A Whisky, Tango & Foxtrot Mystery 04 - A Deadly Tail
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“Foxtrot,” she said from the doorway. “We need to talk.”
“Sure,” I said. “Come on in, have a seat. What do you need?”
She came in and closed the door, but stayed on her feet. “Peace of mind. Why did you disappear right after the bombing?”
Whoops. I might be able to smooth-talk my way past ZZ, but Shondra’s bullshit detectors were military-grade. “There was something I needed to take care of, and I knew I was about to get bogged down in a million urgent decisions. I had to do it then, or it wouldn’t get done.”
She crossed her arms. Shondra keeps her hair very, very short, and probably cuts it with the gaze she was aiming at me. “And what was this thing that was so urgent it took precedence over a goddamn terrorist attack?”
I put my hands up in defense. “Whoa. This wasn’t a terrorist anything, okay? Something blew up and somebody died, true, but there’s nothing to suggest this was political.”
“Not my point. Answer the question.”
I’d have a better chance of deflecting a bullet than Shondra’s attention. “I can’t.”
“Why?”
Because I had to make sure a possibly homicidal South African badger didn’t escape from his pen to kill another guest while my telepathic, multilingual cat was too stoned to help me interrogate him about a previous murder, and saying that out loud would be problematic in terms of our professional relationship.
I sighed. “I just can’t. If I told you why I can’t it would reveal what I can’t, and I just told you I can’t do that. You can understand that, can’t you?”
“If you thinking saying can’t half a dozen times in a row is going to make me go away, you’re wrong.”
“Can’t blame me for trying.”
“Sure I can.”
Well, this was getting me nowhere. “Look, Shondra. I have a lot of responsibilities, and sometimes they conflict. This was one of those times. I swear, if I could tell you, I would—and you’d laugh, most likely, about what I’m actually hiding. About the only thing I can tell you is I’m not doing this for myself.”
She kept that hard stare pointed in my direction for a few more seconds, then glanced away. “No, you never are, are you? It’s always somebody else’s needs getting taken care of. The first thing you did when you got there was run right into the damn house. So I guess I have to give you a pass. This time.”
She turned around and walked back to the door, then paused with her hand on the knob. “One thing, though, I need for you to hear. All right?”
“I’m listening.”
“I’ve got your back, whatever it is. You can trust me.”
“I know. Thank you.”
She nodded without turning around, pulled the door open, and left.
[That was difficult for you.] Whiskey’s tone was sympathetic.
I reached for my mug of tea, realized it was empty, and set the mug back down. “Yeah. I hate lying to Shondra. I hate lying to anyone who trusts me, but I don’t have a choice.”
[Not a viable one, anyway.]
“Wait a minute. Sure I do! I’ll just tell her I was using my telepathic, multilingual cat to interrogate a South African badger about—oh, no, hang on, I already ran that scenario in my head.”
[How’d it go?]
“About how you’d expect. Confusion, irritation, demands for clarification, slowly dawning realization, shock, pity, sadness, steely-eyed determination to help, notifying the authorities, denial, nervous laughter, running, screaming, crying, sedation, observation in a controlled environment, eventual release under close supervision.”
[I see. Not really optimal, then.]
“Not really, no.”
I got to my feet. “Come on. I’ve been doing this for too long—I need to stretch my legs. Let’s go see Ben.”
* * *
ZZ was passionate about her dinners. They were the focal point of the salons, a chance for her guests to laugh and chat and debate about anything and everything. You know that old question, If you could choose any three people to have dinner with, who would they be? She asked herself that question, a long time ago, and decided two things: first, that the parameters were too limited, and second, that the answer never stayed the same for very long. So when she invited people to stay with us and catered to their every whim, she had one ironclad rule: You had to show up for the evening meal. You didn’t have to drink, you didn’t even have to eat—though we provided plenty of both—but you did have to show up. And as long as you were interesting and didn’t actually throw any punches, you’d probably get invited back.
I had a standing invitation to attend any of these dinners, and often did; watching celebrities discuss anything from quantum physics to the Kama Sutra was always entertaining, especially when the people talking were frequently experts on the subject. ZZ liked a bubbling mix of the famous, the brilliant, and the socially conscious, and it was my job to make sure everything ran smoothly—from specialized diets to personal preferences, I scrutinized every aspect of the menu, the seating arrangements, and the decor. Comfortable decadence lightly overlaid with formal elegance was the preferred ambient environment, and I’d gotten very good at tweaking it.
A big part of this, of course, was the food. Normally Ben and I met every afternoon to discuss what was going to be served that night, but today had been anything but normal. I left Whiskey in my office and ducked into the kitchen to see what Ben had prepared; I knew it would be good, but felt guilty I hadn’t had the time to talk about it with him.
“Hey, Trot,” Ben said. “You okay?”
I walked over and gave him a quick kiss. “Hanging in there, Thunder Boy. Something smells wonderful.”
“That would be you. But yes, dinner is coming along nicely.”
He gave me a quick rundown on the soup and salad courses, then unveiled the main dish, a spicy jambalaya. “I didn’t want to do anything too meaty,” he told me. “You know, with all the fake rotting flesh everywhere.”
“I don’t think he actually likes eating decomposing meat,” I said. “Just rolling around on it.”
“Can we not discuss this in my kitchen?” Ben asked.
Tango appeared from under a table, yawning and stretching her hind legs one at a time.
“As if you could stop,” I said. “You get more pleasure complaining about canines than you’ll ever admit.”
She sat down and stared up at me impassively.
Ben shook his head. “Sounds like quite the burden, Tango. I don’t know how you find the strength to go on.”
She gazed up at him and blinked once, very slowly.
Ben grinned and got down on one knee to comply. If you think you’ve heard loud purring before, you need to hear it inside your head. It’s sort of pleasant and sort of not; on the pleasant side, it’s a very happy, rhythmic, soothing sound, almost hypnotic. On the other, it’s a little like having a vibrator stuck between your ears.
“Well,” I said, “I can see you’ve got everything under control here—”
“Uh-huh. I guess I’ll get ready for dinner myself then.”
“Oh?” said Ben. “You’re staying? Is it the cuisine or the chef?”
“They’re both irresistible, but no. I just feel like there’s a lot going on and I need to keep an eye on things.”
Ben frowned. “Unlike the rest of the time, when you blithely ignore the problems around you and do nothing to fix them?”
I reached down and mussed his hair. “Aww. What a sweet yet sarcastic thing to say. Yes, I am a control freak, and on a day when a bomb
goes off and a headless corpse is found on the premises, I’m allowed to be a little obsessive.”
I looked down at Tango and grinned. “Everything all right with the world, now? Not worried a spectral kitty is going to sneak in here and steal your skritches?”
The purr sputtered and stopped. A pair of feline eyes stared up at me accusingly.
“Whoops. Sorry, my bad. But really, he’s a ghost—the only skritches he’s getting are from other postmortem types.”
Ben straightened up as Tango began to pace. “What ghost are you two talking about?”
“Unsinkable Sam,” I said.
Ben looked puzzled. “Who’s Unsinkable Sam?”
I gave Tango a look. “A cat who bears an uncanny resemblance to Tango. Well, the ghost of a cat, anyway—and a famous one, to boot. I spotted him yesterday and followed him to the graveyard, where he disappeared.”
Now Ben looked intrigued. “Famous? How so?”
“Unsinkable Sam,” I said, “was a navy cat, in World War Two.”
“The navy had cats? I thought they used seals.”
“This was a long time ago before seals were invented and also shut up. Sam wasn’t called Sam, then.”
“What was he called?”
“I don’t know. Something German, probably.”
“This story has barely left the ground and already I’m confused.”
“I know you’re part bird, but try to stick with nautical metaphors for this one, okay?”
“Aye, aye, Captain.”
“Much better. Now, this cat was aboard a battleship on its very first mission. I don’t know why; maybe they thought he’d bring them luck.”
“Did he?”
“Not so much. The battleship was named the Bismarck.”
Ben shook his head. “Wait. He was in the German navy?”
“Briefly. Then he was in the Atlantic Ocean. But the ship that sank the Bismarck, the Cossack, rescued him.”
“He was rescued by a Russian ship?”
“No, a British one. Are you even paying attention?”
“I’m on the edge of my seat. And then?”
“Then they gave him a new name. Either they didn’t like the old one or never bothered to ask any of the survivors what it was, which I suppose is understandable: Hey, guys that survived after we blew up your ship and killed most of you—anybody remember what the cat’s name is? Not in the best of taste.”
“No. So they called him Unsinkable Sam because—”
“Oskar.”
“Say what now?”
“Oskar. With a k. That’s what they named him. I’m guessing they threw the k in there to remind him of his German heritage, which is the least you can do when you just sank somebody’s battleship.”
“You’ve really drunk a lot of tea today, haven’t you.”
“That wasn’t even a question. I know, because I heard a period instead of a question mark. Also, I can see through time.”
“Finish your story before you start vibrating so fast you disappear. They named him Oskar?”
“Yeah. Which, instead of appeasing his German former owners, apparently just ticked them off. A few months later they sent a U-boat to torpedo the Cossack. Killed a hundred and fifty-nine British sailors, but not good old Oskar. He escaped, once again.”
“He lived through the sinking of two different ships?”
“Who said that? Nobody said that. Are you even listening?”
“Sorry, Captain. Please, carry on.”
“Oskar and the rest of the survivors were picked up by the HMS Legion. The British were quite annoyed by this point, so they did the unthinkable: They changed his name.”
“Those bastards.”
“Don’t mess with the Brits, I always say. They could have just dropped the k, but they took it all the way—and so, Unsinkable Sam was born. Er, christened. Baptized?”
“Is it safe to ask questions yet?”
“Absolutely not, and don’t think I didn’t notice that was a question. From there, Sam moved up in the world—he was a symbol now, and as such took up residence on a veritable floating palace, the aircraft carrier Ark Royal. I can just see him, posing proudly on the prow of the ship as it thundered majestically through the waves, a huge, unstoppable juggernaut of British military might ready to unleash destruction from its battery of guns or squadrons of dive-bombers.”
I paused. He waited a moment, then cautiously said, “That’s … impressive?”
“Not so much. It was sunk, too—submarine again.”
“And Sam?”
“Angry but unharmed was the official description when he was pulled from the wreckage by the crew of the HMS Lightning. Can’t say I blame him; all those unplanned baths must have really been getting on his nerves by that point … anyway, that was more or less the end of his maritime career. He retired to a sailor’s home in Belfast.”
“More or less?”
I feigned innocence. “Excuse me?”
Ben smiled. “You said more or less. What’s the kicker?”
I smiled back. “No kicker. Except that—as far as we know—Sam lived on three different ships and traveled on two others.”
“The two that rescued him from the drink.”
I picked up an apple from a bowl on the counter and considered it. “Yep. And neither of them survived the war, either. Five ships, five new additions to Davy Jones’s locker. Dead or not, you wouldn’t get me on a boat with him.”
Tango stalked back into the kitchen, her tail twitching.
I took a bite. “How should I know?” I said around a mouthful of apple. “All I know is what Eli told me.”
“And what did our resident spooky white crow have to say on the subject?”
I finished chewing and swallowed. “That cat you were looking for? Unsinkable Sam. Google it.”
“That seems unlikely.”
“Yeah, unearthly albino bird spirits usually head straight to Wikipedia. Surprised me, too.”
Tango sat down and regarded both of us sternly.
I leaned down and put my hands on my knees. “For anyone in the maritime field—well, except maybe shipbuilders—yeah. But we’re nowhere near a shoreline, Tango; even if Sam were some sort of nefarious seagoing monster, he picked the wrong place to skulk. What’s he going to do, haunt the Jacuzzi? See if he can sink an inflatable drink tray?”
And with that she stalked away once again, her tail in the air. A nice exit, ruined only slightly by her dropping to the floor after a few steps and taking another nap.
“A famous deceased feline, huh?” Ben said. “Well, the Crossroads pulled in Edison’s elephant, so I shouldn’t be too surprised.”
“That’s more or less what Eli told me,” I said. I crunched into another bite of apple. “You know, after we talked about Lassie showing up.”
Ben raised his eyebrows.
“Sorry,” I said. “Didn’t I mention that?”
6.
“Welcome, everyone,” ZZ said. She sat at her usual place at the head of the table, wearing an elaborate Victorian gown; it looked authentic, until you really studied the floral pattern of the fabric and realized the tiny flowers were actually manga versions of Sherlock Holmes. “I know it’s been a most distressing day, but I want to assure everyone that we’re perfectly safe. The gas mains have been checked and there’s an investigative team up there righ
t now doing all sorts of tests to figure out what happened.”
“I’ll tell you what happened,” Oscar said. He took a liberal sip of his drink. “Part of our bloody house blew up, that’s what happened.”
I glanced around. Natalia Cardoso and Maurice Rolvink weren’t there, of course, but neither was Keene. I suspected he’d just gone back to bed—behavior ZZ would normally frown on, but this hadn’t been exactly an ordinary day.
Jaxon Nesbitt laughed. He had a movie star’s laugh, with lots of big white teeth and sparkling eyes. “Yeah, that was crazy. I’m still half deaf.”
“Really?” I said. “You were that close to the blast?”
“Up in my room rehearsing my lines,” said Jaxon. Despite what he’d just claimed, he didn’t seem to have any trouble hearing me.
“I was outside with the crew,” Lucky said. “Poor Natalia.”
“Yes, poor Natalia,” said Maxwell Tervo. He was the actor playing the villain in the movie, a tall, thin man with a high, wispy widow’s peak of blond hair. He had one of those highly mobile faces with slightly exaggerated features: wide mouth, beaky nose, large, deep-set eyes. He looked genuinely sorrowful, but who can tell what an actor’s really feeling? It’s like trying to figure out if a cat killed a mouse because she was hungry or just in the mood to kill something. You have to watch her for a while, and really pay attention.
Of course, in my case you could just ask her, but that’s no guarantee of a proper answer. Or in Tango’s case, no guarantee of an answer that doesn’t wind up blaming you for her food bowl being half full.
“I was in the menagerie, myself,” said Tervo. “Contemplating a porcupine, in fact.”
“Pointy, aren’t they?” said Oscar. He signaled the drinks trolley with the push of a button, summoning a robotic cart made for us by one of ZZ’s former guests. “I was still abed, I’m afraid. The guesthouse is far enough from the main building that I simply thought it was part of the production. In fact, I was on my way to complain when I saw the smoke and realized something wasn’t right.”
It’s funny how people have this impulse to share where they were when a disaster occurs. Some kind of deeply buried survival instinct is what I think, a compulsion to not just record a moment when things went terribly wrong but compare notes later, so the whole group can figure out how to prevent it from happening again. It’s related to the urge to ask for details about how someone died—a cousin, probably, one of those relatives you hung out with when you were younger and always got into trouble together. The Morbidities; they make the Addams family look like the Brady Bunch.