No, no, of course not. I’m just a little thrown by the whole murder-and-arrest thing.”

  That made perfect sense, but his answer seemed a little too quick and a little too glib, as if he was telling me what he thought I wanted to hear rather than the truth. Or maybe I was just in an overly suspicious frame of mind.

  Then again, maybe I was just suspicious enough.

  “Yeah, it’s been crazy, hasn’t it? I keep thinking about what I was doing while Maria was killed. I mean, there I was, only a few miles away, watching a movie on cable while someone I knew was being murdered.”

  Ben shook his head. “I know. We just go about our business, thinking everything’s okay, and right at that second everything’s changing forever.”

  “It wasn’t even a good movie.” I paused, then casually asked, “What were you doing?”

  He looked at me, and blinked. When he answered, he reached up and rubbed the side of his nose first. Touching your own face is a common sign that you’re lying; the theory is that it’s an unconscious attempt to cover your mouth, almost as if you’re physically trying to hide the truth. Uh-oh.

  “I was in the Big Apple, actually. Met some friends for a few drinks, stayed out a little too late.”

  “Really? I couldn’t tell. The next day, I mean; you seemed pretty perky.”

  He smiled, but it seemed forced. “Well, that’s just what us Montains do. Up with the rooster and down with the owl, we used to say. Sleep is for rich people.”

  He abruptly realized what he’d just said, and flushed. “Oh, damn. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

  “It’s okay. If ZZ were awake to hear that, she would have laughed loud and long. Wouldn’t she?”

  He nodded, but still looked ashamed. “Yeah. Yeah, she would. Guess I’m just feeling a little … bad. About the whole situation. But I promise it won’t affect dinner, all right?”

  “I’m sure it’ll be up to your usual high standards. Okay, let’s move on to the main course…”

  Face touching wasn’t definite proof of a lie, of course; sometimes people just touched their faces. But there was something else, something harder to identify. Fortunately for me, Tango figured it out.

 

  No, I thought back. Not until just now …

  * * *

  It was a bit of a crunch, restocking the kitchen in time, but I managed. Only two people didn’t show up for dinner that night. One was in a coma; the other was in jail.

  Even Oscar was there, which I suppose shouldn’t have come as a surprise. The closest he ever came to playing a sport might have been sitting in the bleachers at Wimbledon, but when it came to alcohol he had the constitution of a marine.

  Hana Kim still looked downcast, Mr. Kwok solemn. The normally cheerful Kenny Gant was quiet and thoughtful, while Keene seemed to have indulged in more than just alcohol as an appetizer. He didn’t say much, but kept staring at the overhead chandelier as if he expected it to burst into monkeys at any moment.

  I sat at the head of the table, where ZZ usually did. I stood up and said, “Hello, everyone. Thank you for coming. ZZ believed—believes—in the frank and open discussion of ideas, in a convivial environment. That’s a direct quote, by the way. That’s why you were invited, but not why you’re here right now.

  “I’ve known ZZ a number of years now. She’s one of the most outspoken women I’ve ever met, and I have a tremendous amount of respect for that. But she doesn’t just have opinions; she believes in putting her money where her mouth is. If someone can prove her wrong, she’s more than willing to change her mind. For her, the important thing is to speak your mind—to share what you know and what you believe, and to listen to others do the same. She also believes in accountability. ‘Anyone can say anything or pretend to be anyone on the Internet,’ she tells me, ‘but get them to talk to you face-to-face and you’ll find out the courage of their convictions.’ That’s why these salons are held—to give people the chance to talk face-to-face.

  “But today, someone did their best to shut her up.”

  I paused, and not just for effect. It was hard to keep the anger out of my voice, and I wasn’t sure I should. “Maybe it was because of something she said. Maybe it wasn’t. But either way, I know she wouldn’t allow herself—or anyone else—to be silenced. So we’re going to carry on—even though ZZ isn’t here—because she would be royally pissed at me if I didn’t insist on it.”

  I sat back down. There was a long, drawn-out moment of silence, which was unfortunately the exact opposite of what I was hoping to inspire.

  Then Oscar sighed. “Oh, for God’s sake. This may not be Mardi Gras, people, but it’s not a wake, either. Mother has faced worse opponents in the chemical arena and defeated them; I wouldn’t worry about a little nap.” He signaled the drinks trolley with the push of a button.

  “Arena? Chemicals?” Keene said. He blinked rapidly and grinned at Oscar. “Gladiatorial combat via pharmaceuticals? I can’t have heard that right. Please tell me I heard that right.”

  Oscar stared at the wineglass being filled on the trolley with the morose fascination of a man in a lifeboat studying a bottle of his own urine. “You assuredly did. Remind her to tell you about the summer of ’76 and her trip to Sante Fe. For months afterward she insisted small lizards were living in her hair. I spent a great deal of time trying to find them, but I was five.”

  Keene nodded sagely. “Well, better lizards than bats, I always say. Those buggers can come out of anywhere.”

  “Indeed.” Oscar picked up his drink and drank off half of it in two swallows. “I’m sure you and Mother could spend hours comparing notes on the taxonomy and migration patterns of hallucinatory fauna. Also, moose flange interspersed with the occasional spigot of Krakatoa.”

  There was a pause while everyone tried to figure out if Oscar was having a stroke. Then Keene grinned and shouted with laughter. “Ha! Well played, my friend, but I’ve partied with the weirdest of the weird. Your phrasing was impeccable and your intonation brilliant, but you’ll have to go a lot farther to moose flange my Krakatoa spigot.”

  “What are they talking about?” Hana Kim asked me. Mr. Kwok looked just as puzzled, and a little disturbed.

  Kenny Gant took a sip of his own drink. “Oscar’s just having a little fun.”

  Keene was still chuckling. “Yes, absolutely. But I, on the other lobe, am having a great deal of fun. Which can, you know, sometimes lead to being made fun of. Totally redundant in my case, of course, because I’m already made of fun. You could mix me up with some eggs and flour, pour me in a pan, and make fun pancakes out of me.”

  “You’re stoned,” Hana said. She sounded more wistful than disapproving. Mr. Kwok decided to compensate by radiating enough disapproval for both of them.

  Oscar finished his drink and placed his glass on the trolley for a refill. “Which is, in my opinion, the only rational approach to the current situation.”

  “I don’t think so,” said Mr. Kwok. “The situation is quite serious. Two poisonings have occurred—what if there is another?”

  Both Keene and Oscar paused with their drink
s raised.

  Kenny Gant shook his head. He wore his usual floral Hawaiian shirt, and a necklace of white puka shells. “Not unless Juan Estevez breaks out of his cell. Sheriff Brower took him away in handcuffs, remember?”

  Kwok glared at Gant. “This does not mitigate the danger. He could have poisoned something else beforehand: food, drinks, even something we only touch. There are ways.”

  Gant lifted an eyebrow. “I guess you’d know all about such things, what with all the doping scandals in professional sports these days? Seems to me every time an athlete tests positive for a banned substance, it always comes back to the coach.”

  Every diplomatic instinct I had was screaming at me to interrupt this before it got really ugly—but I forced myself to ignore them. People reveal things when they’re upset, and I wanted the pot to simmer a bit before I started adding my own ingredients.

  “That’s not fair,” Hana said. “Mr. Kwok was cleared of all charges.”

  Keene leaned forward, his elbows on the table, and studied Kwok as if he’d never seen him before. “Charges? Do tell.”

  “They were groundless,” Kwok said stiffly. “A smokescreen, designed to cast doubt on my abilities.”

  “Ah, doubt,” said Oscar, still eyeing his own glass. After a moment he shrugged and took a healthy swallow. “Can’t let it run one’s life, can one?”

  “Never!” Keene declared. “Life can be many things: a board game, a magazine published in the nineteen fifties, possibly a generic brand of health and beauty products. But one thing that it’s not, is … Um. Lost my train of thought.”

  “Check the last junction,” said Oscar. “I believe that’s where it jumped the tracks.”

  I sensed it was time to add my two cents. “Has anyone considered that Brower might have arrested the wrong person?”

  Dead silence.

  “Hmmm,” said Oscar.

  “What?” said Hana Kim.