The Llama of Death

by Betty Webb

  “You discovered who Victor really was before he was murdered, didn’t you, Wynona?”

  “You’re crazy. Now please go away and let me do what I came here to do—the Lord’s work.” She picked the primrose up from where they had fallen.

  “Yellow primrose and golden poppies will make a nice altar centerpiece.”

  Despite her irritation, she preened. “I’m known county-wide for my skill in flower arranging.”

  “I’m sure you are, but back to my question. When you were out here last week, did you overhear Victor in the process of blackmailing someone?”

  She turned, a puzzled look on her face. It wasn’t faked. “Are you drunk?”

  Strike one. I pitched another fast ball. “Sorry. If mere blackmail had been the subject of the conversation you overheard you would have run straight to your husband and told him all about it, wouldn’t you? There would have been an investigation, followed by an arrest, and we’d have read all about it in the Gazette. It would have been quite a feather in Elvin’s cap, putting the collar on an escaped murderer. But of course that’s not what happened, is it? Here’s what I think really went down. You came out here early one morning to do your churchly duty, but while you were picking flowers near the trailer, you heard Bambi’s voice. Along with everyone else in San Sebastian County, including me, you suspected the two of having an affair. So you snooped.”

  “I don’t snoop.” There was the guilt-ridden expression I had been looking for. Her unlovely face became even more unlovely, and she clutched the primrose blooms so tight it’s a wonder they didn’t scream for the police.

  “You heard enough to realize that Victor and Bambi were father and daughter, not lovers, didn’t you?” I continued. “You also learned something that upset you more than a mere bout of heavy breathing would have—that Victor wasn’t really a minister or notary public. Not being unintelligent, you realized it meant that you and Elvin might not be legally married. Quite a blow for the moral overseer of San Sebastian County, wasn’t it? That was something you never wanted made public.”

  She glanced toward the trailer. With the light as strong as it now was, the trailer remained invisible.

  “Like I said, Teddy, you don’t know what you’re talking about.” But her voice quavered.

  “Your church holds services on Wednesday, Saturday, and Sunday, so I’m guessing that you were picking flowers just before the Faire opened on Saturday moring. That’s probably when you overheard them. Did you rush straight home to tell Elvin?”

  She swallowed.

  “You did, didn’t you? The fact that he didn’t come over here and arrest him right away means you convinced him to hold off, that the shame would be too great unless you two could rectify your marital situation before the ugly truth became public. That’s why, when Victor was found murdered, Elvin believed you did it. He thought you were under the impression that with Victor dead, no one would ever know you two had been ‘living in sin’ for more than a decade.”

  She shook her head so hard and fast it looked more like a spasm than denial. “I didn’t kill him. I…didn’t kill anybody. I…I couldn’t. Even though Elvin said…said he’d have to arrest him and who cared what everyone thought about…about…Oh, what will my chi…children think of…of me?” Her broken whisper sounded almost like a prayer.

  I didn’t like Wynona but at the sight of that prissy lower lip all a-tremble, harder hearts than mine would break. I shoved my way through the waist-high flowers toward her.

  “I know you didn’t kill anyone, Wynona,” I said, hugging her to me. “But your husband doesn’t know that. You’d better tell him before he arrests more people to cover up the murder he thinks you committed.”

  She looked at me for a moment with eyes as big and sad as Alejandro’s, then wept on my shoulder.

  ***

  By the time I arrived at the zoo I was covered in tears, snot, and primrose pollen. Fortunately there was a shower in the women’s locker room, so after a good scrub-down I put on my spare uniform and set off for the quarantine barn. Leaving Victor’s blackmail book in my locker was worrisome, but the choice had been between that or the glove compartment in my tiny econo-compact. At least the locker was can opener-proof.

  In Quarantine I found Alejandro rocking back and forth on his legs, a classic sign of animal stress. His stall was large as stalls go, but not large enough to give him the exercise he needed. At the Faire I had made a point of telling people it was cruel to keep large animals in small spaces, yet here he was, confined in a stall. Knowing the situation was only temporary made it no better.

  Risking Aster Edwina’s wrath I punched in her private number on my cell and told her what I thought.

  She let me finish, something rare for her. At the end of my rant she said, “I agree.”

  “You do?”

  “Yes, I’ve always been uncomfortable with the whole quarantine process, necessary though it is. Tell you what. We need to keep Alejandro away from the public during the day until the zoo’s attorneys convince that drunken Dalrymple person to go fly a kite, but starting this evening we’ll let him spend the night in the Friendly Farm barnyard. It’s quite large and he’ll have the other animals for company. He likes the chickens, I’ve heard. It will be your job to return him to his stall in Quarantine before the zoo opens, so you’ll have to get here earlier. You’ll also need to transfer him to the barnyard after the last visitor leaves in the evening. This means you’ll have to work late.”

  “That’s very kind of you, Aster Edwina. I don’t mind the extra work.”

  “At the Gunn Zoo, our animals come first. Now get back to work. Be aware that I’m docking your paycheck for the length of this conversation. You could have waited until your lunch hour to talk about this.”

  “But…”

  Too late. She’d already rung off.

  ***

  I spent the early part of the morning being fitted for the costume I would wear as a runaway lion during the Great Escape. It was only two days away, and if the costume’s legs were too long, I wouldn’t be able to run fast enough to make the assembled media happy. The suit was hot, and the bulky head partially obscured my sight line. Once Zorah noted my measurements, I scouted out the escape route. I jogged from the big cats’ night house at the top of Africa Trail, down the hill to California Habitat, then south toward Down Under, where I took a short breather.

  On the big day, I would lurk in the nearby brush for ten minutes while the TV cameras filmed the wallabies, then toured the animal cafeteria. Once Zorah messaged me on the radio, I’d head east toward Tropics Trail, then make a beeline north to Monkey Mania where my chasers would spot me again. The chase would pick up speed until they finally netted me in front of the cameras.

  It seemed simple enough. At a slow jog, the entire route took less than thirty minutes. Maybe I could even stretch that rest break.

  During lunch I stopped by Quarantine to see Alejandro and found four young children visiting him. He appeared happy for the first time in days.

  “What’s going on?” I asked keeper Deborah Holt, who appeared to be in charge of the kids. I tried to keep my voice casual, but ever since I had learned about her background, being around her made me nervous. “The public’s not allowed in Quarantine.”

  She shrugged. “They’re my nephews and nieces, and they’ve promised to behave. Other keepers have been sneaking their own younger relatives up here. I’m surprised you didn’t catch on earlier.”

  “I’ve been busy.”

  Something flickered in her eyes. “Trying to figure out who killed Victor Emerson? Stop the detecting, Teddy.”

  “If I don’t do it, who will?”

  “Your boyfriend, when he gets back.”

  “But in the meantime, Elvin’s trying to pin the murder on my mother. Don’t forget, she’s sitting in
jail as we speak.”

  The grim look on her face lifted. “From what I hear, she’s making friends and influencing people.”

  “What do you mean, from what you hear? You have contacts at the jail?”

  “Soledad Rodriguez is my cousin.”

  I hid my shock. “Small world.”

  “Definitely. And with a murderer on the loose, you’re better off not drawing attention to yourself, especially when it comes to amateur detecting. What if Victor’s and Bambi’s killer finds out you’re snooping around?”

  “I’m being careful.” No point in bringing up Mr. Rat.

  One of the children called to Deborah, a little girl who had just snagged her pretty pink dress on a ragged board.

  “Looks like I’m needed,” Deborah said, “but remember—keep your head down and leave the crime-solving to the police.”

  I left the barn feeling uneasy.

  Had Deborah been threatening me?

  ***

  Wednesday tends to be a slow day for the zoo, but this one turned out to be an exception. Although the presence of Victor’s blackmail ledger in my locker remained at the back of my mind, I was too busy to do anything about it. Soon after I arrived at the giant anteater enclosure with a pooper scooper and wheelbarrow, a group of Girl Scouts from Monterey approached. Their troop leader said they were working on their Naturalist badges, and it would be helpful if I could lead them in a short discussion about the animals. Lucy made it easy for me since she was playing Chase with six-month-old Little Ricky. When Little Ricky grew tired, he flopped down on his side. Mama Lucy flopped down next to him, tenderly grooming his dense fur with her long talons.

  “See Lucy’s talons?” I asked the scouts, who were busily writing into their notebooks. “They’re four inches long. She uses them to tear apart rotten logs to get at termites, her favorite food.”

  A freckle-faced redhead of about twelve who looked enough like me to be a distant relation, asked, “Does she just slurp them down or chew them for a while? I’ve seen termites and the queen can be an inch long.”

  “The average termite is nowhere near that big but it wouldn’t matter if they were twice their size. Anteaters have no teeth. When they lap up termites with their yard-long tongue, they simply swallow them.”

  “Are you kidding me? Her tongue is three feet long?”

  “And blue.”

  Another scout asked, “Do anteaters make good pets?”

  I smiled. That was one of the first questions most children asked about any zoo animal that caught their fancy. “Absolutely not. Lucy looks tame and loveable playing with Little Ricky, but giant anteaters are the only animal in Central America that can take down a jaguar. Remember those four inch talons? When they’re attacked, they rear up on their hind legs, brace against their big, thick tails, and rip out the jaguar’s stomach. Believe me, you don’t want an animal like that around the house.”

  The little redhead spoke up again. “But if it could be tamed?”

  “Lucy has been around people almost all her life, and she’s still wild. I’ve been taking care of her for several years and to a certain extent, I’ve earned her trust. But I would never turn my back on her. She’s what zoos call a Code Red animal, which means if she gets loose, run for your life. Or climb a tree and scream for help, because anteaters can’t climb.”

  They looked disappointed, so as an example, I explained that it took thousands of years for Man to domesticate the dog. “Cavemen only allowed the less dangerous of wolves to hang around their encampments, otherwise the young children would get eaten. Those more docile animals would breed, so down through the centuries the tamest of the wolves evolved into semi-dogs. That new species became even tamer over the years until we wound up with the Pekingese.”

  Everyone laughed, but the redhead asked, “What happened to the wolves the cavemen didn’t turn into pets?”

  “They remained wolves.”

  Before the troop left for Africa Trail, the redhead came up to me and confided that, yes, we were related. “My mom said to be sure and tell you if we ran into each other that my grandmother is your father’s great aunt. That makes us cousins. Cool, huh? I’m going to be a zookeeper, too.”

  As Deborah Holt had pointed out earlier, yes, it was a small world.

  After a brief chat with Liza, my newly discovered cousin, I left her with her scout troop.

  From the giant anteater’s enclosure I moved toward Down Under, but on the way I passed the construction zone where Colder Climes was being built. The vast, frigid exhibit was scheduled to open early next year, with one side specializing in animals such as caribou, polar bears, puffins, and arctic foxes, while the other side—already dubbed Little Antarctica—would host several species of penguins. Besides offering the obvious animal attractions, Colder Climes was certain to be popular during the hottest days of summer.

  Further on I came to Gunn Zoo Lake, where the prosimians lived on Lemur Island, just off shore. These “before monkeys” included the always-popular lemurs, slender loris, aye-ayes, and sifakas. The zoo’s designers had wisely located a large picnic area on the mainland shore, complete with telescopes through which visitors could view the antics of the playful, long-tailed creatures.

  I hadn’t yet eaten lunch, so I bought a veggie burger with extra cheese at the refreshment stand, and retired to a table where I had a good view of Lemur Island. Even without the telescope I could see Marcus Aurelius, my favorite ringtail, pulling the ear of a lemur twice his size. He had once been featured on Anteaters to Zebras, but because of a loose sphincter, his appearance hadn’t been a success.

  Remembering that my television segment was on hiatus reminded me that I had been branded as a person of interest in the murder of Bambi O’Dair. My attorney had assured me that nothing would come of it but I was still worried, less for myself than for Caro. There was no use in wishing for Joe’s speedy return. He might not be back for another week, and by then, anything could have happened.

  As I munched through my veggie burger I couldn’t get Mr. Rat out of my mind. It didn’t put me off my feed, I was too hungry for that. But envisioning the threatening note attached to him sure took the shine off the day. There was no way I could put the case out of my mind, so I gave up and took my notebook out of my cargo pants pocket to do some thinking on paper, an old habit of mine.

  I started a list of questions with the appearance of Mr. Rat.

  Question No. 1: Did the bad spelling on Mr. Rat’s threatening note prove Victor’s killer was uneducated? Or had it been written by an educated person taking pains to appear uneducated? Probable answer: the spelling was too poor to be genuine.

  Question No. 2: Did the same person who killed Victor also kill Bambi? Probable answer: yes. Although the murder methods were different, the fact that Bambi was Victor’s daughter was no coincidence. At least I didn’t think so.

  Question No. 3: Had Victor been murdered because he was a blackmailer? In other words, had Scarlet, Woodstock, Aloha, or Taxi—whoever they were—killed him? Answer, maybe, maybe not. Anyone who found out Victor had fraudulently married them to their intended spouse might have been angry enough to kill him, especially if large amounts of marital money were involved. But Victor was a convicted killer and his victim’s survivors included a wife and a child. Had that child, now an adult, hunted him down and killed him out of vengeance? If so, why kill Bambi?

  Question No. 4: Who did I know who might have a reason to be blackmailed? For starters, Deborah Holt, Judd Sazac, and Melissa Keegan. Who else? I’d once read somewhere that everyone had a secret which under certain circumstances they might kill in order to keep. Look at my own life, for instance. Despite my constant denials to the Feds, I had always known my father’s whereabouts, as well as the identifying numbers of his various hidden bank accounts. I would never kill to protect his money but I might
kill to protect him or Caro. For that matter, I suspected they would both kill to protect me, too. Recognizing the darkness in my own soul, I had to admit that few saints dwelled among my relatives and friends. Under certain circumstances, we all were capable of desperate acts.

  But murdering two people?

  I shook my head and looked out once more at Lemur Island. As my eyes focused, I saw Marcus Aurelius bite another ringtail on the leg. It bit back. There was an immediate dust-up, with the second ringtail emerging as the winner. The animal’s pink, yellow, and white collar identified her as Pompeia, Marcus’ sister.

  Just another dysfunctional family.

  Back to my notebook. Blackmail victims seldom advertised their moral or legal failings, which is what made them vulnerable to blackmail in the first place. Who did I know who could have possessed a secret big enough to kill over? Determined not to let personal feelings cloud my judgment, I wrote out another list, this one starting with my fellow liveaboarders at Gunn Landing Harbor.

  I was just writing down Deborah Holt’s name when more screeches from Lemur Island interrupted me. Marcus Aurelius, not having learned from experience, had a second lemur’s tail in his jaws. The other lemur didn’t like it. Twisting around like a circus contortionist, he grabbed Marcus by the ear and twisted. Marcus screamed and let go. The fight wasn’t finished. Pompeia joined in the fray; so did Calpurnia, the duo’s mother. Soon all four lemurs were rolling on the ground, pinching, biting, and slapping.

  The rest of the lemurs gathered around to watch, but like most lemur dust-ups, it came to an abrupt end when Julius Caesar, the leader of the troop, barged in and bit everyone within biting distance. Put firmly in their respective places, the brawlers scattered into the trees.

  If only human interactions were that simple.

  Which reminded me of Victor Emerson’s murder and my suspect list. Like it or not, Deborah Holt needed to be at the top for several reasons. One, because Victor had performed her marriage to Phil, the reptile keeper, and two, because she was working the Faire the night Victor was killed. She possessed both motive and opportunity. She’d attended one of the crossbow demonstrations, along with just about everyone else working the Faire. As far as strangling Bambi went, any zookeeper had enough arm strength to strangle a woman, and as her Facebook page had declared, she was out to get “Deer Woman.” Deborah’s earlier warning struck a sour note, too, as did her familial relationship to the head of Demonios Femeninos. A familial propensity for violence? Something else bothered me about her. The first time we had discussed the fact that Victor had officiated at her marriage, she’d acted nonchalant, but the second time she’d been furious. How much about Deborah did I really know?