To Die Fur (A Whiskey Tango Foxtrot Mystery)

by Dixie Lyle

  “Ben?” I said. There was just a touch of worry in my voice; the last time I saw him looking all dreamy and unfocused like that, he was in danger of losing control of a freak storm he’d just whipped up.

  “Hmm?” He blinked and turned to look at me, his eyes alert.

  I relaxed; false alarm. “Have you seen Tango around?”

  “Not since I fed her this morning. Why?” His voice was casual, but I sensed something else underneath it.

  Ben, the truth, and I had an odd relationship. Even though he was a supernatural being, and I had a supernatural occupation, I wasn’t supposed to tell anyone—including him—about the details of my job. Some things he knew, others he didn’t: For instance, he knew it was my job to protect the graveyard, but not that Whiskey was a ghost or Tango a reincarnated feline. He didn’t know about Whiskey’s shape-shifting or Tango’s ability to talk to other species, or that I communicated with both of them telepathically. I was dying to tell him, but you know how it is when your boss wants one thing and you want another: You get away with as much as you can and hope you don’t get fired.

  But Ben wasn’t stupid. Animal graveyard, supernatural weirdness, sudden arrival of two animals who spend a lot of time hanging around me: He knew they weren’t quite what they seemed. So far he’d been good about accepting my explanation of not being able to explain—but I could tell he was getting a little impatient.

  “They’re not zombies, are they?” he asked, giving Whiskey a calculating look.

  “Whiskey and Tango? No, they’re not zombies.”

  [You could ask me to play dead. I can do that.]

  “You sure? I mean, they don’t smell like they’re dead, but—”

  “They’re not zombies, Ben.”

  “Weresomethings?”

  “Weresomethings? Like what? One’s a dog, one’s a cat. You think maybe they swap when the moon is full?”

  He shrugged. “I was thinking more like they change into human form. I mean, that’s what my ancestors apparently did.”

  “Yes, Ben, they’re werepeople. Please don’t call the police if you see a naked man rooting through the garbage or a nude woman up in a tree.”

  [Please. As if I’d indulge in such boorish behavior.]

  Ben shook his head and grinned ruefully. “I’m sorry. I know I shouldn’t grill you, but—well, I’m just trying to figure this whole thing out, you know?”

  I did know. Just like I knew Ben and I had skated right up to the edge of maybe seeing each other when both our lives got turned upside down and we were both too discombombulated to add a new relationship to the mix. I hadn’t even figured out if I wanted to give it another try, let alone how. Or if he felt the same.

  “I’m working on that, okay? Believe me, I don’t like all this secrecy, either.”

  “I know, I know. Not your call. Starting to get that, more and more.”

  “Oh? How so?”

  He sighed and leaned back against the counter. “Been doing some reading. And I finally tracked down my sister—she’s in Australia. We talked some.”

  Anna, Ben’s sister, was the one who’d triggered his Thunderbird abilities before catching the next plane out of the country. She didn’t seem like the outback type, though—more like the slingback. “I thought she’d gone to Europe. What did she have to say for herself?”

  “She apologized, for starters. For Anna, that’s a big deal—she’s not exactly what you’d call gracious. More like a get-out-of-my-way-before-I-knock-you-over kind of personality.”

  “A force of nature?”

  He chuckled. “Pretty much. You could pick just about any weather-related word and apply it to her at some point or another: icy, stormy, scorching, blustery … her being a Thunderbird makes a crazy kind of sense. To her, too—that’s why she took off in such a hurry. She was afraid she’d lose control and call up a hurricane or a blizzard or something.”

  “So she flicked your on-switch and left?”

  “That was never the plan. Her powers came to her gradually, over a period of weeks, and started when she got obsessed with the sky. She figured the same thing might happen to me, but she wasn’t sure. Thought it sounded crazy. Came here to warn me more than anything.”

  “Then why’d she take off?”

  Ben shook his head. “She had to. After our little visit, her powers came on stronger than ever. She panicked, took a cab straight to the airport, and tried to get as far away from me as possible. She thought distance might help both of us—all she could think of was what happens when warm and cold fronts collide in the atmosphere.”

  “They turn into a storm, right. But—getting on a plane when you think you have out-of-control weather powers? That doesn’t seem like a good idea.”

  “I said the same thing. She agreed, but told me she’s always felt safe in the air. I knew exactly what she meant; ever since we were kids, we loved flying. We used to play this game on airplanes when there was turbulence, pretend we were on a roller coaster and yell Whee! Got told by more than one flight attendant to keep it down.”

  “So she ran to Australia. That’s actually pretty smart. Not a lot of weather out in the middle of the desert, and fewer people to get hurt if something goes wrong.”

  Ben nodded. “Yeah, that’s what she figured. She’s going to stay for a while, experiment a little, get used to what she can do. Says she’s already real good at making it hot and dusty.”

  “And how about you? How are you adjusting?”

  He looked thoughtful. “Pretty good, I think. Big breakthrough when I clued in to my new senses—temperature, humidity, barometric pressure. Little intense at first, but I can tune it in and out now. Haven’t tried to do anything more than this, though.” He gestured, and a breeze sprang up out of nowhere, ruffling his blond hair and blowing some papers off the table. It died down a second later.

  I laughed. “That’s great! Impressive amount of control for a newbie, don’t you think?”

  He looked proud and a little embarrassed. “I guess. Thunderbirds were supposed to be able to generate storms, but that wasn’t all. They were also—”

  He was interrupted by Consuela, one of the maids, hurrying through the door. “Excuse me,” she said. “Miss Foxtrot? Miss ZZ is asking for you.”

  “To be continued,” I told Ben, and he waved me back to work.

  Whiskey and I followed Consuela out of the kitchen and to the sitting room. ZZ could have just called me, of course, but she was always misplacing her phone. “One of the problems with modern technology,” she’d sigh. “The smaller and more portable it is, the quicker you can lose it.”

  ZZ was talking to Shondra Destry, her head of security. ZZ was dressed in a flowing, tie-dyed caftan, her curly orange hair tied back with a flowered lei, while Shondra wore dark pants, a light blue long-sleeved shirt, and a scowl.

  “I don’t see the problem,” ZZ said to her.

  “The problem is, he’s a ghost,” Shondra replied.

  I stopped dead.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “A what?” I said.

  “Oh, hello, Foxtrot,” said ZZ. “Shondra was just explaining a nonexistent problem to me.”

  “Nonexistence is right,” Shondra said. “And that is the problem.”

  I felt a little light-headed. Whiskey, standing right beside me, said, [Steady, Foxtrot. No need to panic.]

  “I don’t—that isn’t—what now?” I said, in a very non-panicky way.

  “He doesn’t show up in any database,” said Shondra. “He doesn’t exist. Which means either he’s given us a phony name or he’s had his identity scrubbed clean. Either way, he’s trouble.”

  “You’re being paranoid,” said ZZ.

  “Yes. That’s my job description. Paranoia Specialist, First Class. It’s right there on my contract.”

  “Who are we talking about?” I asked, confused but no longer worried. I was pretty sure there was no database for ghostly canines. Well, there was the supernatural scent library Whiskey had a
ccess to, but that was a completely different thing.

  “Luis Navarro,” Shondra answered. One of the guests due to arrive any moment.

  “Oh, him,” I said. “That’s perfectly understandable. He’s here representing the interests of an anonymous applicant. He explained to me over the phone that his employer wants his involvement completely hush-hush. No publicity at all.”

  Shondra gave me an incredulous look. “And you agreed to that? Foxtrot, this guy could be any random lunatic—”

  I returned her look and added just a trace of friendly backspin to my reply. “Give me a little credit, okay? His employer is a billionaire with a keen interest in the welfare of animals. Luis couldn’t provide his identity, but he offered to donate a hundred grand to any charity of ZZ’s choice for the opportunity to attend.”

  “And?” said Shondra skeptically.

  “And,” said ZZ, “the World Wildlife Fund is now a hundred thousand dollars richer. Not many random lunatics are willing to pony up that kind of entrance fee.”

  Shondra still didn’t look happy, but she nodded. “I suppose. Any idea whom he’s representing? Seeing as how you’re the one who talked to him.”

  “He was cautious, but I got the impression it might have been someone based in Dubai. Oil money is my guess.”

  “Sure. A fat cat looking to acquire another fat cat.” Shondra shook her head. “You’re not seriously considering this guy, are you? He just wants an expensive toy.”

  “We don’t know that for sure,” said ZZ. “Mr. Navarro will have the chance to make his employer’s case to me, just like the others. A one and five zeros earns him a listen, don’t you think?”

  “That’s your call. Just remember, there are rich lunatics in the world, too. I’m going to be keeping my eye on him.”

  “That’s fine, dear,” said ZZ. “Try not to shoot him until after dinner.”

  At that moment the doorbell rang. “Ah, they’ve begun to arrive,” ZZ said. “Shall we go see who it is?”

  “I’ve got work to do,” Shondra said. I knew she just wanted to go upstairs and monitor everything from the security feeds in her office, but that was probably better than having her scare the guests.

  ZZ, Whiskey, and I met the first arrival in the foyer, where he was waiting after Consuela let him in. He was a tall, regal-looking Indian in a bright-red turban and a dark-gray suit, with a neatly trimmed beard. He had a single rolling suitcase that stood upright next to him, handle extended, its posture as straight as his own.

  “Good afternoon,” he said as soon as he saw us. He gave us both separate and very formal nods. “You must be Ms. Zoransky. I am Rajiv Gunturu.”

  “Mr. Gunturu,” said ZZ warmly. “So glad to see you. Call me ZZ, please—and this is Foxtrot, my personal assistant. If you need anything at all while you’re here, please let her know.”

  “Hello,” I said.

  “A pleasure, Miss Foxtrot. Thank you so much for all your hard work in arranging this meeting.” His accent was strong but perfectly understandable.

  “Just Foxtrot is fine. I’ve put you in a bedroom on the second floor, if that’s all right?”

  “That is fine. If you would excuse me, I would like to refresh myself.”

  “I understand—long flight from India. Consuela will show you to your room.”

  He nodded once more, grabbed his suitcase, and headed upstairs behind the maid.

  “Remind me again,” said ZZ. “Which one is he?”

  “From an Indian casino. Not the Native American kind, the Taj Mahal kind. Apparently his bosses think a white liger would be a big draw.”

  “Ah. And why are we considering that?”

  “Their brochure was very persuasive. Also, they pledged to donate a percentage of the casino’s profits to Greenpeace.”

  “Oh, that’s right. I was mixing him up with that conservationist group for some reason.”

  “The Nigerians? It’s probably the name of their representative—Abazu. As opposed to Gunturu. Though Abazu is a first name and Gunturu is a surname.”

  “What’s the Nigerian’s last name?”

  I smiled. “Chukwukadibia.”

  ZZ blinked. “You’re making that up.”

  “No, it’s his name. Try to keep a straight face when I introduce him, all right?”

  [That’s not a strange name. I knew a terrier once named Princess Boopsie Loopsy Quimbasket Biscuit Barrel the Third.]

  Quiet, you. “I was just going to go over the menu for tonight with Ben. Any last-minute requests or changes?”

  “No, no, I’m sure he’ll do his usual amazing job. So, when are you and he going out again?”

  My turn to blink. “Me and he what now?”

  She gave me a look. “Going out. As in, you went out once and he likes you and you like him and why haven’t you done it again?”

  “I just—he doesn’t—so there’s not—”

  “Yes, yes. You’re very busy and you work together and you’re worried it’ll be awkward if it doesn’t work out. Nonsense. You’re both adults and life is too short. Work it out—that’s what you’re good at, are you not?”

  Leave it to ZZ to cut right to the heart of the matter. “Um, it’s not quite that simple—”

  Thankfully, we were interrupted by the doorbell again. This time ZZ opened it herself.

  “Hello!” said the barrel-chested man with the bushy blond mustache. He had two large suitcases with him, one on either side. There was a taxi parked in the turnaround behind him, with the driver and an Asian woman hauling more luggage out of the trunk. “You must be ZZ. I’m Jaro Karst—nice to meet you!”

  He stuck out a large hand, and ZZ took it. “Hello, Jaro. Do you need help with your bags?” She glanced over at the woman, who was struggling with numerous satchels and suitcases.

  Jaro followed her look. “Oh! Sorry—let me give you a hand, love.” He trotted over and grabbed one of the larger bags. The woman nodded and said, “Thank you.” I grabbed two more, leaving her able to at least move. She marched up to ZZ and said. “Greetings. I am Zhen Yao, representing the Wuhan Zoo. You are Mrs. Zelda Zoransky?”

  “Call me ZZ, dear.”

  Zhen Yao was dressed mostly in black, and seemed a little nervous. “Ah. Zee-zee Deer. Yes. I am very pleased to be here.”

  “Zhen Yao and Jaro Karst?” I said. “I didn’t expect you two to show up together.”

  “Ran into each other at the airport,” said Jaro. “Complete coincidence. Wound up sharing a cab—funny how life works, eh?”

  “He recognized the logo of the Wuhan Zoo on my luggage,” said Zhen. She sounded a little defensive. “It seemed the reasonable course of action.”

  “What a place!” declared Jaro, looking around. “You know how to live, Ms. Zoransky, I’ll give you that!”

  “Thank you, Mr. Karst,” ZZ replied. “Consuela will be back in a moment to show you to your rooms. Dinner is promptly at six, but we’ll be meeting for drinks in the sitting room at five thirty. If you need anything before then, let Foxtrot know—you all have her number, yes?—and she’ll do her best to meet your needs. Ah, here’s Consuela.”

  “Let me give you a hand,” I said.

  “No need, no need,” said Jaro. “Me and Ms. Yao and Consuela can manage between the three of us, right?”

  “Certainly,” said Ms. Yao. “Although I would like to take this opportunity to say—”

  “Come on!” boomed Jaro, grabbing the bags I’d just set down. “Can’t wait to see the new digs!” He charged through the door with Consuela in tow, and after a second a flustered Zhen followed.

  “Interesting,” ZZ murmured. “He reminds me of a boat salesman I knew once. Delightful, but only in small doses. Don’t let him run you around too much, dear.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind. It’s funny, he’s not at all what I imagined from his emails.”

  “No? How so?”

  “Well, he came across as very serious. Very dedicated to the wildlife preserve he runs
.”

  ZZ smiled. “He seems quite passionate to me. A man who takes life in big bites, I’d say. But there’s often quite a difference between someone’s online persona and what they’re like in person; that’s why we have these salons, after all. As good as the Internet is at connecting people, it’s still no substitute for being in the same room as the person you’re talking to.”

  “Also, it’s easier to serve drinks.”

  “That, too. Speaking of which—”

  ZZ’s son, Oscar, was strolling toward us along the path that led from the guesthouse he lived in. Oscar was a paunchy, middle-aged man, with a wide friendly face and a tan he worked on whenever possible. He dressed well, did as little as possible, and enjoyed the occasional drink—in the sense that fish enjoyed the occasional swim. He liked his wine as dry as his wit (which was considerably) and had the ethics of a hungry eel. Despite all this, ZZ loved him; she gave him a generous allowance, did her best to keep him in line, and bailed him out when he got in trouble.

  Which, sadly, happened far too often. Oscar was clever, bored, had low moral standards, and lived on a fixed (though impressive) income. Combining these qualities with a steady diet of alcohol tended to produce a variety of less-than-legal plans to fatten his wallet, though I suspected he got more enjoyment out of the scheming itself than any potential profit. If Higgins from the old TV series Magnum P.I. had a boozy, sleazy twin brother, Oscar could have played him with no effort at all.

  “Good morning, all,” Oscar said. “I see the guests have begun to arrive. Please tell me they aren’t all vegetarians.”

  “Don’t worry,” said ZZ. “Your intake of red meat won’t suffer—though you could do with a salad now and then.”

  “As long as it arrives in the company of a tenderly cooked filet mignon, I’ll happily partake. I heard a large truck a while ago, too—does this mean our newest feline resident has also shown up?”