The Llama of Death
Page 27
As for Joe and me, we passed on the group wedding for our own reasons. I’ll tell you more about that later.
In a plea bargain designed to escape the death penalty, Anthony James Moss confessed to the murders of Victor Emerson and Bambi O’Dair. He also revealed the whereabouts of the body of his cousin, the genuine Dr. Willis Pierce, whose bones were finally given a decent burial. In an odd twist, Serena Sue, Moss’ ex-wife, moved from New Jersey to California so she could more easily nag him during visiting hours at Folsom Prison, where he was serving a life sentence without parole. I guess there’s no accounting for twisted love. The last I heard of Tony Moss, he was planning to stage a prison production of Julius Caesar.
Et tu, Brute.
Within a week of being back from Virginia, Joe—urged on by Soledad Rodriguez—had solved the murder of Duane Langer. Finding the real killer had not been that difficult; just too difficult for ex-Acting Sheriff Elvin Dade. As it turned out, Duane had been shot to death by Kenny Guy Hayward in a bid for leadership of Viking Vengeance. Not only is there no loyalty among thieves, there was none between racists, either.
“How’s Kenny Guy doing?” I asked Joe, who wouldn’t leave my ear alone. “A little bird told me he’s trying to organize another white power group while awaiting trial.”
Joe left my ear alone long enough to answer. “Not well. The other white power thugs hate him because he killed their precious Duane, and everybody else hates him simply because he’s Kenny Guy. I figure his life expectancy at about three months after he arrives in Folsom.”
“Hmmm.”
“Yeah, hmmm.” Back to the ear.
After a while, he said, “Those other blackmail victims. Who do you think they were?”
“I don’t know.”
Here’s the problem with lying: the more you do it, the easier it gets. I had a good idea who Scarlet, Aloha, and Woodstock were, but since their misdeeds were more embarrassing than criminal, I wasn’t about to set myself up as the moral enforcer of San Sebastian County. We’d already had one of those.
To take Joe’s mind off blackmail, I said, “There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you.”
“Ask away, you sexy animal, you,” he whispered.
“Considering the fact that your week-long absence played holy hell with folks hereabouts, did you at least learn anything important when you were out in Virginia with Homeland Security? You know, enough to make all that misery worth it?”
“I’d love to tell you, honey, but if I did, I’d have to kill you.” Snicker.
A few minutes later, Joe having turned his attention to the other ear, I caught sight of two more friends in the audience. I poked Joe in the side with my elbow. “There’s Ada and Howie. Should we go over and say hi?”
“Maybe later.” He nibbled his way down to my neck.
Because of the national publicity about the phony college professor’s arrest, Ada Fife, mother of the one-day marine biologist Howie, was outed as the runaway wife of Gerard Eversleigh Howard, producer of New York’s prestigious Caballero Opera. When Howard received word of his ex-wife and son’s whereabouts, he flew to San Sebastian County with lawyers in tow. They were met at the airport by Joe and his new second-in-command, Deputy Emilio Gutierrez, the county commissioner having finally seen the error of his “seniority above merit” rule. After a few harsh words from Joe, who produced the photograph of a severely-battered nine-year-old Howie that Ada had given him, Gerard Eversleigh Howard slithered back into the slime from whence he came. He hasn’t been heard from since, although Ada is now receiving child support—retroactively, enough that Howie is now commuting to college in a new Mustang convertible.
Speaking of slithering, the week after the Renaissance Faire folded up its tents for the year, Sssbyl slithered back to the zoo on her own one fine morning. Just yesterday she sent out a tweet that she had just given birth to “42 sssweet Mojave rattlesssnake babiesss,” and that she was in “ssseventh Heaven.” But Sssbyl hasn’t forgotten her fans. She still tweets daily, holding forth on subjects ranging all the way from marriage advice to barbeque sauce. She has become one of the Gunn Zoo’s major attractions, teaching thousands of children that snakes aren’t as bad as they’re reputed to be.
The only animal more popular now than Sssbyl is Alejandro. The San Sebastian Gazette, not exaggerating for once, declared the llama a hero. Reports of his life-saving attack made him an overnight media star. He now gives frequent interviews with the California media, as well as stringers from the New York Times and the Chicago Tribune. Alejandro doesn’t usually have much to say, so I “interpret” for him.
Just as Zorah had been interpreting for Sssbyl all along.
One more thing. In the white hot glare of all the media attention, Ernest Dalrymple dropped his lawsuit and entered rehab. I hear he is doing well.
The amped voice of Reverend Smithfield interrupted my reverie as he began the marriage service.
“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here to…to…to be married…Whazzit? Oh, yeah, hey, everybody, we’re gathered here together for something, to…to…”
Joe stopped the delicious thing he was doing to my neck and stood up, his eyes on the reverend. “Teddy, is that preacher stoned?”
I stood up with him and squinted my eyes toward the band shell. The Reverend Smithfield’s eyes were bleary and his hair mussed. Underneath his cassock, where his breast pocket would be, I thought I saw the outline of a candy bar. Or maybe it was crackers.
“Stoned as a goose,” I said.
“Then maybe I should go up there and arres…”
When I shot him a look, he sat back down. “On second thought, maybe not.”
Giving him a peck on the cheek, I said, “Oh, Joe, I really really really love you!”
But I promised to tell you why Joe and I weren’t among the merry throng gathered at the park to exchange vows. That is, if the Reverend Smithfield ever remembered them.
Here’s why we’re holding off.
As soon as Joe and I heard about the upcoming group marriage ceremony, I brought up the possibility of joining our fellow San Sebastianites. He hung back.
“You don’t think it would be fun?” I asked.
“Fun, yes, but on our wedding day I want you all to myself,” he had whispered as we snuggled on board the Merilee. “Besides, I won’t be finished with the master bedroom extension for at least two more months, and I don’t want you to spend the first days of our marriage breathing in sawdust and plaster. What color do you want?”
“Color?”
“You know, for me to paint the bedroom.”
I knew men well enough not to answer, any color you like, honey, so I said, “Yellow. It’s the happiest color there is.”
He gave my ear a gentle bite. “Agreed. But there are a million shades of yellow. Daisy, buttercup, sunshine…Tell you what. I’ll pick up some paint chips from the hardware store. No, make that several hardware stores, and let you choose. How about some blue accents? Or orange, if you want to stay with the warm tones. Turquoise is in now, too, and would look nice with yellow. Maybe lots of plants to get some green in there? Oh, and a home-made quilt from that Amish catalog we were looking at the other day? I want everything perfect for you.”
My fiancé, the color-coordinated bowerbird.
Epilogue No. 2
@Sssbyl: That Ssshakessspeare dude sssaid it bessst—all’ssss well that endssss well, even for usss sssnakesss.
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