The Llama of Death

by Betty Webb

  “Hola, Teddy!”

  “Buenos dias, Emilio. Bad scene last night, wasn’t it?”

  He pulled a face. “Made even worse by our inglorious leader. We’re counting the hours until Sheriff Joe gets back.”

  If intelligence mattered as much as seniority, the very bright Emilio—who had served only four years with the Sheriff’s Department—would now be the acting sheriff of San Sebastian County, but thanks to bureaucratic short-sightedness, he wasn’t.

  “Have you tried to reach Joe?” I asked him.

  His face grew longer. “Yeah. And so has every other deputy in the county. I called Homeland Security itself, not that it did any good. The agent I talked to said that unless there was a dire emergency—and he didn’t consider one measly murder an emergency—none of the sheriffs could be reached until their training sessions are completed. Which means Joe has no idea what we’re going through, and he won’t until they give him his cellphone back. Heck, I even called the state police about our situation, but because of jurisdictional issues, they can’t override Elvin no matter how goofy he gets. Unless he actually breaks the law, that is, and it’s not illegal to act like an ass. The county commissioner is standing firm on the seniority issue, too, so we’re screwed.” He sighed. “I hear you’re set up at Camel Rides now. You need your sign?”

  “That, plus any more information you care to give me.”

  “No problemo.”

  As I detached LLAMA RIDES from the post it had been hammered onto, he filled me in on Acting Sheriff Elvin Dade’s latest misadventures.

  Elvin was moving through the Peasant’s Retreat like a hurricane, Emilio told me, rousting sleepy people and demanding to know where they were and what they were doing at two in the morning. Everyone except Walt McAdams and the other security guards claimed they had been asleep. When Walt confessed he had been less than three hundred yards from the crime scene when the alarm was raised, Elvin had all but pulled out a rubber hose to work him over.

  “Geez, Teddy, he put Walt through such a grilling I thought he was gonna arrest him right then and there,” Emilio said. “But after Walt told him you reached the body before he did, Elvin started carrying on about you, yelling that you had no business tramping all over the crime scene, that you…”

  “I heard screams. What was I supposed to do, roll over and go back to sleep?”

  “Of course not, but logic isn’t Elvin’s thing. You’d be sitting in an interview room down at the station right now except for what Walt said next.” He paused for dramatic effect.

  “Which was?”

  “He claimed he’d seen a ghost.”

  I blinked. “Did you say, ‘ghost’?”

  “Can you believe it? First, somebody’s been out in the middle of the night playing bows and arrows, Walt sees ghosts, Henry the Eighth winds up dead. You can’t make this stuff up. So yeah, Walt saw a ghost, or at least something pale and filmy floating around near that Ye Olde Imagery place.”

  Ye Olde Imagery was the photo booth where Faire-goers could pose in medieval or Renaissance garb. It was located at the north end of High Street between the Gunn Zoo Information Booth and the Royal Armory. Picturing it, I remembered Melissa Keegan’s filmy nightgown. Her black hair could have blended into the shadows, but her white gown could easily have been seen as a ghostly apparition. Victor had been killed by a crossbow dart, and the Armory not only stocked working crossbows, but their ammunition as well. Melissa’s demonstration yesterday in the jousting arena proved she was skilled with the weapon, but for the life of me I couldn’t see her as a murderer. Besides, it was well known around the county that she was too timid to even talk back to her bossy husband, let alone kill someone she knew only in passing.

  “Do you know where Elvin is now?” I asked Emilio. “As much as I hate the idea, I need to tell him something.”

  Emilio jerked his head in the direction of the RV parking area. “He’s still back there. My advice is to stay out of his way, but do what you have to do.”

  I tucked the LLAMA RIDES sign under my arm and headed for Peasant’s Retreat. Finding Elvin was easy; all I had to do was follow the cries of outrage.

  He was outside the RV shared by Deanna and Judd Sazac, who took turns manning the Information Booth. Standing next to them were Howie Fife, the Faire’s teenage “leper,” whose injured ankle remained wrapped in bandages, and Dr. Willis Pierce, head of the Drama Department at San Sebastian Community College. Dr. Pierce had been roaming the Faire dressed as Shakespeare, quoting the sonnets and handing out flyers advertising the school’s upcoming production of Much Ado About Nothing. The four of them were strung out along the side of the Sazacs’ motor home like suspects in a lineup. The adults merely looked miffed but seventeen-year-old Howie appeared petrified.

  “What do you mean, your costume disappeared and you didn’t tell anyone?” Elvin screamed at the kid.

  “I…I…”

  “Quiet, Howie,” Dr. Pierce snapped. “You don’t have to tell Deputy Dade anything. You’re a minor. Ex parentis. Keep silent until your mother gets back with breakfast.”

  “Oh, so you’re a lawyer now, Pierce?” Elvin sneered. “Just because you’re some fancy-pants college teacher doesn’t mean you know what you’re talking about.”

  Pierce rolled his eyes. “‘The fool doth think he is wise, but the wise man knows himself to be a fool.’ As You Like It, Act V, Scene I.”

  Rightly suspecting he’d been insulted, Elvin scowled. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It’s a quote from a play,” I said, jumping in. “Elvin, before you question these folks any further, I have important information for you.”

  He transferred his scowl to me. “Teddy Bentley, did I or did I not tell you to address me as Acting Sheriff Dade?”

  If Pierce rolled his eyes any further, they’d unscrew from his head. Averting my own eyes from that fascinating display, I answered, “Sorry, Acting Sheriff Dade. It’s just that I…”

  “Let me guess. You want to stick your nose in another murder case. Go back to your big hairy pet.”

  I threw a despairing glance at Dr. Pierce, who rolled his eyes again. As I walked away the other deputies gave me sympathetic looks. They didn’t like the situation, either, but there was little they could do about it.

  On the way to the Queen’s Bakery I ran into Ada Fife, Howie’s mother. She carried a tray loaded with muffins and coffee, and was walking slowly so as not to drop or spill anything.

  “Ada, Elvin Dade is giving Howie a bad time.”

  She looked so startled she almost dropped the tray. “What? Are you sure?”

  “I’m afraid so. Dr. Pierce is trying to protect him, but you’ve lived here long enough to know what a dunderhead Elvin is. He’s asking Howie all sorts of questions, so you’d better…”

  I wasn’t finished with my sentence before Ada hustled off toward the RV parking area, coffee sloshing as she ran.

  A few minutes later I’d purchased my own coffee and a bran muffin the size of a soccer ball. By now it was almost eight, and even local Faire workers who had been lucky enough to spend the night in their own beds at home were trickling in. The day was warming up and the remnants of the morning fog burned off. When I entered the food tent, everyone was talking about last night’s events.

  “I heard the guy was shot,” said a rotund jester I didn’t recognize. In his yellow and orange costume, he looked like an overripe peach.

  “My money’s on a stabbing,” a sleepy-eyed monk offered. “I didn’t hear any shots.”

  “Considering what you were up to with that blonde last night, you wouldn’t have heard the charge of the Light Brigade.”

  The monk snickered. “Methinks I detect a note of jealousy.”

  “Next time, take it outside. As a favor to me.”

  “Anything
to make the court jester happy.” The monk’s face grew serious. “Speaking of court, how’s the Royal Progress going to be handled today? No king, no Progress?”

  The jester brushed away a fly. “The buzz going around is that they asked that Shakespeare guy from the college to step in, seeing as how he’s so good at the lingo. He’s the right height, if not weight, but I imagine pillows will help with that.”

  “The King is dead, long live the King.”

  I was a quarter way through my muffin when Melissa and Cary Keegan sat down across from me. The couple manned the Royal Armory and ran a mail order medieval and Goth weapons company from their house in San Sebastian. From spring to fall they travelled the circuit from Renaissance faire to Renaissance faire throughout the west to sell their wicked-looking wares, spending almost as much time in their RV than at home. I noticed that even though it had a well-equipped kitchen, they had purchased coffee and rolls from the bakery. The better to hear gossip about last night?

  Given Cary’s shoulder-length black hair, multiple ear studs and nose rings, he looked like Satan on his way to collect a soul. He was study in black: black beard, black fingernail polish, black leather vest, black satin shirt, black leather pants, and black leather boots. All he needed to complete the resemblance to Old Scratch was a forked tail.

  Melissa wore black, too, but on her it wasn’t scary. The bodice of her long ebony dress barely covered her milk-white breasts, and her matching eye shadow and lipstick played up her flawless skin. The monk and jester almost fell off their bench ogling her. When Cary shot them a look they hurriedly returned their attentions to their muffins.

  “Cops arrest anyone yet?” Cary asked me as soon as he sat down, confirming my suspicions.

  “You mean Acting Sheriff Dade? Not that I know of.”

  “I thought he was quite rude when he questioned us this morning,” Melissa said, her voice a vulnerable soprano. “He’s not a very nice man, is he?”

  “Nice” not being a word normally associated with Elvin Dade, I made no reply.

  “When we left the RV this morning,” she continued, “I heard a couple of the ladies-in-waiting talking. One of them said she’d gone down to the llama pen when she heard all the noise. She got close enough to see everything and she said it looked to her like a crossbow dart killed Victor, but I don’t see how…”

  “That’s enough, Melissa,” her husband said.

  “But Cary, that missing crossbow, it wasn’t my fault! I keep as close an eye on our stock as possible, but with all I had to do…”

  “Quiet!” he hissed.

  “Don’t you see that…”

  “Melissa,” I said, “When Elvin Dade finds out about the missing crossbow he might want to talk to you again, so you’d better get your story straight.”

  “Mind your own business, Teddy,” Cary snapped. Then, to his wife, “Time to open the booth.”

  “But I’ve only started drinking my coffee. And I haven’t touched my muffin.” Melissa couldn’t have sounded more mournful if her dog had just died.

  He frowned. “Bring it with you. On second thought, leave it here. I don’t want it slopping all over the stock.”

  Ignoring her protests, he dragged her away.

  “That brute doesn’t deserve her,” the monk said to the jester.

  “I thought you preferred blondes,” the jester parried, as he helped himself to Melissa’s leftovers.

  “Depends on the brunette.”

  Looking around, I saw that Cary’s behavior had had the same effect on all the men. The women appeared more puzzled than outraged. Especially Speaks-To-Souls, who had entered the big tent with her greyhounds in time to catch the end of the conversation. Spotting me, the animal psychic came over to my table.

  “What did you think of that little scene?” She smoothed her white abbess robe and sat down carefully, greyhounds at her feet.

  “The monk said it best, Cary’s a brute.”

  “Making Melissa a damsel in distress?”

  Her tone surprised me. “That’s what it looked like to me.”

  “Yes, it did, didn’t it?”

  Uncomfortable, I changed the subject. After we shared a thorough rehashing of last night’s events, Speaks-To-Souls mused, “I wonder what Victor was doing in the llama enclosure.”

  I had wondered, too, before remembering that Victor once officiated at a wedding between a couple of San Sebastian llama owners who brought along their two llamas to serve as best man and maid of honor. The local newspaper ran an article about their nuptials, illustrated with a picture of the bride and groom in formal wedding attire posed between the llamas. It was my guess that besides the vows themselves, there had been a certain amount of conversation between all parties about the animals’ frequent use as herd guards.

  “Maybe Victor thought Alejandro would protect him,” I said.

  “Isn’t Alejandro a spitter?”

  “Getting spit on’s better than a crossbow dart in the neck. Besides, I doubt if he knew about Alejandro’s dislike of adults.”

  “Hmm.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “Hmm?”

  “Well, we’ll see, won’t we? Which brings me to the main reason I wanted to talk to you. Have you seen your mother this morning?”

  “Caro? No, why?”

  “You might want to give her a call.”

  “I’m sure I’ll see her sometime today. She’s supposed to take part in this morning’s Royal Progress.”

  “Call her anyway. When I was walking over here, I passed Bambi O’Dair. She was talking to Deputy what’s-his-name, and I didn’t like what I heard.”

  “Elvin Dade. And he prefers being addressed as Acting Sheriff Dade.”

  A faint smile from Speaks-To-Souls.

  “Anyway, why should anything Bambi says worry you?” I asked. “She’s the kind of blonde that gives all blondes a bad name. She…” I stopped, remembering the conversation between the jester and the monk. The monk had spent a noisy night with a blonde. Bambi, perchance? The woman did have a reputation for being free with her affections.

  Speaks-To-Souls interrupted my thoughts. “I heard Bambi tell Elvin Dade that your mother threatened to kill Victor. Behead him, I think.”

  I laughed. “Caro’s always running her mouth. It doesn’t mean a thing.”

  “Does Elvin Dade know that?”

  “He should, since he’s known her all her life. Went to high school with her, dated her once, even asked her out again one time when she was between marriages, the second and third ones, I think. Or was it the third and fourth? Mother’s been married so many times it’s hard to keep track. No, it had to be between the second and third, because not long afterward, Elvin married Wynona Foster from over in Castroville, and they’ve been together for, what, fifteen years? Twenty? As a matter of fact, Victor officiated at their wedding. This was before Wynona got religion, and still thought one reverend was as good as another. But since they were all dressed normally and didn’t bring any animals with them, they didn’t get their picture in the paper. She’s younger than Elvin, but it wasn’t like she was a child bride or anything, so there was no story there.”

  Speaks-To-Souls face hadn’t lost its solemnity. “Caro needs to know what Bambi’s been saying, Teddy.”

  I glanced at my watch. “She’ll be driving in from Gunn Landing any minute. I’ll stop by the Royal Pavilion and tell her to turn her mouth off, at least until all this blows over.”

  I probably should have taken Speaks-To-Souls’ advice and called Caro right away, not that it would have made any difference. By the time the Faire opened for the Sunday crowds, Acting Sheriff Elvin Dade had already placed my mother under arrest.

  Chapter Three

  I should have known something was wrong on Sunday when Caro didn’t show up for the King’
s Progress. I have two excuses. One: sick as it sounds, murder is good publicity. The Faire was twice as crowded as yesterday, and given the business boom in Llama Rides, I had no time to hunt my mother down. Two: sometime during the morning my cell phone died and I was too busy to notice. Between the hectic work and a cell phone too dead to chirp, I remained blissfully unaware of my mother’s situation until the Faire closed for the weekend, and I had trailered Alejandro back to the zoo, then returned to my home in Gunn Landing Harbor.

  The village of Gunn Landing lies a few miles north of Monterey and sits on a quarter-mile-wide strip between the Pacific Ocean and the coast highway. The village is so small that most residents, such as myself, live on boats in the harbor. We’re called liveaboarders, a clumsy word for describing people whose lives are ruled by the tides and whose diets are rich in fresh fish. My own floating home is the Merilee, a refitted thirty-four foot trawler berthed at the southern end of the harbor.

  A thirty-four foot boat sounds roomy enough, especially since it’s almost twelve feet wide at the beam, but the actual walking-around room is less than twenty feet. The rest of the boat’s interior was taken up by the bulkheads, cabinets, forward and aft bunks, and the galley with its built-in eating area. Houseboat living isn’t for claustrophobes.

  But it can be soothing. When I first came into possession of the Merliee after my return from San Francisco, I replaced the Merilee’s former party boat decor. Now the forward cabin bunk was covered with a pale blue spread and plump cushions depicting dolphins and whales. The aft bedroom, where my pets and I slept, boasted an otter theme. Small though my boat is, living aboard is no hardship. Imagine waking to the pitter-patter of pelicans waddling around on your roof, or cries of seagulls following the fishing boats out to sea. No matter what I’ve gone through during the day, watching the sun set from the Merilee’s deck brings peace to my soul.

  Not tonight, though.

  As I stepped aboard the Merilee, the sun had already dipped into the Pacific, fog was rolling in, and the other liveaboarders were battening down their hatches for the evening. Bluish TV light flickered from nearby portholes. From the boat next to mine, I heard Wolf Blitzer delivering the evening news. Taxes were up, income was down, same old same old. Tuning out, I concentrated on the good things of life: my furry companions.