Crouching Buzzard, Leaping Loon ml-4

by Donna Andrews

  “Maybe,“ I said. “Especially if it requires a period of residence at wherever you're conducting your study.“

  I took Doc's card, which proclaimed that he provided “holistic care for your animal companion.“ He and Rico strolled off to repair the damage Spike had done to Katy's ear.

  So he wasn't a thug. Did that make him more or less likely to have killed Ted?

  If Doc were in the habit of making house calls on his patients, it was all the more likely that he'd known Ted. And witnessed any instances of cruelty to animals Ted might have committed. And also all the more likely that Ted had tried to blackmail him. When I'd thought him merely a biker, I hadn't considered Doc a very likely blackmail target – unless, I suppose, Ted could prove that he'd never done anything wild or wicked, which could probably ruin someone's reputation as a hellion. But Doc, the reformed biker turned vegetarian holistic animal doctor? If I were an aspiring young blackmailer looking to expand my clientele, Doc would be exactly the sort of person I'd want to meet. I bet at some time in his unenlightened past Doc had worn leather boots instead of canvas ones. And probably kicked a dog or two with them.

  Yes, I should look into Doc, I thought. When he came out, I'd reopen the subject of aggression reduction for Spike.

  Meanwhile, to kill time, I picked up Anna Floyd's romance book and began absently skimming through it again. I confess, my mind was more on Ted's fate than the perilous plight of the statuesque blond heroine.

  A finger planted itself on the page I was theoretically trying to read. I looked up to see Dr. Lorelei.

  “I strongly advise against reading that,“ she said, frowning. “It can be very dangerous.“

  Dangerous?

  I glanced up. No, she wasn't joking – I wasn't sure she knew how. And if she was trying to make some kind of veiled threat, it was too well veiled for me to understand it.

  Silly I might agree with – and I couldn't help feeling a little embarrassed, sitting there holding the thing, when I'd been so intent on establishing my reputation as a tough-minded, no-nonsense kind of person. But dangerous?

  “Dangerous? What, do they have subliminal messages or something?“ I asked.

  “Life, and particularly relationships, are not always the way they're portrayed in those books.“

  “I think that's the point,“ I said. “If I wanted realistic stuff about life, I'd go read Tolstoy or something. I mean, I don't really believe in dwarves and hobbits, but that doesn't stop me from reading fantasy. And in real life, murders often go unsolved – does that mean it's dangerous to read mysteries that wrap everything up neatly on the next to last page?“

  “One has to be careful of seeing the world through the lens of popular fiction,“ Dr. Lorelei intoned. “Books like that create unreasonable expectations in their readers.“

  “It's not creating unreasonably expectations in me,“ I said with a shrug. “I don't believe the stuff; Ijust read it to kill time when I'm stuck in line someplace. Or when I'm here at the desk.“

  Dr. Lorelei sniffed.

  “I don't really buy into the heaving this and throbbing that, and midnight assignations in deserted places,“ I went on, fixing her with a stare.

  She turned pale and left, rather hurriedly.

  “You've upset her.“

  I looked up to see the mousy, bespectacled face of Lorelei's partner.

  “Sorry,“ I said. “But she didn't have to give me a hard time just because I picked up something to read that isn't on the list of the world's hundred greatest works of literature.“

  “She's very fierce about what she believes,“ he said with a smile. “I think that's what I've always loved about her.“

  I made a noncommittal noise. Loved about her? This was interesting.

  “I think it took two years of discussions before she finally agreed that it would not compromise her principles for us to get married,“ he said.

  “You're her husband?“ I asked, astounded.

  “We prefer the term 'life partners,' “ he said. “Not only is that a gender-neutral term, but it carries much less negative psychological baggage, particularly for the female in the partnership.“

  To me, life partners sounded more like a title at a law firm, but to each his own.

  “So my taste in reading offended her feminist principles,“ I said. “Someone should have warned me.“

  “I'm sorry,“ he said, patting my hand. “Sometimes Lorelei forgets that other people aren't as evolved as she is in these matters. She's very impatient with all the trappings of romance – she feels society uses them to indoctrinate women into the conventional roles that a paternalistic society attempts to impose upon them.“

  Was it just my imagination, or did his words sound a little flat, as if he'd used them far too often. And did he look a little wistful? And what, pray tell, did he think of the outfit Dr. Lorelei had worn last night? Didn't last night's four-inch heels and slinky black dress count as “trappings of romance“? Not that she'd have waltzed out of the house wearing them, of course – even the most oblivious of husbands wouldn't have overlooked that. Obviously she'd have put on her usual sensible business attire to make the “Sorry, dear – I have a patient who's having a crisis“ announcement. But if he didn't even know her slinky outfit existed, that was a really bad sign, wasn't it?

  While I was pondering, Dr. Lorelei's life partner sighed, checked his watch, and padded back toward his office. I flipped through Anna Floyd's book again. Tall blond heroines… mousy, bespectacled heroes.

  What if either Dr. Lorelei or what's-his-name, her life partner, was secretly writing under the pseudonym of Anna Floyd?

  I waited until Luis passed through again.

  “Luis,“ I said.

  “I'm working on it.“

  “I have another job for you.“

  “What now?“ he said, rolling his eyes.

  “Do the therapists have a network, or just their personal PCs?“

  He frowned. “They have a network,“ he said. “Separate from ours, but Roger administers it, too.“

  “Great,“ I said. “Can you search our network and theirs for any occurrences of this name?“

  I wrote “Anna Floyd“ on a piece of paper and handed it to him.

  “Who's she?“ he asked.

  I held up the book. He wrinkled his nose.

  “This is connected with the murder?“

  “Who knows?“ I said. “Just find out if anyone here has ever mentioned the name Anna Floyd in any of their documents.“

  He stuffed the slip of paper into his pocket and headed toward his cube.

  I had barely found my place in the book again when Doc returned, doing his Saint Francis act with the office dog pack trailing in his wake – eight of them today. Apart from Katy the wolfhound, I spotted a collie, a German shepherd, a Norwegian elkhound, a keeshond, and Keisha's two Saint Bernards. All friendly, easygoing creatures, individually, but when you put them all together, quite a lot of dog. More than the office needed, if you ask me; then again, I considered one Saint Bernard about half again as much dog as any reasonable person could ever need.

  As usual, Spike went crazy when the pack loped in, which gave me the opening I needed to tackle Doc.

  “Could you send them out?“ I called out over Spike's hysterical barking and the good-natured barks and yaps of the others. Doc complied, gently shooing out the other dogs.

  “About this aggression reduction thing,“ I said when the reception room was quiet again, except for Spike's occasional triumphant bark at having caused his foes to flee.

  “He isn't going to learn to interact peacefully with the other dogs as long as he's locked up like that,“ Doc said.

  “If business is slow, I'd be happy to let him out,“ I said. “On one condition, though: you have to give the dog owners on staff a group discount on patching up any damage he inflicts.“

  Doc chuckled as if he thought I were kidding. “Let me talk to him,“ he said, reaching into his pocket and pulli
ng out a small chunk of soy burger. He squatted down in front of Spike's cage and held it out in his right hand. “There's a good boy,“ he cooed.

  Spike cowered in the back of his cage as if terrified by the sudden appearance of food-bearing fingers at the door of his prison. Doc waggled the soy burger enticingly until Spike condescended to creep forward far enough to sniff at the food. I noticed he wasn't in any hurry to gobble it up.

  “You see,“ Doc said, looking up at me. “He's really a very – arrrrrrr!“

  As soon as he realized Doc wasn't watching him, Spike lunged forward to snap, not at the food, but at Doc's left hand – he'd carelessly curled his fingers through the wire mesh to balance himself.

  “Sorry about that,“ I said, opening the drawer where we kept one of the office first aid kits.

  “He needs… a great deal of work,“ Doc said, holding out his hand so blood wouldn't drip on his clothes. Of course, this meant he was dripping on the carpet.

  “Maybe you could hold it over the newspapers?“ I suggested.

  “Blood can be washed out very easily,“ Doc said, frowning. “I'm sure whoever cleans your offices kncfws how.“

  “Yes, but it would almost be easier to do it myself than to get them to do it,“ I said, offering him the Band-Aid selection. “Not to mention the fact that you're bleeding along the mail cart's path.“

  “Given all that, maybe this isn't die best place to keep a dog with an aggression problem,“ he said. I noticed he wasn't calling Spike a poor little diing anymore.

  “Speaking of aggression reduction,“ I said. “Your program sounds like a good idea to me, but I'm not the one who has to make the decision. Do you have any information I can send to his owner? A brochure, maybe some credentials?“

  He opened his black bag and began pulling out papers, including a framed copy of his veterinary school diploma. Fifteen minutes and a trip to the copy room later, I had all the information I wanted about Doc's aggression-reduction program, and, more important, about Doc himself. Although he was either older than me or much more weathered, he'd graduated from veterinary school only two years ago. Definitely a midlife career change – and he was cagey about what he'd done before going to veterinary school.

  “I'll get back to you after I check with Mrs. Waterston,“ I said as Doc hoisted his black bag.

  “Wonderful,“ Doc said. “I'm sure the aggression-reduction therapy will be just the thing.“

  With that, he exited.

  “Aggression-reduction therapy? Who's that?“

  I looked up to see one of the therapists looming over my desk: the assertiveness guru who was always feuding with Dr. Brown. Though perhaps they weren't feuding any longer; he was holding a pink Affirmation Bear in one large hamlike hand.

  “Dr. Clarence Rutledge,“ I said. “He does aggression-reduction therapy for – “

  “Nonsense!“ the therapist snapped. “I know everyone in the field, and I've never heard of him. What kind of credentials does he have?“

  I handed over my photocopy of Doc's diploma.

  “This man's not a psychotherapist!“ he shouted, ripping the diploma in quarters and throwing the pieces in my face. “He's a bloody horse doctor! He has no business tinkering with the human mind!“

  “He's not,“ I said. “He's – “

  “I'm going to report this! If he thinks he can – “

  “Quiet!“ I shouted.

  He stopped in mid-tirade.

  “He's not tinkering with the human mind. He's going to tinker with him,“ I said, hoisting Spike's crate up and plunking it on the desk.

  The therapist bunked, and Spike lifted one side of his lip and growled.

  “Aggression-reduction therapy?“ the therapist said. “I'll show you aggression-reduction therapy!“

  He mashed his face against the wire front of Spike's crate and growled. Or maybe “roared“ would be a better word; it sounded more like something you'd expect to hear when a lion was chasing you through the jungle than anything I'd heard come from even the largest of canine throats. And while both Spike and I were still startled into immobility, he opened the door latch, threw the Affirmation Bear inside the crate, slammed the door shut, and stormed out of the room.

  “I take responsibility for my own destiny,“ the bear proclaimed, as Spike pounced.

  The bear continued to squeak affirmations at intervals after Spike dragged him to the back of the crate and began dismembering him, the optimistic chirp contrasting strangely with Spike's savage snarls. I knew from seeing disassembled bears on various programmers' desks that apart from the small sound box that played the affirmations, the bear contained nothing but cotton batting, so I wasn't too worried that Spike would hurt himself. Destroying the bear kept Spike quiet and occupied for most of the afternoon, and all I had to do was open the crate door occasionally to brush out the accumulated shreds of plush and cotton.

  Meanwhile, I pondered the question of how to investigate Doc. I could ask Luis to do it, of course, but when I'd asked him to snoop around for traces of Anna Floyd, Luis had sounded a little testy. I didn't want to push him too far. Not to mention the fact mat Luis hadn't yet brought me the lowdown on Roger's porn operation, either. Not surprising, since Luis was working a more-than-full-time job, but still – I'm used to more speed and enthusiasm when I send someone off to snoop for me.

  So, since investigating Doc's background wouldn't necessarily require the same kind of computer expertise needed to uncover Roger's porn operation and Anna Floyd's files, I decided to return to my tried and true method of snooping. I called Mother.

  “Hello, dear,“ Mother said when she recognized my voice. “Did you get the book I sent you?“

  “Book?“ I repeated, drawing a momentary blank.

  “Living Graciously in a Single Room,“ she prompted. “I mailed it last week; it should have arrived by now.“

  “Oh, yes,“ I said. “It came Monday. But I haven't had time to read it yet.“

  “You don't actually need to read it,“ she said. “Just look at the pages I bookmarked and let me know which idea you like. I can come up Friday to take measurements.“

  “Measurements?“

  “The seamstresses can't very well start making the curtains and slipcovers without measurements.“

  “What curtains and slipcovers?“

  “If you'd read the book I sent… ,“ Mother said, her tone dripping disapproval.

  “Mother, I've been a little busy,“ I said. “Didn't Dad tell you about the murder?“

  “Well, yes,“ she said. “But it sounded as if he had that well in hand.“

  “It's been keeping him busy, all right,“ I said. “Speaking of that, there's something we thought you could help with.“

  It took a few tries to get her off the subject of chintz and chair rails, but once she understood that what I wanted – what we wanted (I let her assume Dad was also interested) – she took down all the information I had on Doc. If the veterinarian cousin didn't come through, odds were she could get what we needed from an aunt who raised show Pomeranians.

  Of course, to get her to cooperate, I'd had to promise to consider letting her decorate the Cave with something called toile de Jouy. I had no idea what toile de Jouy looked like, but the name alone alarmed me. The Cave was, technically, Michael's, going by the name on the lease, or Michael's and mine, if you considered who was usually in residence. And if you could pin him down to an opinion on a subject as esoteric as upholstery fabrics, Michael, like many guys, would vote for something simple and unfussy. In my experience, simple, unfussy fabrics tended to have simple, unfussy names. Tweed. Plaid. Wool. Stuff like that. Toile de Jouy did not sound like the sort of fabric on which one could safely eat pizza, drink champagne, or do any of the other fascinating but untidy things one can do on a sofa.

  I was starting to get a little worried about Mother's decorating obsession. Over the last several months, she had been talking more and more seriously about opening a decorating business. Sho
uld I encourage her? I wondered. I couldn't help savoring the idea of Mother bullying unsuspecting strangers into buying the kind of expensive, over-the-top rugs, furniture, and household objects she adored and actually getting them to pay her for the privilege. But I had the sneaking feeling if she ever did start her business, she'd expect me and my sister to let her redecorate once or twice a year and then keep everything absolutely spotless so she could drag potential clients through our homes with little or no notice. Not to mention the suspicion that if Mother went into decorating, she'd inflict things on us that would make toile de Jouy seem down-to-earth and homey.

  I brooded about the prospect until closing time, and then went back to the Cave.

  I scanned Ted's blackmail list. So far, I'd still identified only three of the targets – Roger, Luis, and Dr. Lorelei as the Voyeur, the Hacker, and the Valkyrie. I racked my brains over the others for a while, and then gave up to take a much-needed nap before stealing back to the office for the evening's snoop.

  When midnight rolled around, I walked back to the office, enjoying the cooler night air. One of the Cave's few virtues was its central location, only a few minutes' walk from the campus, the Mutant Wizards office, Luigi's, or any other important location in Caerphilly. And while some people had begun to complain about safety – imagine they actually had to lock their doors these days – the crime rate here was so minuscule compared with the Washington, D.C. area that I rarely hesitated to walk by myself.

  Especially at times like this, when I wanted to be unobtrusive. I would never have expected to find anyone else around the office after hours – at least, not after midnight. But after running into such a crowd last night, I decided maybe I'd rather not have my car sitting quite so visibly in the parking lot.

  The lot was empty when I arrived. Of course. It had been last night, too. Apparently, last night I had been the only surreptitious visitor to Mutant Wizards without the sense to conceal her mode of transportation.

  And by the time I arrived at the parking lot, I was rather hoping I'd see a car. Serves me right for being careless about safety, I told myself as I entered the lot, already fishing in my purse for the office key. About halfway through my walk, I'd begun to get that creepy feeling that someone was watching me. If I stopped suddenly, the echo of my footsteps stopped just a little too late. Was that my shadow on that building – or the shadow of someone else, slinking along behind me.