1 Take the Monkeys and Run

by Karen Cantwell

  “I’m with PETA,” she said matter-of-factly.

  “PETA?” I asked. Colt answered before she could.

  “People for the Ethical Treatment of ANIMALS,” he said. Then he did it again, and I knew I had seen it right this time. That dirty devil had winked at me.

  Chapter Nine

  COLT INTERCEPTED THE CONVERSATION. “EXCUSE me,” he said to the lady, “we’ll be right back.” Then he closed the door on poor Ms. Webber’s frowny, pinched face.

  “Well that was kind of rude,” I said.

  “Yeah, whatever. Now listen. This woman thinks she’s going to get information from us, but what she doesn’t realize is that we’re going to get what we need from HER. Let her ask her questions, and you go ahead and answer—unless I give you a signal. If I give you a signal, don’t say anything and let me do the talking. You understand?”

  “Not really. What kind of information would she have for us?”

  “Who’s the PI here?” Roger that.

  “What’s the signal?” I asked.

  “Um, okay, let’s see . . . I’ll kick you.”

  “No, you won’t!”

  “Yeah, you’re right—that’s too obvious. I’ll . . . cough. That’s it. If I cough, you let me take over. Got it?”

  “I guess. You’re the pro.” Although, I was increasingly losing confidence in that fact.

  “In more ways than you know.” Colt winked again before opening the door to Patricia, who looked none too happy.

  “I’m so sorry,” I said. “My friend here was just, uh, a little concerned—you know, a strange person coming and asking me questions. He’s a little over-protective.” I tried to act as apologetic as possible without being obsequious.

  “I’m not strange,” she stated rather emphatically. By the looks of her, I wasn’t so sure.

  “I’m sure you’re not,” I said. “Won’t you come in? Can I get you something? Some tea? Coffee? Water?”

  “Nothing, thank you. I won’t take much of your time.”

  I guided her to the living room, where she chose to sit in one of my high-backed wing chairs. She had a rather large, black bag slung over her shoulder, which she laid on the floor at her feet. She pulled out a red spiral notebook and a pen. Colt and I sat on the couch. “I suppose you know why I’m here,” she said.

  “Probably,” I said. “Monkeys?”

  “Precisely. Monkeys. Do you know what kind of monkeys those were in your trees, Mrs. Marr?” Wow, this woman knew my name and everything. I was guessing she knew what kind of monkeys those were, too. Colt coughed. Geez! I didn’t even get to answer the first question?

  “Actually. . . Ms. Webber, was it? She does know what kind of Monkeys those were,” he said.

  I cocked my head toward him in confusion. I was quite sure that I didn’t know what kind of monkeys they were.

  “What she wants to know,” he continued, “is how did you come upon the news that she had monkeys in her trees?”

  Ms. Webber pursed her thin, colorless lips. “We have our ways, Mr. . . I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name.”

  “That’s because I didn’t give it to you,” he said. Ms. Webber’s lips pursed together even tighter. She looked like she had eaten a lemon while being constipated. She blinked a couple of times, straightened her back and then turned her attention back to me.

  “Mrs. Marr, I came here to see if you could be of any help to us with important information. Are you at all interested in answering my questions today?”

  Colt coughed.

  Geez! I turned to him. “Can’t I answer one lousy question?”

  “What?” he said, giving us the innocent act. “I coughed. I might be coming down with something.” He coughed again, then got up to leave the room, tripping over Ms. Webber’s bag on his way out. I gave him an irritated glare and returned my attention back to the testy Ms. Webber.

  “I’m sorry. Please. Ask away.”

  She questioned me mainly on the topic of the monkeys on my property. Where had I first seen the monkeys? How many had I seen? Had anyone else seen the monkeys? Who had I called when I discovered them? Yada, yada, yada. They were actually some very obvious and uninspired questions. I thought I could have done better. She scribbled notes periodically as I gave my answers. It was all very benign. Oddly, she didn’t ask me about the three dead monkeys found in House of Many Bones. I was certainly expecting a question or two about those sad little creatures. Not that I could have relayed much information, since I hadn’t actually seen them myself. Yet, certainly, since they were dead, she should have been more interested in them. I would think they probably hadn’t been treated very ethically, after all. Maybe she didn’t know about them. I considered bringing up the subject, but stopped myself. Colt was adamant that we only get information from her, not vice versa.

  Her final question was a little odd and seemingly non sequitur. “Mrs. Marr, I was wondering, do you know anything about a man named Tito Buttaro?”

  “Tito Buttaro?” I laughed. “Sounds like a character from The Godfather. Why? Is he a monkey smuggler or something?”

  She blinked and pursed those sourpuss lips again. “Can I take that as a ‘No’, then?” she asked.

  “As far as I am aware, I do not know anyone by that name.”

  “Thank you for your time, Mrs. Marr,” she said, standing up and throwing her bag back over her shoulder. She nearly threw my arm out of its socket with her vigorous, goodbye shake. Still no smile. She made her way briskly and stiffly to the front door and let herself out. Colt came back into the living room when she was gone. He was munching on a newly ripe banana.

  “Boy, those PETA people sure are a lively bunch, huh? I’ll bet she’s a real hoot at parties,” I said.

  “She’s not PETA.” Masticated banana slurred his words.

  “What?”

  “She’s not PETA. She’s a Fed. FBI, baby!” Colt was bouncing around me, fake punching like he was a heavyweight. Half-eaten banana in one hand. He was obviously very proud of himself. Still a kid at heart.

  “FBI? Do you think so?” I asked.

  “Don’t think so. Know so.” He stopped doing his Rocky imitation long enough to lick his fingers.

  “How?”

  “I saw her badge.” The bouncing recommenced. Bounce, bounce, punch. The air was getting a real beating.

  “When?” I couldn’t believe it.

  “Man, Curly, what have you gotten yourself into here? You’ve got Feds coming in posing as PETA guys. I mean, there’s something rotten in the State of Denmark if they’re not willing to identify themselves as FBI.” My head was swirling with this information.

  “When did you see her badge?” I asked again.

  “Oh, that piece of investigative work?” He bounded to the kitchen with the banana peel, telling his story more loudly as he went. “That’s when I tripped over her bag. No accident.” I heard the trash can lid drop. “She didn’t even notice because I was so slick.” He returned with a self-satisfied smile on his boyish face. “That’s what you can call me now—Slick. Slick Baron.” He plopped onto the couch.

  “Oh, and her name isn’t Patricia,” he added. “It’s Marjorie.”

  Chapter Ten

  “WHAT?” I FELT AS IF someone had pulled a rug out from under me. I grabbed the wing chair for support.

  “Curly, you look bad.”

  “What did you say her name was?”

  “Marjorie. Why?”

  Suddenly feeling very sick, I grabbed my stomach and groaned. “How do you know that? Was it on her badge? Was there a last name?”

  “No, it was embossed on her wallet. First name only. While I AM good at what I do, I have to say, she’s not a very good agent. She should have closed that bag up better.”

  I groaned again.

  “Am I missing something here?” Colt asked.

  Feeling weak in the knees, I moved to the couch. “I have to sit.”

  “Tell me what’s going on.”

  “
Maybe she didn’t care about the monkeys at all,” I pondered out loud.

  “Do you think it’s about the dead guy?”

  “Not the dead guy, either. I think it’s about Howard. But it just doesn’t make sense. Why would he leave me for her? I mean, I know I’m not very objective, but I don’t really think she was very good-looking, do you?”

  “What in the world are you talking about?”

  “Certainly she’s not brimming over with personality . . .”

  “Curly, you’re worrying me here.”

  I told Colt about finding the paper with Marjorie Smith’s name and phone number, and expressed my fears that he wasn’t buying a couch, but was actually embroiled in a passionate love affair.

  “Why didn’t you tell me about this earlier?”

  “Because saying it out loud makes it feel more real.”

  “Well,” he answered in reply, “it’s been a long time since Howdy Doody and I have been buddy-buddy, but I’ve got to say, I just don’t think she’s his type. Give me a break. Her over you?” He shook his head. “Nope. I think you’re barking up the wrong tree here. The name thing is a coincidence. He’s probably out buying that couch from Marjorie Smith right now, while FBI Marjorie dreams up another undercover persona.”

  I wasn’t convinced. In my wild imagination, Marjorie Smith and FBI Marjorie were one and the same. She was checking me out. Howard told her about the monkeys in my trees and she used that as an opportunity to scope out the scene. She was figuring out how to wear me down—get me out of the picture. She was FBI—she had a gun.

  I ran my theory by Colt. “Think about it—she could snuff me out in a snap and hide the evidence easy. Plausible, right?” I asked.

  “Plausible, not. Listen,” he said, sitting next to me on the couch and putting his arm around me, “you’re getting way too paranoid here. Howie the Boy Scout would never have an affair. He loves you too much. Shit. I was there the first time he laid eyes on you—he fell in love with you then and he never stopped loving you. Not for a minute.”

  “You think so? You never told me that.”

  “Yeah? Well, there’s a reason.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he wasn’t the only one who fell in love with you that night.”

  Awkward moment of silence. Colt quietly picked at a stray thread on his jeans. I watched him pick, not sure what to say next. His words made me happy and sad at the same time. Truthfully, I had my feelings for Colt, too, but I loved my husband, despite everything.

  “Thank you,” I said, finally.

  “For what?”

  “Everything.”

  Something suddenly occurred to me. “Why were you peeking in her bag to begin with? What were you looking for?”

  “I thought you’d never ask! I had my doubts about her from the minute I opened the door. Take PETA—those boys are all over the Internet. They’ve got guys on the inside—whistleblowers, decoys, the whole nine yards. They’re pretty much in the know. Especially about Meadowland. They have whole web pages dedicated to Meadowland monkey abuse. It just didn’t seem like they’d bother to send someone out here, even if they do know about the little guys swinging around here in your cozy little woods—which they probably do.” He shook his head. “They’ve got bigger fish to fry. Plus, that chick just looked to me like she was trying too hard to look PETA, you know? Boy, I’m still hungry. Do you have any apples?”

  “In the fridge.” We got up and made our way to the kitchen.

  “By the way,” he said, “we do know what kind of monkeys they were—Rhesus Macaque.” He opened the refrigerator door, pulled an apple out of the crisper and crunched into it before continuing. “They’re called ‘Old World’ monkeys—they’re used for testing across the board—psycho-pharmaceuticals, AIDS drugs, vaccines, you name it—because they’re the primate most closely related to humans. Here, take a look.” He grabbed his laptop from the corner of the dining room where he had it plugged in. It turned out that while I was asleep, Colt had gotten a head start on the investigating. Callie had taken a cell phone photo of the monkeys and she’d showed it to him, so he used that to compare to images on the Internet. I had to admit, he was good.

  He showed me a website with a picture of the same kind of monkey as those that had been in my trees. Only this monkey was tied down and hooked up to wires. The story related horrors of hideous experiments perpetrated on the poor little creatures. One story in particular went into great detail about researchers opening up the skulls of monkeys, then inserting implants with electrodes into their brains, taking “measurements” the whole while. Another described a psychiatric experiment where the primates were tortured and abused to the point of complete and utter mental upset, then given different doses of anti-psychotic drugs to test the drugs’ “effectiveness.” It was all just too horrible and nauseating.

  After viewing several different websites, I had to stop reading. I was certainly starting to see that Meadowland Labs had something to hide. I wasn’t making the FBI connection, though. It actually would have made more sense to me if the creepy lady had been from PETA.

  “Why did you suspect she was a Fed?” I asked, although the word “Fed” sounded alien coming out of my mouth. They only say cool in-the-know-words like that in movies and spy novels. I felt way out of my domestic element.

  “I didn’t think she was an agent! Are you kidding me? But I thought she was suspicious. I’ll tell you what—it’s very obvious that whatever is going on here is muy, muy grande. How long did you say that house has been vacant?”

  “The policeman said twenty-nine years.”

  “Do you think any of your neighbors around here have been here that long or longer?” he asked.

  I laughed. “Are you kidding me? When people move to Rustic Woods, they die in Rustic Woods. They never leave. Most of the people on our street are retirees.”

  “Great!” he said, clapping his hands. “Let’s go talk to some old people.”

  “But I already told you, no one talks about that house.”

  “They don’t talk to YOU about that house,” he smiled. “But let’s see what we learn applying a bit of the ol’ Colt Baron charm.”

  White Willow Circle, like many residential streets in Rustic Woods, ended in a cul-de-sac. The Perkins lived next to Roz in a two-story brick front colonial. They were a nice couple, whose children were grown with children of their own. They were a cute, short little pair bordering on the rotund. Mr. Perkins looked about five foot three at most, and Mrs. Perkins was at least three or four inches shorter. Whenever I saw them, I was reminded of the Weebles toys that my brother used to play with as a toddler—Weebles wobble but they don’t fall down.

  Mr. Perkins had been a career civilian working for the Navy. He retired shortly after we moved into the neighborhood five years ago. They’ve always been friendly and helpful to Howard and me, so I had no reservations in pressing them further regarding House of Many Bones. Colt and I walked out the door and right into Roz, who was coming over for a mid-morning visit. I suspected that she was aware of a strange man staying at my house and was on a fact-finding mission of her own.

  “Hi there!” she said, smiling at Colt. “Who’s this? Find a replacement for Howard already?”

  “Hey, Roz,” I said. “This is Colt Baron—my friend from California.” Roz smiled as recognition of the name lit up her face. I had mentioned Colt more than once, and she knew our history. She also knew Howard didn’t care for him a whole lot.

  “Oh! Hello! I know ALL about you!” she said. Colt grinned his boyish grin. He liked being infamous.

  “I hear that all the time,” he said.

  I made my introductions. “Colt, Roz Walker. She lives in that house there.” I turned to Colt. “Roz was with me when I was snooping around the vacant house—that one over there.”

  “You told him?” asked Roz.

  “Told him everything—he’s here to help,” I said

  “Oh! That’s right—you’re a
dick.”

  “Roz!” I screamed.

  “Well, that’s what they call you guys, right? A private dick?” she explained.

  Colt laughed. “I think that was in the days of Bogart and Cagney films,” he said. “Curly, here, is a little worried, so I came to offer professional and emotional support. Do you know the Perkins too? We’re going over to talk to them now.”

  “Curly, huh? We have pet names.” She slid me a sideways glance. “Interesting . . . well, yes, I do know the Perkins. Mind if I come along?”

  “Not at all—in fact, you two are the neighbors here. You can introduce me, then just step back and let me work my magic.”

  We started across my front yard toward the Perkins’ house. Roz was smiling and looking at Colt’s butt, which did look delicious in his faded jeans. “He’s cute,” she whispered in my ear. “Where do you find these guys? His hair is perfect!”

  “He’s just a friend,” I whispered back. Colt was walking just slightly in front of us. “I can hear you,” he said playfully. I knew him. Even though I couldn’t see his face, I knew he was smiling like a Cheshire cat and thoroughly enjoying the attention.

  “I wish I had friends like yours,” she smiled with a hint of jealousy.

  I knocked on my neighbors’ door. I was pretty sure they were home—Mrs. Perkins’ spotless burgundy Impala was in the driveway. We stood for several seconds, expecting someone to open the door, but it didn’t happen. I knocked again.

  “Maybe they’re not home,” Colt said.

  “Nah—her car is in the driveway,” said Roz. “They’re home.”

  Poor Mr. Perkins had failing eyesight, which forced him to give up the joy of driving two or three years back. Hence, their only car was the new Impala which Mrs. Perkins drove like she was in the Indy 500. I often thought that it was probably a good thing Mr. Perkins couldn’t see so well, figuring he might suffer a heart attack if he could actually observe even half of the traffic rules she broke while transporting him around town.