A Whisky, Tango & Foxtrot Mystery 04 - A Deadly Tail

by Dixie Lyle

  Tango spat.

  “Highly unlikely, Tango. Sam’s dead, remember? Pretty easy to tell the difference between you and a ghost.”

  [Not strictly true, actually. Many ghosts confuse the living with the dead and vice versa; it’s the underlying reason behind many hauntings.]

  I frowned. “But that doesn’t quite make sense. I don’t know what set off the squirrel/rabbit war and neither Trigger nor Midnight was willing to talk, but Fish Jumping was convinced Paul the octopus told him something Paul denies. Unless you think Sam can pull off a believable impression of an eight-armed, color-changing cephalopod, I think you’re missing something.”

  Tango gave her head an annoyed shake.

  Tango jumped down from the headstone and darted away.

  When she was gone, I gave Whiskey a worried look. “Okay, maybe this is me just being paranoid, but—if it wasn’t you and it wasn’t Unsinkable Sam…”

  [It wasn’t me. Most likely Tango is right, though there is at least one other viable suspect. I don’t know how they would have accomplished this, but Sam wasn’t the only prominent applicant Tango turned down.]

  I nodded. “You’re thinking of Jim the Wonder Dog, aren’t you? Mr. Doom and Gloom, trying to fulfill his own prophecies?”

  [Indeed. While this entire debacle has a definite feline reek to it, dogs are not without their own wiles. Coyotes are canines, too.]

  “Sure. So why didn’t you point that out to Tango?”

  Whiskey didn’t say anything for a moment. [If she wishes to find victory in claiming her species is more conniving than mine, it seems tiresome and self-defeating to argue the point.]

  “Plus, she needed the win. She was right about you being on the verge of offering support.”

  [My inclinations lean more toward the strategic than the sly. I’m not trying to manipulate her; I just know she’ll be easier to live with if I act in a certain manner.]

  I gave him a skeptical look. “Right. You weren’t being considerate about her feelings, just pragmatic.”

  [As always.]

  I leaned down and gave him a big hug. “That was just me being practical,” I said, and kissed him on top of his furry head. “You know, in case you run out of hugs later and need one.”

  [Yes, of course. Eminently sensible.]

  Then he licked my face. [Just in case you require that when I’m not present,] he explained. I laughed.

  “C’mon,” I said, straightening up. “If someone is trying to torpedo Tango’s epic, she needs our help. Let’s do a little sleuthing, see if we can figure out what’s what.”

  [Oh? We’re investigating a bombing and a murder, and you want to give priority to a case of malicious gossip?]

  I shrugged and started walking. “I didn’t say priority … more like we’ll keep our eyes and ears open for anything that might be helpful. Multitask. We’re good at that.”

  [You’re good at that. Dogs prefer following one trail at a time.]

  We were still amiably disagreeing about it as we got to the nearest edge of the graveyard, where it was bounded by a tall hedge. I knew a shortcut that went right through it, as long as you didn’t mind squeezing through a little greenery. It came out right beside the area where the film crew had parked most of their trucks.

  Which is how I stumbled upon Jaxon Nesbitt kissing Catree.

  17.

  As soon as I saw them, I froze in mid-shrubbery. Catree, standing in the open back door of her truck, bending down to give Jaxon Nesbitt a two-handed kiss on the lips. His feet were on the ground, but from the looks of that kiss she could have lifted him right off terra firma through lip-suction alone.

  Hold it, I thought at Whiskey. And stay quiet.

  It might have been intense, but it wasn’t lengthy—and as soon as they pulled apart, he took off like a shot and she yanked the door closed. Wham, bam, we’re on the lam.

  I stepped out of the hedge, Whiskey right behind me. “Well, that was unexpected.”

  [What did you see?] He raised his muzzle and sniffed. [Ah. Never mind.]

  “Catree and Jaxon, sitting in a truck,” I muttered. “And though I doubt there was much sitting, I’m pretty sure the next stanza would still rhyme.”

  [With what?]

  “Truck. Come on, let’s get out of here.”

  We retreated back to the graveyard. [So. From your reaction, I take it this is an unusual mating?]

  “Yes and no. I guess I’m a victim of my own preconceptions—I’m so used to seeing underwear models on the arms of movie stars that anything else seems jarring. What I’m more surprised about is how they managed to hide it so well. I was under the impression Jaxon spent all his spare time in his—”

  I stopped. I groaned. I felt extremely dumb.

  “In his room with the conveniently placed tree right outside his window,” I finished. “He’s a young, fit guy. And young, fit guys who need to be discreet have been climbing through windows and down trees to go visit their girlfriends for a very long time. Since before there were windows, probably.”

  [This alters our list of possible suspects considerably.]

  “You’re right,” I said gloomily. “Now we have to add Catree, and bump Jaxon higher in the rankings. Maybe he’s only sleeping with her to get access to her explosives; maybe he’s enlisted her actual help.”

  [Or perhaps it’s the other way around: She’s concocted a cunning plan to snare a desirable mate.]

  I didn’t want to admit that possibility, but I had to. She was smart, she was determined, she was fearless—but was she evil? Or at least capable of committing evil acts?

  Of course she was—capable, that is. Everyone harbors the potential to do really, really bad things; thankfully, most of us never explore that potential. But an insanely hot lover has been known to make a levelheaded person commit insane acts, no matter how smart or determined or fearless they are.

  I’d eliminated Tervo as a suspect. I highly doubted Natalia would blow herself up, and Rolvink wasn’t the type to commit suicide. Neither Keene nor Fikru had a motive, but I hadn’t definitively ruled either one out. Lucky Trentini was still a possibility, but Jaxon and Catree were looking more and more likely. Time to narrow things down.

  Logically, I should have started with the secretive couple, but I wasn’t sure how to do that. What I did have, though, was a way to maybe eliminate our resident shaman from the suspect pool; calming the turbulent situation in the Great Crossroads had reminded me that I was good at managing not only eccentric people, but eccentric ghosts. And that some ghosts were just as curious about the living as the living were about them.

  “Do me a favor, Whiskey. Track down Fikru and Keene for me. I think they’re probably still somewhere in the Great Crossroads.”

  [Easily done. Follow me.]

  We found them, not surprisingly, at Jeepers’s grave site. Jeepers was a galago, otherwise known as a bush baby. Galagos had enormous eyes, which was no doubt where his name came from. He was currently present in the ectoplasmic non-flesh and perched on top of Keene’s head, though Keene clearly didn’t know that. Fikru, though, was staring right at the little primate.

  “Hey, guys,” I said as I strolled up. “How’s the Magical Mystery Tour going?”

  “Spectacularly,” Keene declared. His pupils were almost as large as the galago’s, though considerably redder. “For Yemi, anyway. According to his third eye, we are surrounded by an ever-changing multitude of spiritual splendor, not unlike the aftermath of a terrible fire in a pet store or possibly the nuking of a zoo. But replace all the horrifying bits with niceness. Am I making sense?”

  Yemane turned his attention from the top of Keene’s head to me. He smiled in that wonder-filled
way only the truly stoned can understand, and said, “Yeah. This is amazing. And I can tell you get that, you really do. You’re just pretending not to.”

  Uh-oh. Mr. Perceptive was getting a little too close to the truth, as in standing right on it and pointing his finger. “Of course I do,” I said. “How could I not?” I met his eyes and smiled back, not in a challenging way but an acknowledging one. As long as I kept things cryptic and non-specific enough, I could indulge him—and I got the feeling he’d respect my stance.

  And then he noticed Whiskey.

  He’d met my dog before, of course, but Fikru’s mental state had been considerably less altered then. “Wow,” he said. His eyes were doing their best to open as wide as Jeepers’s, and the look on his face was pure astonishment. “I didn’t … how could I not have noticed?”

  Whiskey stared back at him quizzically. Fikru dropped to his knees, then put his hand out, palm up. Whiskey sniffed it politely, then looked at me. [I believe he—]

  Sssssh, I thought urgently. I didn’t know if Fikru could pick up our thoughts in his current condition—it seemed unlikely—but I didn’t want to chance it.

  Gently, Fikru put his hand on Whiskey’s head. “Amazing,” he breathed. “It feels … so real.”

  Keene laughed. “Yemi, old man, you are absolutely gollywonkered. That dog is real. I think.”

  I had the urge to distract Keene, then get Whiskey to shift form to a Chihuahua and back again really quick. And even though I could have gotten away with it, I resisted the impulse; I had something more useful in mind than indulging a whim.

  While Fikru was entranced by the luxuriant ectoplasmic texture of my ghostly dog’s fur—to be fair, it is silky—I said, “I can see now that you weren’t exaggerating your connection to … spirituality. I’d love to hear more.”

  Fikru looked up. “I’d be glad to share. It’s kinda my thing.”

  “So I see. That first night, when you were up in your room—you said there were spirits around, watching you. Did you get a sense of what sort of spirits they were?”

  “Oh, yeah. Animal spirits, definitely. Let’s see … there were some rats, or maybe mice. Small and skittery. There was something curious but sort of aloof, which I think was a cat but could have been a snake…” He trailed off, either lost in recollection or just lost. Too bad; I was really hoping for something less vague.

  “Oh, and a parrot. I thought it was a fish at first, but no, it was absolutely a parrot.”

  “Wow,” I said. “That’s very interesting. Thank you. I had no idea we had so many nocturnal wanderers in the mansion.” Which was true; I didn’t sleep there, so I wasn’t aware of what went on late at night.

  A parrot. That he’d mistaken for a fish.

  A Fish Jumping, maybe?

  * * *

  Yemane was still staring at Whiskey as we left. Whiskey, for his part, did his best to act like a completely ordinary, non-supernatural dog: panting, sniffing, even pretending to pee. “Okay, okay,” I muttered. “Enough already. If you try to hump my leg, I will be extremely displeased.”

  [Please. I’m delivering a much more nuanced performance. A cat wouldn’t have noticed, but I thought you might.]

  “I have other things on my mind—like locating a certain parrot with impulse-control issues.”

  Which we found not ten minutes later, sitting on a headstone and preening himself. It suddenly struck me that Fish Jumping spent a lot of time hanging out in the Great Crossroads; most spirit animals—other than prowlers like Two-Notch or Topsy—were just passing through, on their way from one afterlife to another. Come to think of it, I saw quite a bit of Piotr, the circus bear, too. I wondered why.

  Maybe I should ask.

  “Fish Jumping,” I said. He was perched on the head of a small stone statue of a kitten, and looked up as soon as I addressed him. “Nice to see you. Got a minute to talk?”

  He studied me, then blinked. Of course, Miss Foxtrot. I always have time for you. “Awk! I’m in trouble! I’m in trouble!”

  “You’re not in trouble. I just want to ask you about your … extracurricular activities.” Which, it turned out, was exactly the wrong way to phrase it.

  “Awk! Not my fault! Not my fault!” He fluttered his wings in agitation. I know it sounds unlikely, but I swear the octopus and I had a lengthy conversation about the part I was up for. I have no idea why he would lie about it, but that’s the only explanation I have.

  “That’s not actually what I meant—”

  Oh, this is terrible. People already view me as unstable—what happens when they think I’m a pathological liar as well? Nobody will want to talk to me!

  And suddenly Fish Jumping stopped being just a punch line to me.

  It’s awful, I know, but we all do it. We put labels on people, especially people we don’t know well but deal with often. We start filing them under easy, two-word descriptives: Delivery Guy, Blond Waitress, Short Plumber. And the next thing you know, they stop being people and become unpaid extras in the ongoing drama of our lives.

  But they’re not. They’re persons, with their own dramas and history and supporting cast. Even if they’ve been saddled with a name as ridiculous as Fish Jumping, they deserve respect.

  “I’m sorry,” I said gently. “I don’t think you’re a liar. I think you’re—obviously—a being of intellect and refinement. I find you a pleasure to converse with, and will gladly do so anytime we meet.”

  He squinted at me suspiciously. Really? “Awk! Really?”

  I smiled. “Yes, really. And I’ll prove it—let’s talk about what you want to.”

  Um. That’s very generous of you. I must admit I’m at something of a loss. “Awk! Never happened before! Don’t know what to do! Awk!”

  I shrugged. “Well, how about telling me about your name? Or is that a touchy subject?”

  Ah. No, not at all. It was given to me by a young boy, actually. Joseph was his name. He had some emotional difficulties after his mother passed away, and his father bought me for Joseph as a companion. He wanted a pet that wouldn’t expire in a dozen short years, like a cat or a dog, and thought I would be ideal. We spent a great deal of time in a small cabin by a lake, and Joseph loved to watch the trout jump in the evening.

  He paused. I realized this was the longest speech I’d ever heard from him without an Awk! as punctuation at the end.

  Joseph grew up to be a fine young man. I’m very proud of him. He would tell me all his troubles, and I would always listen. It’s important to have someone listen to you, don’t you think?

  “Yes. Yes, I do.”

  I suppose that’s what I miss the most about him.

  “So he’s still alive?”

  Oh, yes. I survived until he was in his thirties, so I suppose I did my job; he had a wife and children, by then. Much happier than when we first met.

  “I see. And you can’t visit him while he’s still alive?”

  Ah. Well, let’s just say there are rules around that sort of thing, which I’m not supposed to talk about. Still, what’s a few years when compared with eternity? Nothing at all. And of course, there’s always Paradise, which is exactly as wonderful as one might hope. There’s only one thing it doesn’t have, really.

  “Joseph.”

  Indeed. So I pass the time as I’m used to, talking to whoever cares to talk to me. I do love a good conversation, regardless of species. “Awk! I’m a blabbermouth! I’m a blabbermouth!”

  I had a thought. “Fish, what did Joseph do for a living?”

  Oh, did I forget to mention that? He ran a pet store, which I had the run of. Always plenty of chances for a nice chat, there. “Awk! Stockholm syndrome! Stockholm syndrome! Awk!”

  A dead parrot from a pet store. Well, that explained why he liked hanging around the Great Crossroads so much; he was used to a mix of different animals. “So you speak more than just Parrot?”

  He cocked his head at me. Not fluently, no. But you can communicate with almost anyone, if you’re w
illing to really pay attention. I got so good at listening to other species that my own vocalizations became more of an afterthought than anything I planned. Now that I’ve passed on, of course, I speak the common tongue of the dead, like everyone else. I enjoy it so much that I confess I sometimes run on a bit. “Awk! Stating the obvious! Stating the obvious!”

  I thought I understood. Fish had spent his whole life listening to other people’s problems, like a cross-species psychiatrist. With all that behind him, he was free to finally talk about his own concerns—but in his eagerness, he was talking a little too much and a little too honestly.

  “I understand,” I said. “What you do—what you did—is a lot like what I do. Whatever you can to ease the burden others carry.”

  I suppose. “Awk! She’s right, dumb-ass! She’s right!”

  “Okay, then. I need your help, Fish. I’m trying to find out if a particular person was in a particular place at particular time. I think you might have been there, too.”

  I’m more than willing to assist, if I can. “Awk! I like to help! I like to help!”

  “Good.” I told him about Yemane Fikru, meditating up in his room and sensing the presence of spirits watching him—and that one of them was a parrot.

  Fish Jumping bobbed his head up and down. Yes, that was me. I wouldn’t dream of imposing my presence during the day, but … I do enjoy the company of human beings. Am I in trouble? I followed the proper protocols.

  I was dying to know exactly what those protocols were, but one glance at Whiskey told me that the only thing asking would produce would be a stern lecture from him on Things I Wasn’t Supposed To Know Yet.

  “No, of course not. You didn’t do anything wrong. But you can verify he was in his room all evening? He didn’t go out?”

  No, he did not. “Awk! Not even once! Not even once! Awk!”

  “Thank you, Fish. You’ve been very helpful. And it was a pleasure talking with you.”

  He blinked at me. The pleasure was all mine, madame. Indeed. “Awk! You have no idea! Awk!”