The Anteater of Death

by Betty Webb

  I wondered if the woman realized how lucky she was.

  ***

  Back in Gunn Landing the early evening sky was still clear, but a fog bank crept steadily toward the harbor. Checking my cell again, I found two more calls from my mother. The drive past my old house in San Francisco had left me feeling bereft, so as soon as I parked my pickup I headed toward the Tequila Sunrise, hoping a chat with Roarke would chase away my loneliness. Halfway there I caught sight of Maxwell Jarvis, that enemy of all liveaboarders, lolling on the deck of his gas-guzzling eighty-four-foot West Bay Sonship. After giving me a smirk, he reached over and slapped the thigh of the sexy-looking redhead lolling with him. They were both half-naked (Jarvis’ big stomach spilled over his black Speedo) and totally drunk.

  When I reached the Tequila Sunrise, I found Roarke and Frieda standing on the dock debating whether to eat dinner at the castle, the yacht club, or slum it at Fred’s Fish Market. He wanted roast pork in mango sauce, the yacht club’s Sunday Special, but she, looking more rosily beautiful than ever, held out for Fred’s famous oyster stew, which was served in a small loaf of hollowed-out sourdough. She got her way but tossed Roarke a bone by inviting me along as their guest. The source of her good humor revealed itself while we stroll to the restaurant.

  With a rare display of friendliness, she hooked her arm around mine. “You’re the first harbor buddy we’re telling, Teddy. I’m pregnant.”

  For a brief moment I felt a pang, but it was immediately dulled by my happiness for her. “How wonderful! When’s the baby due?”

  “He is due in December,” Roarke said, drawing her to him. “We didn’t want to tell anyone until we were sure. She’s miscarried twice, both times during the first six weeks, but her ob-gyn says she’s past her danger stage now.”

  I hadn’t known about their attempts to have a baby, putting their childless state down to their lifestyle. Now her insecurity made sense. Or did it?

  A shadow dimmed the joy on his face. “This means we’ll have to sell the Tequila Sunrise. I know that some people raise their children on boats, but I’d worry every minute once he started walking. Schooling would be a problem, too. At the very least, we’d have to home-school if we sailed any distance at all, and I can’t see Frieda playing schoolmarm.”

  “I’m willing to give it a try,” she said, surprising me. “I do have a degree, you know.”

  As she spoke, the wispy front of the fog bank reached us, making her shiver. Roarke whipped off his sweater and draped it across her shoulders. “I’ll run back for your jacket.”

  She shook her head. “It’s only a few steps to the restaurant.”

  He ignored her protest. “In this case, Mama doesn’t know best.” With that, he turned and ran back to the boat, disappearing quickly into the hatch. Within seconds he reappeared clutching a jacket in each hand, one for her, one for me. My jacket was warm enough but Frieda’s could have warded off an Arctic winter.

  Picking up the conversation where he left off, he said, “I’m not having Frieda slave away on the boat all day, teaching the kid to read and write. He’s going to attend school like a normal person. And we’ll buy a house, although God knows how much we’ll have to pay, with prices being what they are these days. I don’t think anything in Old Town’s going for less than three-point-five mill, which means we’ll have to sell the boat to help make the down payment.”

  She gave him a peck on the cheek. “Or we could keep the Sunrise and move back into the castle.”

  He shuddered. “And have dinner every night with Great-aunt Aster Edwina? No thanks!”

  “If you can stand it, I can.” She was serious now. “Maybe raising the baby in the same house as your extended family isn’t such a bad idea. Europeans have done it for centuries. But, really, the Sunrise could...”

  A sixty-foot Bayliner, returning to its slip from an ocean charter, gave a blast on its horn, causing the seagulls and cormorants to rise into the fog bank like a noisy cloud.

  By the time the main body of the fog arrived, we’d reached Fred’s. Located inside an old cannery, one half of the building was a busy fish market, the other half a bare-bones restaurant that served up everything the ocean had to offer—poached, fried, baked, broiled or sushi-style. The food’s excellence wasn’t the only thing that packed the restaurant. Sunday night was blues night—free music, free second beer—and a goodly portion of the harbor liveaboarders were already ensconced at the long tables. Delta Force, the local blues band, was in the process of setting up.

  Some of the liveaboarders glared at Roarke, who, as one of the harbor’s well-heeled Northies, they viewed as an ally of the much-loathed Maxwell Jarvis. Oblivious to their ire, he grabbed a table uncomfortably near them.

  “You can be as selfish as you want when you don’t have children,” he said, resuming the conversation. “Now it’s time to grow up.”

  “Don’t be too quick to make a Draconian decision,” I counseled, over the ta-wang of Delta Force’s guitarist as he tuned his Dobro. “I know how you both love the Sunrise.”

  Frieda reached across the paper-covered table and took my hand in a sisterly gesture. “That’s what I’ve been telling him, but he’s determined to do what’s best for me and the baby whether I like it or not. Maybe you can talk sense into him.”

  Me, talk sense into anyone? Me, with my problematical love life, my hardly-more-than- minimum-wage job, my falling-apart boat? But when I remembered Lucy and the rest of my animal friends, I decided I hadn’t done so badly after all.

  Discretion overrode valor. “Sorry, I have no advice to give other than to get a good real estate agent.” Too bad Grayson was dead. He’d have them fixed up in no time.

  Whatever Roarke was about to reply was interrupted by Walt McAdams, who called out, “Better mind your table manners, Southies! I spy two high-class Northies among us.” His table mates, other liveaboarders whose boats were on the dreaded Dolphin Island voyage list, muttered angrily at his words.

  Then Walt turned his attention to me. “Hey, Teddy! Whose side you on, anyway? You’re a Southie. Come on over here with your real friends.” He’d slopped beer all over his blue San Sebastian Fire Department tee shirt.

  Before I could open my mouth, Roarke shouted, “Leave her out of this! For your information, I fought hard against those new ordinance codes, so take your complaints to Maxwell, not me.”

  The drunk fireman stood up as if he were about to stagger over to our table, but his table mates pushed him back into his seat. He couldn’t resist throwing another insult. “You Northies are all birds of a feather, spoiled rich snobs flocking together.”

  Roarke shook his head. “I’ve played golf with Maxwell a couple of times, that’s all.”

  Walt didn’t buy it. “A golf buddy with the very guy who put the harbor master up to the Dolphin Island thing. Hell, you know most of our boats will never make it.”

  Trying once more to deflect his beery anger, Roarke said, “You have more sympathizers than you realize. Most of us, myself included, believe that the liveaboard community gives the harbor its flavor. It’s good for extra security, too. But yeah, Maxwell and maybe a others would like to see you gone. As for their names, all you need to know is that he’s the only one who filed a complaint.”

  The angry mutterings grew louder.

  Walt stood up again. “More golf buddies, right? Why keep their names secret? You afraid we peasants will march on them with lit torches and pitchforks?” As if to illustrate, he held his fork high.

  The others tried to shove him down again, but he resisted, making a few stabbing motions toward Roarke with the fork.

  “Settle down!” I snapped. “A brawl’s the last thing we need.”

  He pointed the fork at me. “Judas!” Then, knocking over his beer, he stormed out the door, leaving his friends to clean up his mess.

  The waiter, who had been hovering nervously nearby, began to take our orders; but by then I’d lost my appetite. Ignoring Roarke’s and Frieda’s
pleas for me to stay, I tendered my apologies and headed for the door. Behind me, Delta Force launched into their first set.

  Outside, the cool fog came as a relief from the hot tempers inside the restaurant. And as much as I enjoyed blues, I welcomed the cushioned silence. Walking along the pier back toward the Merilee, I could barely make out the shush-shush of the incoming tide lapping against the pylons, the soft peeps of shore birds. Entranced by these gifts of twilight, I opened my mouth and breathed in the fog’s salty wetness, glorying in the dampness against my cheeks. How could Roarke and Frieda turn their backs on this?

  Footsteps intruded on my reverie. I turned.

  “Walt?”

  No answer.

  The footsteps grew nearer. Had Walt changed his mind and decided to return to the restaurant?

  “Come on, Walt, let’s make up. We’ve always been friends.”

  Still no answer. I decided it probably wasn’t him after all, but someone who needed to keep his presence a secret.

  My father?

  I had just started to smile when a sunburst lit up the night.

  Then a darkness deeper than fog embraced me.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Lights again. Noise that hurt my head. Some woman asking stupid questions.

  “Can you remember your name?”

  What an idiot. “Theodora Iona Esmeralda Bentley, of course. Leave me alone.”

  “Do you know where you are?”

  Two times an idiot. “On the Merilee. Now would you please switch off those lights? I want to go back to sleep.” I tried to turn to a more restful position but couldn’t, so I closed my eyes tightly to block out the glare.

  A sharp poke in the left leg. I opened my eyes and saw a woman with hair redder than mine hovering over me with something sharp in her hand.

  “Don’t do that again,” I warned her.

  “Good response to pain. How about here?” Another poke, this time in the right leg.

  “Stop it!”

  She ignored me. “Reflexes fine, but she’s still confused. Let’s get her over to X-ray.”

  “Hey, lady, I’m not going anywhere with you.”

  “Teddy, be nice to Dr. O’Hare.”

  Where had I heard that voice before? Oh, yes. Caro. What was my mother doing here? She hated the Merilee, wouldn’t visit on a bet. Except to leave notes.

  “Tell her to get away from me.”

  “You have a big bump on your head, dear, and she wants to make sure there’s no fracture.”

  “Humpty Dumpty.”

  “Who?”

  “Had a great fall.”

  “You didn’t fall. Someone attacked you.”

  “All the king’s men?”

  “Probably some nasty homeless person.”

  As whatever I was lying on bumped along, my eyes found their focus. I wasn’t on the Merilee, but rolling down a wide, white corridor on a gurney. “Did Lucy bite me?” I asked. But how was that possible, considering that anteaters had no teeth?

  Giving up on making sense of the world, I went back to sleep.

  ***

  When I woke later to a strong chemical smell, my head throbbed. Had I been careless and mixed bleach with ammonia, thus gassing myself while cleaning the Merilee? Then I saw the television set bracketed high on a plain white wall. Ignoring the pain in my head, I surveyed my surroundings. Wilting flowers on the nightstand next to my bed, a carafe of water with a plastic straw protruding from it, no dog or cat anywhere in evidence. Stranger still, across the room, Caro slept in a chair guarded by a man, who, although the temperature was pleasant enough, wore a heavy coat with its collar turned up.

  Oh. A hospital room.

  The man approached the bed. “Feeling better?” he asked. After a closer look, I recognized him as my father.

  “My head hurts,” I complained. The light streaming through the half-closed blinds merely made it worse.

  He gave me a concerned look. “That’s because someone hit you over the head.”

  I decided to worry about this strange piece of information later. “What time is it?”

  He looked at his watch. “Almost seven. And keep your voice down. Your mother’s been up with you all night. This is the first time she’s slept.”

  “Up all night, you say? Is this seven in the morning or seven in the evening?”

  “Ante meridian.”

  “Then I need to go to work. Outta my way, I’m getting up.”

  Dad pushed me back down. “The only place you’re going is to your mother’s, and that’s only if the doctor says you can.”

  “But I need to walk my dog. And feed the anteater. And the wolves. And...”

  “Like hell you do. I called the zoo, got passed around from person to person, and eventually wound up talking to the head zookeeper and told her what happened, so she’s feeding your precious animals. Don’t worry about your pets, either. Some fireman named Walt is taking care of them. On a less pleasant note, your cop friend just left to get some coffee, but says he’ll be back.”

  The world, and my father’s problems with it, began to come back to me. “Did Joe recognize you?”

  “Let’s hope not or bundling up like this was all in vain. He only poked his head in here for a second, then left, so it’s doubtful he saw me at all. Now tell me who did this to you so I can kill him.”

  “What?!” In my alarm, I raised my voice, and Caro began to stir.

  “Teddy? Are you awake?” she called. She stood up, revealing that she was wearing pajama bottoms and an old tee shirt. For the first time I could remember, she looked like hell.

  My father called to her. “Yeah, she’s awake, and I’m clearing out before the fuzz comes back.”

  “Dad?”

  “What?”

  “They’re not called ‘the fuzz’ anymore.”

  “See what happens when you lose touch?” He leaned over and gave me a peck on the cheek. “I don’t want to push my luck, so I’ll wait for you both at the house.” To Caro, he said, “Make her tell who did this.”

  He started to say something else, but at the sound of nearing footsteps, hunched into his coat and scuttled out the door in the opposite direction.

  Caro trotted over and kissed my forehead. “Oh, baby, you could have died! First the anteater, then the bears, now this. Move back to Old Town where you’ll be safe!” As she caressed my cheek, her hand trembled.

  Joe entered the room in full uniform, his own reaction more subdued. “Awake, I see.”

  “I don’t understand what’s going on.”

  “Those harbor low-lifes tried to kill you, that’s what happened!” Caro hissed. “The only reason you’re alive is because of Roarke.” She gave Joe a stern look. “She’s too ill to see you.”

  “No, she’s not. Mrs. Bentley, um, Mrs. Hufgraff, uh...”

  Her voice could have cut glass. “It’s Mrs. Petersen.”

  That’s the problem with multiple marriages: the police have trouble staying current.

  Joe matched her frown with one of his own. “Please leave us alone for a minute. I need to question her.”

  She squared her slender shoulders. “No.”

  He squared his broad ones. “Ever see a jail, Mrs. Petersen? Looking out from the inside of a cell?”

  As much as I enjoyed their pissing contest, it was time to interrupt. “I’m dying for a glass of orange juice. Caro, would you please bring me one from the cafeteria?”

  Her face fell. “But I...”

  “The vitamin C will do me good.”

  “Oh, all right.” With a beauty pageant flick of her hips, she strode out of the room.

  With her gone, I hoped to make some sense out the night’s events. “Joe, what happened?”

  “Somebody clocked you, but Roarke Gunn and that fireman...”

  “Walt McAdams.”

  “Yeah, him. They prevented whoever it was from doing anything else to you. After chasing the guy away, McAdams held your hand while Roarke called 9-1-1. When
the EMTs brought you in, you were kind of goofy, and you stayed that way for a while. You just don’t remember. The doc kept you here overnight. If you feel the back of your head, you’ll find a bald spot where they had to shave your hair to stitch you up.”