A Taste Fur Murder

by Lyle, Dixie

  “Afraid so.”

  He nodded, looking grave. “And how in the hell do you know all this, exactly?”

  I opened my mouth, and then closed it. “Um. I … can’t exactly tell you.”

  He frowned. “Why not?”

  “Oh, boy. This is going to be tricky … let’s just say that you’re not the only supernatural being around, okay?”

  His eyes widened. “You mean you—”

  “What? No, no, no. I’m not a—a witch, or anything like that. I’m just me. But I might be in contact with … beings … who are definitely not ordinary. And said beings have sworn me to secrecy. But then you cooked up a hurricane and one of them told me to calm you down and I didn’t know what to do so he told me what you were and where you came from and that’s about all I know. Okay?”

  He looked at me steadily for a few seconds. “No.”

  I sighed. “I just—dammit, this isn’t up to me. I want to tell you exactly what’s going on, but I made a promise and what’s going on is kind of important and I just can’t. I know how frustrated you are because my whole worldview got turned upside down a few days ago and I’ve been dealing with it all alone, but people are depending on me and I just can’t.”

  I found, to my complete and utter surprise, that I was close to tears. It wasn’t fair; to find out that maybe I wasn’t in all this craziness alone, that there was another human being—okay, mostly human being—that I could maybe talk to, and then realize I couldn’t? That was just too much.

  “Hey,” Ben said. “Hey, I’m sorry.” He reached out a hand, put it on my shoulder. “I shouldn’t be surprised that you know what’s going on—you always do. And you’re awfully good at making sure everything keeps going on, or stops, or does whatever it’s supposed to. That’s why people depend on you.”

  “Thank you,” I said, trying not to sniffle.

  “Look, I trust you, okay? If you say you can’t fill me in, then I have to believe you’ve got a good reason for that. And I already know more than I did when I climbed up on the damn roof. So all in all, I’m ahead, and you haven’t broken any promises. Right?”

  I did my best to smile. “Yeah. I guess that’s true.”

  “So. Tell you what. There’s something I’ve been meaning to bring up, but I just didn’t know how. Seeing as how you now know more about me than I do, maybe this won’t come as any surprise—but I feel I have to tell you, anyway.”

  Uh-oh. I didn’t know if I could handle that at this precise moment. Was he going to say what I thought he was? “Stop,” I said. “Now is not the time, okay? I just told you I can’t spill the beans, so now you’re going to? That is totally unfair. No bean spillage.”

  He took his hand off my shoulder and looked down. Took another long swallow of his brandied coffee. “I’m not who you think I am, Foxtrot,” he said quietly.

  That wasn’t what I expected, but I had the sinking feeling I knew what was coming next. When a man you’re interested in makes that kind of statement, it usually means one of two things—and I was pretty sure he wasn’t gay.

  “You’re married,” I said. “Is that who Anna is? Your wife?”

  He gave me a confused frown. “What? No! No, Anna’s my sister.”

  “Your—wait. Your sister?” That was the last thing I expected to hear. “But she was … she looked…”

  “Upper class? Sophisticated? Well off?” He shook his head. “Yeah, well—that’s because she is. And no, she didn’t marry money. She was born with it—just like I was.”

  It was my turn to frown. “That’s your shameful confession? You’re rich?”

  He shrugged. “Not me, my family. Grew up in a house almost as big as this one, but a lot less fun. My father owns a chain of restaurants, but he’s also a classically trained French chef. So am I.”

  “But—ZZ found you in a diner!”

  “That she did. But six months before that, I was running my own restaurant. At least, I thought it was mine—but my dad was the one who really owned it. And when I told him I wanted to make a few changes, he wouldn’t let me. We had a massive fight, which ended in him saying I wasn’t as good as I thought I was and me telling him I was and I was going to prove it. Without his help.”

  I was beginning to get the picture. “So you hit the road and got a job in a little greasy spoon. Was that supposed to impress him, or piss him off?”

  Ben laughed. “A little of both, I guess. At first, anyway—but once I realized how hard it actually was, it stopped being about him and more about proving something to myself.”

  “And did you?”

  He grinned. “I did, yeah. In fact, I was thinking about moving on when ZZ came in and made me that offer. From fast-order cook to private chef, all on my own? Seemed to me that would settle any argument as to how good I was. So I took the job—and here I am.”

  “Until your sister tracked you down.”

  “Anna’s pretty damn sharp. We don’t always see eye-to-eye, but she’s always looked out for me. But now—this whole Thunderbird business…” He shook his head. “I have to talk to her. I mean, if I’m one, then she must be, too. Why didn’t she explain? How long has she known about this?”

  “You said she was doing genealogy research. Maybe this is so recent she hasn’t figured everything out yet.”

  “Maybe. But telling me to look at the sky and wake up … that sounds deliberate, doesn’t it?”

  I had to admit it did. But I also knew what it was like to have information you weren’t allowed to share. “Maybe she told you all she could.”

  He looked troubled. “Maybe. In any case, I need to ask her in person.”

  And now my head chef was to about to leave. Good job, Foxtrot. “I understand. Can you at least do dinner tonight? That’ll give me time to find a replacement.”

  “I’m not quitting, Foxtrot. She’s staying at a hotel nearby—I’ll talk to her tonight.”

  Well, that was one crisis averted, at least for the moment. I better make sure I had someone lined up as a replacement, though—I found it hard to imagine a person who could call up a thunderstorm keeping his day job grilling steaks and mashing potatoes. “Good. Well, I’ll see about getting you some dry clothes, and we’ll talk later. All right?”

  “Sure. And Foxtrot—thank you.” His stare was intense enough to make me uncomfortable. “I don’t know what would have happened if you hadn’t talked me down. That storm was … well, it was eager. Does that make any sense?”

  I got to my feet. “It sort of does. Try not to make it hail in the dining room, okay?”

  I left him there, found some sweatpants and a T-shirt a famous athlete left behind, and dropped them off. Then I went looking for my cat.

  I found her in a second-floor bay window, looking out over the extremely wet lawn.

  “Some storm, indeed. Tango, do you know what a Thunderbird is?”

 

  “That’s not what I’m talking about.” Then I told her what I was talking about.

  When I was finished explaining what had happened and what our resident chef now was, Tango seemed unconcerned.

  “Yes. But he took off before I could ask him any questions.”

 

  “He didn’t sound fine when he first showed up. He sounded—” I stopped. Actually, when I thought back, Eli hadn’t really sounded panicked—just urgent. Like when upper management wants you to think something has to be done right now, but they don’t want to give the impression of losing control. That’s exactly what Eli had sounded like. And when the impending crisis had passed, he’d sounded less relieved than … satisfied.

  Maybe I should have been angry, but I wasn’t. This hadn’t been a deliberate tes
t, like me talking to Two-Notch; it had been an actual situation that needed dealing with, and I’d dealt with it. My immediate superior had put his faith in me, and I’d delivered. I felt proud, and I deserved to.

  But that didn’t mean Eli and I weren’t going to talk about this—oh, no. Every win came with a payoff, and I intended to collect mine. Graciously, of course, and without bragging—when you accepted an award, you kept your speech short and made sure you thanked everyone who helped you along the way.

  But you didn’t forget to take the trophy home.

  Now I had to deal with Oscar. I still found it hard to believe that Oscar would have his own mother killed; he could be greedy, shortsighted, and irresponsible, but I always thought that beneath it all he genuinely loved ZZ. Were my instincts that wrong?

  I needed to know more. Oscar obviously wasn’t going to tell me anything—but maybe his friend Francis the jockey, would. Of course, first I had to find him.

  As it turned out, that wasn’t difficult. The Jockeys’ Guild had a Facebook page with a search function, and the name Francis generated a number of hits. The guild had provided photos, too, so it wasn’t hard to identify the Francis in question. A little more digging on the Internet gave me a local address and contact number.

  Time to pay Mr. Francisco Alvarado a visit.

  * * *

  Francis lived in Hartville, just like I did, but apparently his job didn’t pay as well as mine; he had a dingy apartment on the third floor, and the elevator was out of service. The front door to the complex should have been locked, but someone had blocked it open with a stack of supermarket flyers. The same person, I suspected, whom I passed in the lobby carrying a box marked CLOTHES. She didn’t look happy about the elevator situation; I hoped she didn’t live on the top floor.

  The directory downstairs had told me which apartment Francis lived in. When I knocked, there was an immediate reply from behind the door: “Hang on! I’ll be right there!”

  He was already talking when he opened the door. “Decided you needed a hand after all, huh—” He stopped in mid-sentence, clearly expecting someone else.

  “Hi!” I said brightly. “As a matter of fact, I do need a hand. Mind helping me out?”

  He looked blank for a second, and then he remembered who I was. “Oh. Right. Sorry, I thought you were Janey. I offered to haul some boxes for her, but she wasn’t interested. I mean, she said she was fine by herself.”

  “Her loss,” I said. It might be a cliché, but soothing a man’s wounded pride with a little flattery never hurt. Francis grinned and said, “What can I do for you, Foxtrot?”

  “Invite me in so we can talk?”

  “Sure, sure. Come on in.”

  He opened the door wider and ushered me inside. The apartment was small, but neat and clean. Racetrack posters adorned the walls, and there was a glassed-in cabinet displaying a number of trophies. The furniture was worn and mismatched, the bookshelf made from boards and bricks. A man proud of what he did for a living, but he hadn’t gotten rich from it.

  “Can I get you something? Glass of wine, maybe?”

  I sat down on the couch. “A cup of tea would be nice.”

  While he puttered around in the kitchen—which was just a tiny nook on the other side of a counter—I glanced around, trying to get a clearer picture of who he was. Paperback thrillers on the bookshelves, mostly Tom Clancy and Michael Crichton; a few potted plants; and a large, wall-mounted plasma TV. Less than a year old, too, which I knew because I’d been researching plasma screens for ZZ a few weeks ago. Looked like Francis had gotten an influx of cash recently.

  “So, you’re a jockey,” I said as he came back with two mugs of tea.

  “It was either that or become a garden gnome,” he said as he put the mugs down on the coffee table and joined me on the couch. It had the feel of a joke he’d told a few hundred times before. “And being a jockey pays better. When I’m working, anyway.”

  I’d done a little research before I set out. “Especially when your horse wins, right?”

  “This is true,” he said. “But I’ve ridden a few winners, as you can see.” He casually gestured toward the trophy case.

  “So you have. Ridden any lately?”

  The smile on his face shrank noticeably. “I’ve been sidelined with an injury. The jockey business is high-risk.”

  “That it is. You can wind up in the hospital, or worse. And really—other than a few standout stars—most jockeys don’t make a lot of money. Thirty or forty thousand a year on average? For a job that requires you to travel a lot and put your life on the line in every race? I feel for you, I really do.”

  The smile was creeping back. If he couldn’t get admiration, he’d settle for pity. “I won’t lie to you—it’s hard. People think it’s glamorous, but—”

  GRAAAAARRR!

  He stopped in mid-sentence. The noise we’d both heard came from out in the hall, and from the volume and intensity you’d swear King Kong had just stepped on Godzilla’s tail while wearing steel-toed boots. I did my best to match the amazement on Francis’s face. “What was that?” I blurted.

  “I don’t know. It sounded like—I don’t know what it sounded like.”

  “Think we should look?”

  “It’s probably nothing.”

  GRAAAAAAAAARRRRRR!

  I raised my eyebrows. “That was nothing?”

  “No, that was definitely something. I just don’t know if we should—”

  I gave him a slight smile and an understanding nod. “Oh. Never mind, I’ll go check it out.”

  I started getting to my feet, but he sprang off the couch like he was spring-loaded. “No, no. I’ll go.” He headed to the door, while I stayed by the couch.

  “Be careful!” I called after him.

  He opened the door cautiously and peered out. “I don’t see anything.”

  GRAARRRR!

  “It’s coming from down the hall,” Francis said over his shoulder. “Around the corner, I think.”

  “But what is it?”

  “I’ll go see. Stay here.”

  Perfect.

  I didn’t have time for much of a search, but there was only one place I needed to check—the fridge. Luckily, Francis wasn’t much of a cook, and his refrigerator didn’t hold a lot in the way of groceries; what I was looking for stood out quite plainly. I pocketed a sample, closed the door, and was back in place seconds before Francis returned.

  “Nothing,” he reported with a puzzled look on his face. “One of the other tenants came out to look, too, but all she saw was a cat. No way a cat made a sound like that—not unless it was a lion passing a kidney stone.”

  Or one that spoke the same language. “That’s really weird. It makes me feel sort of … unsafe.”

  Now was his chance to play the strong male protector. “Hey. It’s okay. I’ll fight off any stray lions that happen to wander by.” He grinned in a way that was supposed to be charming, but only made it to smug.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I really have to go.” I brushed past him, shrugged off his increasingly desperate attempts to reassure me everything was fine, and fled out of the apartment and down the stairs.

  I met Tango in the lobby. “Great job. What was that?”

 

  “Alligators bellow?”

 

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  I knocked on Oscar’s door. This time when he answered he was alone. “Hello, Foxtrot. I suppose you’d like to come in and berate me for a while, since it’s been hours since you last had the pleasure.”

  “I seem to recall that you did most of the berating during our last private chat, Oscar. Which means it’s my turn.”

  He gestured me in sardonically, and I accepted with a cheery smile. Once inside I made myself comfortable on a chair that probably cost what I make in a month. Okay, actually a month and three days—I ordered the thing for him, so I
knew to the penny. “Now. Do you want to offer me a drink to go with the one you’re about to pour yourself, or shall we skip the formalities and get right to the berating?”

  He was already at the bar. “The formalities, as you call them, are all that keep me from sticking my head in the oven and turning on the gas. We can’t let our standards slide over a little tongue-lashing.” He came over and handed me a drink—gin and tonic, heavy on the gin. Once Oscar learned your favorite drink, he never forgot it.

  He sat across from me, his own glass in hand, and regarded me levelly. “Well? Have you come to tell me Mother’s cut me out of her will entirely, and I should start listing the furniture on eBay? Or are you simply going to exercise your power of attorney and begin charging me rent?”

  “Neither one, unfortunately. No, I’m here because of five little letters and two little numbers. Care to guess what they are?”

  “Not in the slightest.”

  “Then I’ll just tell you. CYP3A4-X. Sound familiar?”

  “It sounds like a license plate.”

  I reached into my pocket and pulled out the plastic vial I’d taken from Francis’s fridge. “Maybe this will refresh your memory.” I put it down on the glass top of the coffee table between us.

  He stared down at it, then back at me. “And what, may I ask, is that?”

  “That, Oscar, is a chemical called an isoenzyme. It’s found in many animals, and it’s very important. What it does is help metabolize chemicals in the bloodstream, so toxic levels don’t build up.”

  “Fascinating. Is this your roundabout way of suggesting I enter a rehabilitation facility? Because if so, your sales pitch needs work.”

  “No, Oscar. This is what you and Francis planned to administer to the horses you were going to dope in order to win races. CYP3A4-X causes drugs to break down more quickly than normal, so that by the time the horses were tested they’d be clean. It’s a clever scam; did you come up with it, or did Francis?”

  He regarded me over the rim of his glass as he took a careful sip, then lowered it. “Really, Foxtrot. What an outlandish idea.”

  “I suppose it depends on what you use to dope the horse. I was surprised at how many methods there were; I thought the basic idea was to give them the equine equivalent of espresso, so they’d run faster. Turns out there are several different strategies, including giving them painkillers so they can push themselves past their own limits. Or tranquilizers, to calm them down so they perform better. Francis didn’t seem to have anything like that in his fridge—but I suppose it would be better to have someone else hold on to the actual illegal drug. You know, like a partner that was bankrolling the scheme.”