The Llama of Death

by Betty Webb

  Mindful of her tight finances, I turned down refreshments. “I’m fine, thanks. Just dropped by to speak to Howie. Is he here?”

  Instantly, her bonhomie disappeared. Instead of joining me on the settee, she leaned against the galley sink, her thin mouth thinning further. “I’ve heard about you, Teddy, and if you think you’re going to give my son the third degree on what happened at the Faire the other night, think again. Besides, Howie’s not here.”

  Her timing could have been better. Uneven footsteps up on deck announced Howie’s return. Seconds later, the Faire’s one-time leper descended the ladder to the galley, the pain of his sprained ankle apparent on his cherubic face. When he saw me he smiled, revealing teeth that cried out for orthodontia. “Say, aren’t you the woman with the llama? Reynaldo? Roberto?”

  I smiled back. “Alejandro. And yes I am. Do you like animals?”

  Ignoring Ada’s frown, he limped over to the settee and plopped himself down next to me. “Like!? Soon as I complete my associate of arts degree, I’m transferring over to Cal State and majoring in marine biology.”

  “Monterey Bay campus?”

  “You betcha. That’s why we moved here from…”

  “Howie!” Ada’s interrupted. “Didn’t you tell me you had a paper due, the one on microcystin and its impact on sea otters? Get to it.” With an unmanicured finger, she pointed toward the aft cabin.

  “Aw, Mom! She’s a zookeeper and I wanted to talk…”

  The finger remained pointing. “Now!”

  With a wounded look on his face, Howie hobbled off.

  Hoping to ease the tension, I asked, “His ankle still hurt him?”

  “Yes, it does, and that’s what I get for letting him take that stupid job at the Faire. Now please leave. I’m very busy.” The finger swiveled toward the hatch.

  I looked down at the half-worked crossword puzzle. “Stoat,” I said.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  I did some finger-pointing of my own at the clue to thirty-one across. “Five letter word for a summer ermine.”

  With that parting shot, I cleared out.

  I was halfway to the Merilee when I spotted Dr. Willis Pierce sitting at one of Chowder & Cappuccino’s outdoor tables. The drama professor/replacement King Henry was slurping his way through a bread bowl of clam chowder. Since he had also been working the Faire when Victor Emerson was murdered, I decided to take the opportunity to question him. Feigning a casual manner, I bought chowder for myself and walked over to his table.

  “May I join you, Dr. Pierce?”

  Although several other tables were empty, he graciously pulled out a chair and performed a gallant bow. “Most assuredly, fair maid. Sit thyself down and enjoy thine own hearty repast.”

  I groaned. “Oh, please. I’ve had enough Renaissance-speak to last me for the next century.”

  He chuckled. “That’s what you get for volunteering. And since you’re not one of my drama students, please call me Willis.”

  “I didn’t volunteer, Willis.”

  “Ah. I forgot. You’re one of Aster Edwina’s indentured servants.”

  “Got it in a nutshell.”

  His lean, Van Dyke-bearded face assumed a professorial expression. “Know where that saying comes from? The Roman philosopher Marcus Tullius Cicero said that the Iliad was written in such a small hand on a single piece of parchment that the entire epic could fit into a walnut shell.”

  “Really?”

  “Really, according to historical record. Nevertheless, the idea of the Iliad fitting into any kind of nutshell is preposterous. The classicists used hyperbole to make a point. In Cicero’s case, he was probably complaining about his students’ sloppy handwriting, which I might add, has changed little in two thousand years. Take my drama students, for instance. Despite the invention of Microsoft Word, I still receive essays on Richard the Third that look like they were pecked out by chickens.”

  “Howie Fife is one of your drama students, isn’t he?”

  Before answering, he threw a piece of bread to a nearby gull, which only served as a signal to other gulls. Within seconds we were surrounded by the screeching pests, but Willis didn’t seem to mind. Another animal lover.

  “Howie’s one of my better students. Too bad he’s so interested in marine biology.” As if belatedly remembering my profession, he gave me a sheepish smile. “Since you work with animals I imagine we have a difference of opinion on the subject.”

  “California already has plenty of actors. Say, weren’t you the person who got Howie the paying job at the Faire?”

  He sighed. “Fat lot of good it did him since the kid tripped over a pig at Serf City the first day out. You might remember that he still showed up for work the next day, which is when that idiotic Elvin Dade tried to give him the third degree. Thankfully I was there to head the bully off. Considering what Howie and his mother are going through, you would think Elvin would show a little mercy, but no. The quality of mercy is strained in Elvin’s universe.” He sighed. “Poor kid. Given that rust bucket he and his mother live on, they certainly need the money the leper gig paid, although it wasn’t much. Ada’s a checker at the San Sebastian Ranch Market, but it’s only half time work. Being raised by a single mother myself, I know what that little family is going through.”

  This was the first time I had heard the drama professor mention his childhood. Although always ready to gab, especially about theater, he seldom offered personal details. “My own parents are divorced,” I offered.

  He gave me a wry smile. “But you and the beautiful Caro weren’t quite eating out of dumpsters, were you?”

  There being little I could say to that, I moved on. “You know, Willis, considering all the trouble Howie was having with his ankle Saturday, I was surprised to see him back at the Faire the next day.”

  “No problem there, since his new job is a sitting one. When you see him next, he’ll be in the Royal Pavilion pulling duty as one of my courtiers. I’m the new Henry the Eighth, you remember, albeit a much thinner Henry.”

  The perfect opening. “Terrible about Victor Emerson, isn’t it?”

  “Dreadful. Someone told me he was killed by a crossbow bolt. Surely that can’t be true.”

  “As the person who discovered the body, I can assure you it is. He died in the llama enclosure, right at Alejandro’s feet.”

  “Poor llama.”

  Not poor Victor? “How well did you know him? Victor, I mean.”

  “Since he ran a church and I’m a devout non-believer, I knew him only in passing.” At that point, a Pomeranian off its leash scampered up to us. In a flash, Willis rose from his chair and hooked the dog under his arm. “Silly boy,” he murmured to it. “Those mean old gulls will peck your eyes out.”

  After a red-faced woman waving a leash trotted up and claimed the errant Pom, we resumed our conversation.

  “Victor ran a wedding chapel, not a church.” Why did people keep getting the two mixed up?

  “Same thing.”

  “Not really. A church is…Oh, never mind. Were you there all night? Or did you drive back here after the Faire closed?”

  Willis chuckled. “Playing detective, Teddy? Might as well, I guess, since thanks to Homeland Security, Deputy Dawg, er, I mean Deputy Elvin Dade is heading up the official investigation, and good luck there. To answer your question, I much preferred to sleep on the Caliban than in a tent or trailer surrounded by drunk monks and jesters. As soon as the Faire shut its gates for the night, I drove home, poured myself a chilled glass of the Gunn Winery’s best Chardonnay, and after watching a DVD of Burton and Taylor chewing the scenery in The Taming of the Shrew, tottered off to my lonely bed. There’s my alibi, poor though it is.”

  “I wasn’t asking…”

  “The hell you weren’t.” Bu
t he reached across the table and patted my hand.

  Embarrassed by my investigative clumsiness, I changed the subject. “That’s nice of you, helping Howie get paying jobs at the Faire. Most of them are volunteer.” Like mine.

  He waved his good deeds away with a graceful gesture. “We liveaboarders have to stick together.”

  “How well do you know his mother?”

  “Ada? Hardly at all. We only visited once, when I was showing her how to prep for that storm last week.”

  I scanned the ocean. No storm clouds in sight. No clouds at all, in fact, unless you counted the flock of seagulls following a fishing boat making its way back to the harbor from the open sea. “The weather can be tricky along the coast and if you don’t know how to ride it out, you’re in trouble. From what I hear, Ada’s quite the landlubber.” I turned my attention to my lunch. After a few spoonfuls, I said, “Chowder’s good, isn’t it?”

  “Not as good as at Fred’s Fish Market. I’m only here because the line over at Fred’s was too long. So many tour buses in town.”

  “But the chowder’s only half the price here.”

  “True. Zookeeping work doesn’t pay all that well, does it?”

  Only half-kidding, I answered, “Like those dancers in Chorus Line, we do it for love.”

  “Excellent musical. I tried to mount it last year at the college but we didn’t have enough good singers who could also dance, so we did Oedipus Rex instead. Some of the parents weren’t happy.”

  “Nothing like a little patricide and incest to stir up the locals. Did Howie play Oedipus?”

  “I gave him the part of King Laius, Oedipus’ unfortunate daddy. Howie transferred here mid-semester, and didn’t have enough time to do the main character justice. But even then I could see his level of talent.”

  This was working like I’d hoped. “Where’d Howie transfer in from?”

  Willis shrugged. “I haven’t the faintest idea. In California sometimes the less you know about your students, the better off you are. Hell, half the kids have rap sheets these days, and I don’t mean that benighted music genre. Howie’s a good kid, which is why I helped him. I’d help his mother more if she’d let me, but other than that one time, she’s been pretty stand-offish. Some bad history there, I imagine.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “Bambi told me that Ada once said all men were monsters at heart, but when she asked what she meant, Ada clammed up.”

  “Do you think that’s really her name? Bambi’s, I mean.”

  “Unlikely though it seems,” he said, “that’s what she insisted during that brief time we two were an item.” For a moment he looked sorrowful. But just for a moment. “As the Bard said, ‘What’s in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.’ Romeo and Juliet, Act II, Scene II.”

  “How would Bambi know Ada? I mean, Bambi lives in San Sebastian and I imagine she does her grocery shopping there. She doesn’t have a boat, either.”

  He raised in eyebrows. “You’re a little behind times. Our beloved Bambi recently inherited the Runaround, her aunt’s thirty-six foot Pearson. It’s berthed next to my Caliban. ‘If this were play’d upon a stage now, I could condemn it as an improbable fiction.’ Twelfth Night, Act III, Scene IV.”

  Which explained why I’d missed the news. Willis’ boat was berthed at the pricy northern end of the harbor near the yacht club. Since I wasn’t a dues-paying member, Elvis could be living over there scarfing down Krispy Kremes, and I wouldn’t know.

  “Bambi doesn’t seem like the harbor type to me,” I said. “Does she even sail?”

  “The Runaround hasn’t left the dock since she inherited it. However, when I walked down here for lunch, I saw her and a few friends partying on deck. Nice little sloop, even though it is fiberglass.”

  When it came to boats, Willis was a snob. His own wooden, forty-five foot Sparkman and Stephens 708 had once placed second in the Master Mariners Regatta. Although the cabin area seemed cramped for liveaboard life, the Caliban’s sleek lines had half the harbor drooling. Tight quarters or not, it must have suited him, because unlike most dock-bound harbor residents, he was frequently seen tacking toward Dolphin Island, the Caliban’s sails eating the wind.

  “Where did Bambi say that fascinating conversation with Ada took place?” I asked.

  “In the laundromat, where else? They were sitting there watching our washing go round and round. Not that Bambi normally frequents the place, but when she took over the Runaround, she had to wash all its linens because the aunt hadn’t been aboard her in quite some time. You know what mildew smells like.”

  Mildew was a constant challenge to harbor life, and it made for frequent visits to the harbor’s laundromat. Still, I had trouble envisioning the close-mouthed Ada spilling her guts to a man-magnet like Bambi. Surely she hadn’t expected sympathy from that quarter. Or did the two have something in common I didn’t know about? Little though I liked the idea, I decided to interview Bambi next.

  In the meantime, I had a few more questions for Willis. “Did Howie’s mother pick him up right after he hurt his ankle? I don’t remember seeing him around until the next morning.”

  “Ada was working the Faire that day, too, so she brought him home.”

  “About what time was that?”

  “Hmm. Around lunchtime, I think, either before or after. I can’t be sure. I was busy walking around quoting the Bard.” He gave me a stern look. “Why so curious about the kid’s whereabouts? Surely you don’t suspect him of offing Victor Emerson.”

  “Of course not,” I said, “but some of the younger people working the Faire bring sleeping bags and make a party of it. Seems like that’s the kind of thing kids Howie’s age would like, so I imagine he felt bad, missing that.”

  He gave me a wry grin. “Ada is much too protective to let the kid hang out with them overnight, so it was beddy-bye on their wee little boat for her baby.”

  “That’s a bit of a harsh judgment, don’t you think?” Given the problems so many teens had these days, I could understand Ada’s concerns, and told Willis so.

  He shook his head. “If that was all, you’d be right. But the other day when I was readying the Caliban for a sail, I saw Howie talking to Bambi, and from my vantage point, they looked like they were getting along like a house afire. You know how great Bambi looks in a bikini.” He looked sorrowful again, but brightened up even quicker this time. “As I was saying, the two were talking quite animatedly, when here came Ada, hurrying down the dock, tripping over her own feet, demanding he get back home. She had a few choice words for Bambi, too, all but called her a Scarlet Woman.”

  “How strange.”

  “How astute.” He changed the subject so quickly it almost made my head spin. “Speaking of Bambi and Anne Boleyn and that other Renaissance Faire drama, how is your beautiful mother? I hear she’s in jail for incitement to riot, of all things. Wouldn’t have thought she was the type.”

  “She’s doing as well as can be expected.” In between mouthfuls of chowder, I filled him in on Caro’s situation, finishing with, “For the first time in her life, she’s developed a social conscience.”

  “Better late than never. Tell you what. I’m teaching an extra-credit summer class tomorrow, and since the jail’s so close to the college, I’ll drop by and see her. Lift her spirits with chocolate and flowers.”

  “She’s in jail, Willis, not the hospital.”

  An expression of Shakespearean concern played across his face. “Then ‘Come, let’s away to prison; we two alone will sing like birds i’ th’ cage.’ King Lear, Act V, Scene III.”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  Just as long as the song wasn’t “Jailhouse Rock.”

  ***

  Attempting to get information from Bambi would be pointless as l
ong as she was busy with her friends, but it occurred to me as I continued my walk toward the Merilee that talking to Deanna and Judd Sazac might be more fruitful. Their Chugalug was a thirty-two foot Constellation that had begun its existence as a seafaring party boat, but was now retired to a more sedate life in the harbor. Although the Sazacs had a beautiful Mediterranean-style house perched on a hill above San Sebastian, they spent almost as much time on their boat as they did in their home.

  “Ahoy, Chugalug! Permission to board?” I called to Deanna, who was up on deck staring out at the Pacific, Judd’s Jack Russell terrier at her feet. I didn’t see Judd.

  Somewhere in her late forties, Deanna could usually pass for thirty but not today. She responded to my voice with a start, and when she turned around, I saw that her eyes were red. She held a half-empty Martini glass in her hand. “Come on up, Teddy. I can’t promise to be good company, but at least then I wouldn’t be drinking alone.”

  Ignoring every rule of common decency—after all, my mother’s freedom was at stake—I joined her.

  “Martini? Chardonnay? Diet Coke?” she asked, when I joined her.

  The sun not yet over the yardarm, I accepted the soft drink. As she poured it into a highball glass, I said, “You seem upset. Is there anything I can do?”

  “Find me a new husband.” From the look on her face, she wasn’t kidding.

  Deanna’s marriage to the two-decades younger Judd had long been the subject of harbor gossip. The fact that they were frequently seen quarreling only added fuel to the fire. I suddenly remembered that they had been going at it at the Faire the night Victor had been killed, too. Ordinarily, I would back away from any hint of marital discord between my friends, but today wasn’t ordinary.

  “Are you and Judd squabbling again?”

  She snorted, making the Jack Russell look up quizzically. “Yes, and before you ask, the ‘squabble’ as you so delicately word it, was over a woman whose name and description begin with the letter ‘B’.”