by Betty Webb
But I wasn’t going to let Tony kill us without a fight.
Desperate, I grabbed Dad’s hand and wheeled us into a nasty growth of black hawthorn bushes. Their sharp thorns slashed our faces and ripped much of the cloth leaves off Dad’s Green Man costume, but I didn’t care. If we could reach the equipment shed at Friendly Farms where I’d stashed the pitchfork after mucking out the barnyard, we’d have a chance.
From the noise behind us in the undergrowth, Moss was catching up. His bulky Henry the Eighth costume didn’t seem to bother him at all, although it would look like hell afterwards. When he turned up at the Renaissance Faire tomorrow in ragged robes, someone—maybe even the dense Elvin Dade—might figure it out. Then again, Moss had a creative mind and he’d probably think of something. When Joe got back, though…
Don’t think about Joe.
Think about that pitchfork.
“Teddy, let go of…of my hand.” Dad’s breathing had grown more and more ragged as we plunged through the hawthorn thicket. “We can’t out…outrun him…together. We need to…to separate…Let me…stop and I’ll…I’ll distract…him while…you go ahead.”
When I glanced at him I saw bloody scratches marring his dear, patrician face. Clenching his hand even harder, I snapped, “You’re not sacrificing yourself for me!”
“But he’ll…he’ll kill us…both. Better me…than you. I’ve had…a long life. You…you haven’t.”
“He’s not going to kill either of us,” I lied. “I have a plan.”
It wasn’t much of one—pitchfork against gun never is—but it was better than sacrificing my father. As the crashing noises behind us drew nearer so did our possible salvation. I had begun to see flashes of clearing through the dense undergrowth. The barnyard lay only a few yards ahead, and at the other end of it, the shed. I was trying to figure out how many seconds it would take to open the latch when I dragged my protesting father across the paved lane that led past Friendly Farm and saw…
Alejandro.
Standing in the middle of the barnyard, where I’d left him earlier.
A better plan formed in my mind. I helped my winded father under the fence and then pushed him down behind the big water trough.
“Sit perfectly still,” I whispered. “Once Moss goes for me, I want you to crawl to the other side so he can’t see you.”
Dad was too exhausted to argue.
His momentary safety thus accomplished, I fell to my hands and knees, and with waif-like cries, crawled toward the llama.
As Tony Moss emerged from the brush and vaulted the fence, I could see that evil little gun pointed at me. If this didn’t work, Dad and I were both dead.
Then I heard a familiar, blessed sound.
Alejandro.
Screaming in rage.
Wheeck! Wheeck! Wheeck!
Believing rightly that his little human friend was in danger, Alejandro galloped forward and hit Moss with his shoulder just as the man fired. A clod of dirt kicked up near my heel as I rolled away.
Wheeck! Wheeck! Wheeck!
Alejandro rushed Moss again, this time knocking him fully to the ground. Then, as Moss lay sprawled on his back, Alejandro began to stomp him with those big, clawed feet. If I had been a better person I would have stopped the attack once the blood started to flow, but I just stood there and watched.
And God help me, I enjoyed it.
***
Fortunately—or unfortunately, depending on your point of view—help arrived before Willis Pierce, a.k.a. Anthony James Moss, bit the big one. My talkative delay had worked, and everyone had made it out of the animal cafeteria and started toward Monkey Mania. The sound of Moss’ last shot had carried over the hill, alerting my waiting pursuers that someone was hunting the escaped lion for real. They all came running, park rangers, zookeepers, the media with their cameras, taking pictures and shooting video as they ran.
Someone else ran, too.
Dad.
As soon as he saw help was on its way, he blew me a kiss and skedaddled back into the undergrowth.
Moss was a mess. His royal finery was ripped, his lip was split, and his nose appeared broken. But I’ll give the man this; while the hastily summoned EMTs loaded him onto a stretcher, he maintained his sense of the theatrical.
Before he was carted away, he waved a bloodied hand at the cameras and said, “This is what happens when you quote from the Scottish play.”
Chapter Twenty-two
Another thing happened that night to reaffirm my belief in miracles.
As I sat in the same interview room where Acting Sheriff Elvin Dade had once given me the third degree, who should interrupt his repeat performance of accusations but Joe Rejas, the real sheriff of San Sebastian County.
Paying no attention to Elvin’s order to remain seated, I wrapped myself around Joe and wouldn’t let go. He smelled of sweat and travel and man, all man. Once he got through kissing and otherwise mauling me, he peeled me off and set me back down.
“Elvin!” he barked. “What the hell’s been going on!”
To complete the miracle trifecta, Albert Grissom, my defense attorney, rushed through the door with the same question.
The unfortunate Elvin merely sat there, mouth agape.
With Grissom’s approval, I started talking. I told Joe everything that had happened, from the Google hits to Willis’ attempt to kill me. The only things I kept quiet about were my adventures in breaking and entering.
At one point Joe stopped me. “How did you find out Victor was a blackmailer, Miss Bentley?” He had segued from loving fiancé to inquisitor.
Unhappy at the prospect of lying to the man I loved, I replied, “There was, ah, a rumor going around that, um, you needed to watch your step around him or he might, ah, use your indiscretions against you.”
Joe narrowed his eyes. He wasn’t buying it. “You’re telling me that based on a mere rumor, you started snooping around to see who might have secrets?”
“Everyone has secrets, Joe.”
Grissom cleared his throat. “Sheriff, instead of worrying how Miss Bentley came into certain information, why not just ask her what she knew and when she knew it.”
An expression of relief flitted across Joe’s face, and he became the loving fiancé again. “Sounds good to me. Go on with your story, Teddy.”
After a nod from Grissom, I complied. “As I was saying, once I saw Tony Moss’ mug shot, I realized that Willis wasn’t really Willis, so I called Elvin and, well, he didn’t believe me. I decided I needed more proof, something concrete that would convince even him.”
I snuck a look at the former acting sheriff. He seemed to have shrunk.
“Anyway, I took a chance that Willis’…I mean Tony Moss’ ex-wife might be still around, you know how these small towns are, nobody ever leaves, so I called Egg Harbor information and asked for the phone number of Serena Sue Moss, but she turned out to be listed under her maiden name of Tagliossi. I called her and once I told her that her ex-husband was living in Gunn Landing Harbor, she was more than happy to talk to me, especially about what a bad husband he’d been, never paying attention to her good advice, always buying things they couldn’t afford, and finally running them into bankruptcy. She heard that after the divorce he moved to Reno to work in one of the casinos, but she didn’t know he’d been caught siphoning money until he called her and begged for money to hire an attorney. She did—still a flame there, I think—but he was found guilty anyway and wound up in Ely State Prison. That’s the same place Victor Emerson—well, the guy who called himself Victor Emerson—was incarcerated.”
At this, Elvin Dade could no longer contain himself. He sat up straight and barked, “You’re trying to convince us some two-bit blackjack dealer was able to masquerade as a college teacher? What do you take us for—idiots?”
> “Try to act like a professional for once, Elvin,” Joe said, giving him a frigid look. When he turned to me, his expression softened. “Deputy Dade does have a point, Teddy. Can you explain that?”
I smiled back. “I’d been puzzled about that myself, but Serena Sue said that she met Tony Moss when they were studying drama at Princeton University. Like the real Willis Pierce, he loved the theater.” Remembering my own little red-headed cousin who wanted to be a zookeeper when she grew up, I added, “Sometimes these things run in families.”
Defeated, Elvin sank back into his chair.
“At first it was all good. They got married right after he directed her as Titania in Midsummer Night’s Dream, but problems soon cropped up. She told me he went out and bought a flashy car when he didn’t have enough money to pay the rent, and they got evicted. That kind of thing continued until he was forced to drop out of Princeton to take a job at the Lucky Lady Casino in Atlantic City, and she found work at a cocktail lounge. Unlike her, he kept current with what was happening on and off Broadway; she was too disheartened. When he bought a sailboat instead of helping her pay bills, she had enough and filed for divorce. At that point he split for Nevada, where he got caught skimming from the casino there, and wound up in Ely State Prison.”
In a way, I felt sorry for Tony Moss. At the very least, he would be spending the rest of his life in another prison cell, far away from the Caliban, his forty-five foot sloop. I hoped a police search of the sailboat would find the crossbow that killed Victor, but doubted it. After using the crossbow for a second time for skewering Mr. Rat, Tony was smart enough to have dumped the murder weapon into the Pacific during one of his afternoon sails.
Who would own the Caliban next? Someone who could love her as much as he did, I hoped. I wondered if my defense attorney would be interested. Mother loved to sail.
“Teddy? I mean, Miss Bentley, you didn’t answer my question.” Joe’s voice interrupted my chain of thought.
“Sorry. Could you repeat it?”
“As I was saying, I can understand why Mr. Moss would kill Victor—I mean the late Glenn Reynolds Jamison—but why did he kill Bambi O’Dair?”
This is where the truth became touchy again. Dad’s inquiries had gleaned the information that Victor was Bambi’s father and Moss was probably afraid the phony minster had shared his knowledge about him, but I couldn’t tell Joe that. Fiancé or not, he was still an officer of the law. If he knew Dad was in town, he’d be forced to look for him. Given Joe’s native son knowledge of Gunn Landing’s love affairs and scandals, he would start at Caro’s house, then move up to Gunn Castle, and Dad might wind up sharing a cell with Tony Moss.
“I haven’t the slightest idea,” I answered.
Joe narrowed those beautiful brown eyes at me again. “Are you sure you’re telling me everything?”
I crossed my fingers. “Absolutely. Now you know everything I know.” Except for the part that would harm my father.
He stared at me for a moment, then shrugged and shifted his attention to Elvin Dade. “Where’s Moss’ gun, Elvin?”
“Oh, ah, it’s…it’s…” Elvin turned to Emilio, who stood in the doorway, still dressed in his civvies after his return from Los Angeles. “Deputy, what happened to the gun?”
“You mean what happened to the gun after I hear the crime techs had to wrestle it away from you?” Emilio drawled. “I sure hope you didn’t get your fingerprints all over it when you picked it up off the ground with your greasy hands. Oh, well, maybe the techs can still get a partial. Not that they were ever able to do anything with that crossbow bolt you wiped off with your handkerchief.”
Joe glared at Elvin. “You handled evidence with your bare hands? Again? After all I’ve warned you about?”
Elvin shifted in his seat. Sweat popped out on his forehead. “Well, I couldn’t leave the gun on the ground, could I? It…it could get covered with manure.”
Joe muttered something in Spanish and it didn’t sound like a prayer. “You didn’t happen to wash the gunshot residue off Mr. Moss’ hands for him at the same time, did you?”
“Of course not. That would be unprofessional.”
Emilio snorted. So did I.
At that, Joe cleared everyone out of the interview room except for Elvin. The rest of us couldn’t have waited in the hallway for more than two minutes before Elvin came rushing out of the interview room, his face as red as a baboon’s behind. He said nothing as he passed us, just hurried for the exit as fast as his stubby legs could carry him.
Epilogue No. 1
Three months later
First, in this forest, let us do those ends
That here were well begun and well begot:
And after, every one of this happy number
That have endured shrewd days and nights with us
Shall share the good of our returned fortune,
According to the measure of their states.
Meantime, forget this new-fall’n dignity
And fall into our rustic revelry.
Play, music! And you, brides and bridegrooms all,
With measure heap’d in joy, to the measures fall.
—William Shakespeare’s As You Like It, Act V, Scene IV
It was a perfect September Sunday. A sea-born breeze blew gently through the tall eucalyptus trees shading the large crowd gathered in San Sebastian Civic Park. Birds sang. Children laughed.
Joe and I were sitting on a blanket with a picnic basket, waiting for the festivities to begin.
When the San Sebastian Community College Marching Band struck up Mendelssohn’s “Wedding March,” two dozen wedding-gowned and tuxedoed couples filed arm in arm across the stage of the band shell. They would shortly be re-united in marriage—for real, this time—by the elderly Reverend Isaiah Smithfield, once known as “Brutha Ike” by his pot-smoking friends in the Haight. Clad in his clerical robes, the Reverend Smithfield stood on a dais beaming down at the couples as they slowly formed a choir-like arrangement facing the audience. It looked like a high school graduation, if the graduates were between twenty and seventy.
Leading this charge toward connubial respectability were Mayor Jimmy Murano and his soon-to-be-wife-again Evelyn, along with two city council members and their giggling again-brides. Behind the politicos came everyone the phony Victor Emerson had married.
Well, almost everyone.
Liveaboarders Deborah and Phil Holt marched up happily, taking their place in the crowd with their five-year-old daughter, who was decked out in flower girl finery. Following them, to everyone’s surprise, were Deanna and Judd Sazac, who for once, weren’t arguing. Jane Olson, Caro’s great friend, was remarrying her dashing Gold King. I spotted my friend Emilio Gutierrez, looking devastatingly handsome in his dress uniform, eager to remarry his adored and adoring Elena.
“Everyone looks so happy,” I whispered to Joe.
He nuzzled my ear. “Just like we’re going to look soon. Now, shush. If there’s one song I love, it’s the ‘Wedding March.’”
Also tying the knot again were my mother’s former maid Eunice Snow and her husband Bucky. The seven-months-pregnant Eunice could have looked like a hippo in her flouncy white dress, but the joy in her eyes made up for her expanded girth. The couple had plenty to celebrate. Bucky had been so determined to make a success of his job at the San Sebastian Cinema that he spent the last three months devouring books on film. In a payment-in-kind deal with the local TV station. Bucky’s boss wrangled him a segment on Good Morning San Sebastian, where in addition to hyping the coming attractions, Bucky held forth on cinematic history. The segment, “Bucky Goes Hollywood” was now as popular as my “Anteaters To Zebras,” which was back on the air. To add to the couple’s joy, Eunice finally found a well-paying job. Aster Edwina, merely to spite her old enemy Caroline Piper Bentley Hufgraff O�
�Brien Petersen, hired Eunice to work at Gunn Castle at twice her previous salary.
My memory of Caro’s chagrin when Eunice defected to the castle was interrupted when someone tickled my ear again.
“Stop it!” I hissed at Joe. “Grown-ups aren’t supposed to be making out at dignified rituals like weddings.”
“They do if they live in San Sebastian County. We’re not big on dignity here. Know what, Teddy? This might be hard to believe, but I feel kind of disappointed that your mother isn’t on that stage today. She would have been the star of the show.”
I shook my head. “Caro would sooner wear clothes from Walmart than take part in a group wedding.”
A month earlier, sporting a new six carat marquise-cut diamond solitaire, my mother had married Albert Grissom in a lush garden ceremony at her Gunn Landing mansion. As a wedding present, the two men she had once married at Victor’s wedding chapel and later divorced, promised not to demand repayment of their generous settlement. Touched by her ex-husbands’ generosity, Caro indulged in some charity of her own. With the help of my new stepfather, she set up a small educational foundation, which was sending several members of Demonios Femeninos to the Monterey College of Cosmetology. Soledad, Caro’s former cellmate, received enough foundation money to make her dreams of law school a reality.
Always a sucker for my felonious father, Aster Edwina’s cold heart softened enough to loan him her private jet and pilot. The day after the faux Dr. Willis Pierce was formally charged with double homicide, Dad flew back to Costa Rica and into the waiting arms of Dominga.
Not retying the marital knot today were Cary and Melissa Keegan. Rumor has it that Cary had been willing, but as soon as the Gunn Landing Renaissance Faire ended, Melissa followed stuntman Yancy Haas to Los Angeles. Good luck to them both, I thought. Given their propensity for violence, they’d need it.
Former sheriff’s deputy (now retired) Elvin Dade and the very righteous Wynona weren’t here today, either. Their own pastor had quietly remarried them in a small private ceremony in their church. As soon as the sale on their house went through, they were moving to Florida.