by Dixie Lyle
[I must confess I don’t understand exactly how that would work.]
I swiveled around in my chair. “Okay, let’s say you’re a criminal with a lot of money you need to hide. You pose as an investor—or multiple investors—and give the money to a film company. The company spends every dime on a gajillion different things, at least on paper—in reality, the producer cuts the actual budget to the bone and pays the money right back to the investors through shell companies that claim they provided various services: catering, carpentry, travel, wardrobe, props, even special effects. It doesn’t matter if the movie makes money or not; if it does it’s a bonus, and if it doesn’t it’s still accomplished its purpose.”
[You think he was doing that with this production?]
I frowned and leaned back. “I don’t know. But if he were, it would raise a bunch of possible reasons someone might want him dead. Maybe he was cheating his investors. Maybe he was informing on them and they found out. Maybe someone from his past decided to get revenge for an old injustice.”
I got to my feet. “Come on. Tango has to be recovered by now; let’s go find her and see if we can pry a few answers out of Owduttf.”
We found her downstairs, zonked out on an ottoman in the study. “Hey, kitty. Rise and shine—time to go to work.”
She opened her eyes and blinked at me sleepily.
“Yeah, sawing logs. Come on—we’ve got a honey badger to interrogate.”
I sighed. “Sorry. I’m under a lot of pressure.”
“Oh, for—your problems are not problems. They are non-problems, is what they are.”
“If I were a cat, I wouldn’t say anything. I’d spend all my time napping, eating, playing with cat toys, and being adored. Which, come to think of it, is pretty much what you do when you’re not complaining about your nonexistent problems.”
She sat up, then stared at me accusingly.
“Because he’s a ghost, you mean? Or because he’s a famous ghost?”
She sniffed in a clearly offended way.
I shrugged. “Technically, I guess he didn’t. But I don’t understand why you’re getting so upset; he’s a ghost, and you deal with those all the time. Are you afraid he’s going to take your job or something?”
Her eyes narrowed.
“Wow. A cat calling another cat sneaky? That’s like a ninja telling another ninja that they wear too much black. And one of them is named Pot and the other one Kettle, only it’s in Japanese.”
“What I just said.”
She yawned, exposing tiny white teeth in a pink mouth.
5.
We trooped up to the pen and stopped. Owduttf wasn’t outside, which meant he was probably asleep inside his burrow at the center of the big mound of dirt. I hoped.
“Okay, let’s do this,” I said. “Hey! I’m back! Get out here, I want to talk to you.”
Tango translated what I said into Honey Badger, a language that consisted mainly of chuffing, snorting, and grunts, with a few gruff kry-ya-ya sounds thrown in. After a short pause, we heard Owduttf’s reply.
[Did he just pass gas?] Whiskey asked.
A moment later Owduttf himself appeared at the entrance to his burrow, blinking sleepily. He had bits of straw stuck in his fur, too, all of which made him look adorable in a Charles-Manson-in-a-bunny-suit sort of way.
He replied and Tango translated: <“Hello, Foxtrot. You brought the smaller one that talks for you this time. Too bad. The other one would have made a better meal.”>
“I think even you’d find Whiskey hard to swallow, Owduttf. Though you do seem willing to eat just about anything.”
<“Not true. I don’t care for rocks. Much.”>
“How about human hands and heads?”
He tilted his broad head just slightly. <“Depends. Are you offering?”>
“Only if you’re up for seconds.”
<“Seconds are good. So are thirds and fourths and whatever comes after that.”>
“How about firsts? How were those?”
He yawned, revealing jaws lined with short, sharp teeth. <“First what? I’ve lost track of what we were talking about. I’m hungry.”>
So much for subtlety. “Owduttf, did you eat parts of a human being last night? Specifically, the head and hands?”
He appeared to consider this. <“Maybe. I eat so many things, I don’t always remember what they were. Why do you want to know?”>
I scowled. “Because eating people is not something you’re supposed to do!”
As soon as I said it I knew I’d made a mistake. This was a cunning, voracious predator I was talking to, not a misbehaving child—scolding him wasn’t going to do anything but let him know I was angry. Which I was; I could deal intellectually with the idea of a person dying, but somebody getting eaten pushed some pretty primeval buttons in my hindbrain. In fact, they were so primeval they weren’t even buttons, just levers made from bamboo lashed together with vines and jammed into my gray matter.
But getting angry wasn’t going to make him cooperate. Bribery might, though—it had in the past. “Look, I’m not blaming you, I just need to find out what happened. Tell me and you’ll get a treat.”
<“Tell you what happened to the head and the hands? Because it sounds like someone ate them.”>
“Actually, I’m more interested in—”
<“I doubt if there’s any left, is all I’m saying. If they were as tasty as they sound, they probably went pretty fast.”>
I rubbed my forehead with one thumb and a forefinger. “I don’t care what happened to them. I mean, I do care, but what happened to the person they belonged to is what I’m really after.”
<“Oh, I see. Never mind the head and hands, you want to know about what they were attached to.”>
“The owner of said body parts, yes. Do you know what happened to him?”
Owduttf shuffled out of his burrow and up to the edge of the wire fence. <“You mentioned a treat?”>
“Absolutely. How about a nice whole chicken?”
He squinted at me suspiciously. <“The last time you said that, you gave me something that didn’t have a head, feet, or feathers, and was empty on the inside. Try again.”>
“How about a package of nice raw bacon? Extra greasy.”
<“Hmmm. Yes, that will do. What happened to the body was, I hid it.”>
“I already know that.”
<“Then why did you ask? Are you trying to trick me?”>
“I’m not trying to trick you. I’m just trying to find out what happened before you ate the head and the hands.”
<“Who said I ate the head and hands? You are trying to trick me. Just for that, I’m not going to tell you where I hid the body until you give me the bacon.”>
“I already know where you hid the body!”
He turned up his snout and gave a little dismissive snort. <“Sure you do. That’s why you’re going to all this trouble, to find out something you already know.”>
This was getting me nowhere. “Look, I’ll give you the bacon. I’ll give you two packages of bacon. Just tell me one thing—did you kill him?”
<“Oh, no. I’ll tell you where the body is—
after you give me both packages of bacon—but that’s it. I’m hungry, not stupid. I’m not admitting I killed, removed, or ate anything.”>
And with that, he turned his back on me and shuffled back inside his burrow.
* * *
The front lawn was still a chaotic mess; the bizarre arrangements of gardening implements, sporting equipment, and other random objects had been left exactly where they were. With the day’s filming canceled, the film crew had returned to their motel rooms in town; the household staff was in a state of shock and just trying for a semblance of normality, which meant sticking to routine tasks and responsibilities. The huge mess on the front lawn wasn’t anyone’s responsibility, per se; nobody on staff had “dismantle and put away gigantic, sprawling jumble of miscellaneous junk” as part of their job description. Which meant, I supposed, that it fell to me.
Well, I may not have known what it was for, but I knew who built it. I went searching for him, and discovered no one had seen him all day; one of the maids informed me that he’d gone back to bed after the police had left.
I paused in front of Keene’s door. Whiskey looked up at me. [What are you waiting for?]
“Just preparing myself, mentally. There’s two different methods of dealing with hungover rock stars, and I’m trying to decide which one to use.”
[Are you sure he’s hungover?]
“It’s after four and he’s still in bed. No, correction: It’s after four, and he went back to bed after a bomb went off. He either had a very late night or he’s mixed up his medications again.”
[What are the two methods?]
“Cautious and quiet or bright and cheery. The first one gets used when I think there might be firearms present. The second is mostly for petty revenge.”
[Does either apply here?]
“Not really. Keene’s vices don’t include guns, and I’m more intrigued than annoyed about the front lawn. However, I do need to make sure he’s actually awake.” I went with a brisk knock instead, and waited.
“G’way,” came a muffled groan from the other side of the door. “Sleepin’.”
“It’s Foxtrot. I need to talk to you—open the door, please. But put on some pants, first.” Keene liked to do many things naked, and sleeping was one of them. Don’t ask me how I know that.
“Mumble fargin no fish plang.”
“I strongly disagree. Now open the door or I’ll sing your number one hit.”
“Aaaaah! You evil wench … you wouldn’t dare.”
“With full musical accompaniment. I have it on my phone, you know.”
[I don’t understand. Why would reminding him of his greatest achievement be considered a punishment?]
I grinned. “You’ve never had to play it at every single concert you’ve ever performed.”
No sound from within. I pulled out my phone, called up the music file, and cranked the volume to high.
As soon as he heard the catchy opening riff, he moaned in anguish. “For God’s sake…”
I belted out the opening lyrics in time with the song: “Oooh-hoo, crazy baby, do you, crazy baby, feel blue, crazy baaaaaabeeeeeeee…”
He flung the door open. I was expecting some full-frontal revenge nudity, but I was disappointed; he was wrapped in a fluffy bathrobe that seemed to be made entirely from Muppets. “Please don’t do that,” he croaked. “Pretty sure it’s against the Geneva Convention.” His five-o’clock shadow was closer to six forty-five, his eyes were open about as wide as a newborn kitten’s, and he had the kind of epic bed-head he’d probably write a song about later.
“The Geneva Convention?” I said, turning off the music. “Is that where you were? No wonder you’re tired, what with the jet lag and Swiss cheese overload and cuckoo clock smuggling. Mind if I come in?”
He raised a single finger. “Don’t,” he managed.
“Don’t what? Come in? Turn on the lights?” I asked as I brushed past him and turned on the lights. Whiskey trotted in after me.
“Engage me in lively conversation,” he muttered. “Ah, buggeration. Too late.” He closed the door and slumped against it.
Whiskey promptly jumped up on the unmade bed and made himself comfortable. [Just ensuring he doesn’t crawl back under the covers, you understand. And I thought you weren’t going to do bright and cheerful.]
This is only half strength. Full B and C involves flinging open the drapes and giggling in delight.
“I can hear you, you know,” Keene said.
Both Whiskey and I froze.
“Your thoughts. I can hear them,” Keene repeated. “And what you are both thinking right now—much too loudly, I might add—is that this is all a terrible, terrible mistake. This is not the singer you were looking for. You’re going to go now.”
I relaxed. “Nice try, Jedi. But before we do, there’s some splainin’ you need to do.”
He squinted in my general direction. “Splainin’? Splainin’? I’m not sure I’m ready for that. Is that a drug, a sexual position, or a new dance?”
“None of the above. I just want to ask about the free-form sculpture you built in the front yard.”
He shook his head. “Pretty sure those words were in English, but they made no sense. Is it possible you mixed up the order before they left your mouth?”
I glanced around the room. “I did not fairly sure I am. But it looks like you may have done a little mixing yourself last night.” I spotted an empty tequila bottle, a half-empty basket of grapefruits, and dozens of little silver nitrous oxide canisters—used.
“Untrue. Base lies. I’ve been sound asleep and have the lack of new tattoos to prove it.”
“Never mind that. I want to ask you about last night, when you apparently decided to create some sort of pop-art masterpiece in front of the mansion.”
He staggered over to the bed and sat down beside Whiskey. “No idea what you’re talking about, Trot. Truly. The last thing I remember is Oscar finally admitting defeat in our croquet marathon, and tottering off to bed. Then it’s all dark blankness, excepting the occasional vivid nightmare.” He put his head in his hands. Gently, as if he were expecting it to fall off.
“You mean like something blowing up?”
He raised his head to look at me. “How’d you know? Also, there were zombies. And police constables.”
“That was no dream, that was part of the house exploding this morning.”
“Ah. Should have known. The lack of naked purple women alone was a massive clue.”
“So you don’t remember your little project?”
He tried to blink, but it just looked as if he were shrugging his eyes. “Not a moment. Sorry. Did I do anything I’m going to have to pay for?”
[I’d say he’s paying for it right now.]
“Too early to tell.” I sat down beside him on the bed, and Whiskey promptly crawled over and put his head in my lap. “But if it turns out the boom in the room was caused by that thing you built out on the lawn—then you’re going to be looking at a pretty hefty bill.”
His head dove back down into his hands. “Agh. There may have been chemicals involved, but I tend to stay away from anything that might be combustible. Well, too combustible. All right, combustible isn’t the right word. Blowy-uppy.”
“That’s two words, and technically they aren’t. Words, that is.”
“I’m sorry, Trot, really I am. I think I may have gone a bit overboard last night.”
[Yes, in the sense that the Titanic may have had a bit of a problem with ice.]
I frowned. “Yeah. Haven’t seen you quite that wasted in a while.”
“And you still haven’t.” His hands muffled his voice, but I could still hear the defensiveness in it. “I save my worst depredations for when you’re not around.”
“I wish you wouldn’t. Better to do that stuff when I’m available to fix it, instead of just having to clean up the aftermath.”
He raised his head, then flopped backward onto the bed and stared at the ceiling. “I’m
afraid that’s impossible, love. I understand that you’re very proactive and adaptive and supercapable, but I’m more of a train-wreck-as-performance-art sort. Which is to say, if I actually possessed the wherewithal to schedule these sorts of bollocks, I probably wouldn’t commit them. Probably.”
“So what brought on this latest bout of bacchanalia? Are you celebrating, trying to distract yourself, or just doing what comes naturally?”
“There’s nothing natural about me, Trot. I am a creature of artifice and illusion, a badly organized tangle of affectations, neuroses, and addictions. In short, a mess.”
I glanced down at him. “Kind of hard to argue with that, Sparky. At the moment, anyway.”
“I know, I know. Perhaps that’s what the thing on the lawn is.”
“Not following.”
“My offspring. A mess, created by another mess. I shall call it Junior, and teach it the ways of the world, and leave it my rapidly dwindling fortune when I eventually succumb to the ravages of my lifestyle.”
[I don’t think he has a clear grasp of what he’s made—though for someone who can’t remember its creation he’s certainly formed an immediate attachment.]
Artists come in three categories: ignoble, metaphoric, and sentimentary, I thought back. A writer told me that.
I patted his knee and stood up. “Before you go drawing up a new will, maybe you should take a look at your construct. It might jog a few brain cells, give you some idea of what you were trying to accomplish.”
“Certainly. I shall attend to it, forthwith.” He punctuated this statement by jabbing a forefinger at the ceiling, which would have been more convincing if his other arm hadn’t been draped over his eyes.
“Uh-huh. Come on, Whiskey. Just make sure you’re up for dinner—ZZ gives you a lot of leeway, but that rule stands firm. Unlike yourself.”
“If you’re going to insult my manhood,” he said, “you can see yourself to the door.”
We did, and I closed it quietly behind us.
* * *
I’d just sat back down when there was a knock on my office door. Shondra, our head of security, opened it without waiting for my reply—a sure sign that she was annoyed and had something on her mind.