When he finished the midnight meal, he carefully cleaned the dishware in a double stainless steel sink, dried them, and put each piece away in the cabinets. Too keyed up to sleep, Dorbandt sat on a plush, brown corduroy sofa and pulled out his cell phone. There were three messages on his voice mail.
“Dorbandt. McKenzie. Check in with me.”
“Reid, this is Odie. I just got a call from Miss Ansel Phoenix. Says she has info on Dr. Anthanasios Stouraitis pertinent to the Capos case. Call her back. That’s it.”
“Dorbandt. McKenzie again. Where the hell are you? Call me.”
Dorbandt left the cell phone on and slipped it into his coat pocket. The messages must have come through while he was in the air over Montana. He hadn’t even thought about checking in since then. He shook his head in amazement. McKenzie didn’t quit.
And Phoenix didn’t either. For a second he wondered what Ansel had seen in Capos. Capos had been a first-class jerk, and Ansel seemed too savvy to fall for such a con artist. He couldn’t imagine them together, even for one night.
Dorbandt stretched out on the sofa, thinking about the test going on outside the door. His thoughts bounced back and forth between knowing he was on the right track with Alexander King and not being sure about his hunch at all.
The next thing Dorbandt knew, something shook him. He jumped up, his left hand reaching instinctively toward the shoulder holster. He relaxed when he recognized the smocked scientist.
“What’s wrong?” Dorbandt demanded, half asleep and sure that some disaster had occurred because he’d let his guard down.
“Nothing,” Fletcher grinned. “The test is done.”
Dorbandt rubbed a hand across his gritty eyes. “What time is it?”
“Almost six in the morning. I’ll show you what I’ve found. It’s quite interesting.”
Fletcher led him to a lab counter where he picked up an oversized photo negative. “This is a DNA amplification of the blood taken from the shaft. Those lighted bars on the numbered scale indicate the multiple chromosome markers that identify the bird species. I found a match, and I was right about it being a game bird. Your feather came from a female hoatzin.”
“What’s a hoatzin?”
Fletcher pulled a large book toward him and pointed to an open page with a color picture. “A monotypic bird species currently assigned to the order Galliformes, family Opisthocomidae, genus Opisthocomus, and species Opisthocomus Hoatzin. A hoatzin is a very odd, fourteen-inch-long bird with a large golden crest. Hoatzins live in backwater swamps of the Amazon and Orinoco basins of South America.”
“South America?”
Fletcher nodded. “The hoatzin is a colorful, vegetarian bird with a foregut rather than a crop like other birds. The foregut ferments vegetable matter like a cow, sheep or deer. Most remarkable about the bird is that hatchling chicks have functional claws on the first and second digits of the forelimbs.”
Dorbandt blinked. “Tell me about these claws.”
“The claws are on the tips of each wing. After hatching, hoatzin chicks begin to wander around the branches near their nest. The hatchlings are weak, but the claws help to support them on the branches over the water. If they fall into the water, they swim to shore, climb the tree, and get back into their nest. As the wing feathers develop, these claws degenerate. They’re fascinating birds with an antediluvian morphology sometimes compared to the proto-bird Archaeopteryx.”
Suddenly Ansel Phoenix’s obsession with ambers and feathered dinosaurs with clawed wings didn’t sound so ridiculous. “Can you buy one of these hoatzins at a pet shop?”
Fletcher laughed. “You don’t buy hoatzins, Detective Dorbandt. Though they are not a globally threatened species or considered endangered in their indigenous habitats, they don’t survive in captivity. Attempts to start a breeding colony in the 1960s and the late 1980s by two zoological societies failed miserably.”
“Could you get one if you had to?”
“If you were in South America, yes. Tribal people still collect the eggs for consumption. They’ll also take adults for the feathers, medicinal purposes or just to use as fish bait.” Fletcher shrugged. “Even if you got a live specimen in South America, you’d have a hell of a time getting it into this country unless it’s smuggled in. And for what purpose? They eat special diets consisting mostly of Moko-moko plants, have a foul odor, and die in captivity. Not much there in the way of pet attraction, is there?”
Dorbandt didn’t know the answer to that question. “Are you are saying that this feather had to come from a bird in South America?”
Fletcher nodded. “Absolutely. Whoever you got this feather from, had either a hoatzin, part of a hoatzin, or some feathers from a South American specimen, and this person either went to get it or had it brought into the United States.”
Maybe both, Dorbandt considered. Could King smuggle a hoatzin in through his bird business? Would he have to go to South America or might someone have brought the bird to him? But why? Perhaps as part of his research on Archaeopteryx?
“Exactly where in South America do these hoatzins live?”
“Let me check on that.” Fletcher went to a PC keyboard and began punching keys.
In a moment he said, “The species lives east of the Andes from Colombia to Venezuela and the Guianas, south to Ecuador and Peru, and in north and central Brazil and Bolivia.”
Dorbandt stared at the screen. “Can you print that out?”
“Certainly.”
“Thanks, Doctor Fletcher. Just get me an invoice for the test expenses and sign my chain of custody receipt, and I’m done here.” He reached into a breast pocket to pull out the form.
Fletcher took it and moved off to gather his materials. “I’ll also give you a copy of the DNA photo and a picture of a hoatzin to take back.”
Dorbandt moved toward the front lobby. He pulled out his cell phone and dialed Fiskar’s home phone.
“Fiskar residence,” said a female voice after two rings.
“Is Odie there?”
“Who’s calling?”
“Detective Dorbandt.”
“Just a minute.”
Odie came on a second later. “Reid, you’re up early.”
“Sorry to call the house, Odie, but this can’t wait.”
“It’s okay. Did you get the feather analyzed?”
“Just. It’s from a South American bird called a hoatzin. Listen, when you go into the office this morning, I need you to grab a red file on my desk. It has a list of every person involved in the Capos case. I want you to drop everything and see if anybody on it has taken a trip to South America during the past two years. Check everything commercial or rental. Planes, boats, and charters. Call me pronto if there’s a hit. If I don’t hear from you first, I’ll check in during my layover at Billings. Got that?”
“Right. When will you be back?”
“Sometime in the afternoon. I still have to book a flight out of Missoula.” Dorbandt grinned. “Tell McKenzie I’m on my way.”
Chapter 31
“If you see no reason to give thanks, the fault lies in yourself.”
Tecumseh, Shawnee
Ansel arrived at the Arrowhead Ranch at noon the next day. The Beastly Buffet had begun, and more than a hundred vehicles were already parked in a mowed field next to the horse pasture behind the main house.
She waved at the ranch hand directing attendees through a cattle gate and onto a flat, tree-lined patch of land used as a calving ground during the late summer months. Before leaving the truck, she put on her hat and strapped on her fanny pouch, the trusty Colt crammed inside.
The air smelled of barbecued meat, exhaust fumes, and trampled grass. Ansel donned her sunglasses and looked up. Thank goodness the weather was cooperating. A cloudless, turquoise sky hung overhead, and the temperature had risen into the lower eighties with a constant eight-mile-per-hour breeze coming from the west.
As she walked toward the buffet, Ansel saw that Pearl had spared no exp
ense. Four huge tents were tethered on the grassy turf, each situated next to pine trees for optimum shade. Three served as buffet stations for appetizers, entrees, and desserts. The fourth contained long tables and chairs where people could sit, eat, and drink.
Ansel tried to concentrate on enjoying the buffet, but her mind replayed her theories revolving around Nick, Evelyn, Stouraitis, and a dinosaur trapped in resin. She’d finally read Leslie’s paper on caustobioliths and spent most of the night doing Internet research on amber, Archaeopteryx, and Double Eagle coins.
She’d discovered why Nick hadn’t stashed two million dollars inside the bee hive. A Saint-Gaudens Double Eagle coin minted in 1927 by the Denver mint was the rarest U.S. coin in the world. More than one hundred eighty thousand of the coins had been produced, but, they were later collected and melted down by the government. For this reason and because undiscovered hoards of the coins were believed to be stashed in European banks to this day, a single coin in uncirculated condition could sell for $675,000 on the numismatic market.
With three coins in his possession, Nick could have gone anywhere in the world and sold them to recoup their two-million-dollar cash value. It was brilliant. The vintage coins were easy to transport and legal to have and sell as collectibles. As Nick’s assets, they would have been practically untraceable.
Ansel had no doubt that Stouraitis had paid with the coins. The lovely, one Troy ounce of golden metal with an inscribed eagle and a woman in a toga-style gown would appeal to his taste for rare bird treasures. Stouraitis could have gotten the coins anywhere, including on the European black market.
She passed an eight-foot-long charcoal pit centered among the phalanx of tents. A huge metal rack set across the block pit supported half a split buffalo carcass, and a hired server continually sliced off juicy pieces. Nearby a high-volume, five-man country western band stood on a wooden platform and belted out a Garth Brooks tune. Next to the band was a large refreshment trailer that served as a full-service bar powered by a belching gas generator. A burly, cowboy bartender couldn’t dispense the drinks over the counter fast enough.
Her stomach rumbled as every plate filled with exotic goodies passed by her. Her appetite had dwindled after she had nearly been poisoned by a maniac with a dart gun, but now it had returned with a vengeance.
Ansel walked through the surging crowd of dancing couples, running kids, and group huddles of all sizes and types. Everyone was decked out in their cowboy finest, from ten-gallon hats to alligator-hide boots, and she knew most of the people who made the joyful affair a colorful swirl of bright colors and gay voices.
Smiling, Pearl rushed from a crowd of partygoers and grabbed her arm. “Ansel, I was getting worried. Thought you’d be here earlier.”
Ansel gave her stepmother a hug and a kiss. “I had to do some bee repairs,” she said, thinking of her morning spent waiting as Feltus Pitt finished up the hive work.
Before sunset the day before, she’d returned to the apiary and replaced the missing hive box and metal cover. Pitt, God bless him, hadn’t made a single comment about his bee suit having grass stains all over it, though she’d given them a quick toss into her washing machine.
“I’ll tell you all about it later. Did the crow gut arrive?”
“It sure did. Jessie and Lucy are here somewhere. You look tired. I was going to drag you around to meet friends, but let’s get something to eat first. Maybe we’ll see your father.”
They were both ravenous and decided to go directly into the entree tent. Heated stainless steel trays were set up on long tables with black tablecloths. Beside each entree, a numbered eight-by-ten sheet had been taped, describing the dish, its recipe, and lines for people to sign their names. Each name represented one vote toward selecting the item as the best appetizer, entree or dessert dish of the Beastly Buffet. Near the end of the party, the winners would be announced. Originality, taste, and gross-out factor figured in the voting process to varying degrees, and the lucky winners would get a special mystery prize to take home with them.
Ansel looked over the exotic fare. Most of the main dishes contained common domestic and wild meats. The challenge for the cooks was to prepare something edible from highly unusual body parts such as heads, snouts, eyes, ears, jowls, feet, udders, and tails. Ansel stopped at a tray holding Rocky Mountain Oysters and laughed. Somebody always made this infamous Montana recipe for deep-fried bull testicles.
Ansel noted some of the most unusual entrees: roast polar bear, Canadian lynx stew, curried kangaroo tail, savory seal hearts, french-fried skunk, woodchuck chili, fried beaver tail, muskrat burgers, rat kabobs, mice meatballs, fruit bat soup, jellied caribou snouts, stuffed camel, roast emu, swan gizzards, hoot owl pie, iguana soup, and lizard tongue macaroni and cheese.
She also saw weird seafood entrees like stuffed squid with chocolate sauce, octopus eye stew, whale Bobotee, and baked cod fish tongues. Giant land snail with mushroom sauce, slug fritters, and earthworm pasta made up a slimy contingent of dishes as well.
“What looks like the best of the worst to you?” asked Pearl as they circumnavigated the tables together, filling their plates very slowly.
Ansel winced. The insect recipes were the worst for her, and there was a great supply of creepy-crawly things. She eyed beetle biscuits, fried green tomato hornworms, mealworm fried rice, sour cream locusts, bee grub scrambled eggs, french fried maggots, dragonfly gazpacho, ant brood tacos, crickets and beans salad, grasshopper pasta, cicada souffle, and broiled moth cakes. The most memorable dishes were the tarantula salad and the garlic wood louse bread sticks.
“I’d say the giant silk worm pupae quiche. Did you see the size of those things? They were bigger than mice.” Ansel grimaced, placing a helping of crow casserole next to a previous dollop of curried kangaroo tail. Kangi beware, she thought, remembering the Red Rose scam artist.
Pearl giggled. “I’m voting for the seal brain fritters. Your crow gut is going fast.”
“That’s because it’s made with ingredients that cowards like me will eat. Elk intestines turned inside out and stuffed with meat and vegetables looks tame around here.”
While walking toward the dining tent, people stopped to say hello and chat. Ansel dutifully chuckled with the Big Toe mayor and his wife, the chief of police, and a couple of old family friends. Everyone wanted to discuss the strychnine murders, while Pearl wanted to discuss the news that Ansel was still single and available to the right man.
When they reached the dining tent, Pearl set her plate on the table and left for the beer wagon. Ansel sat and began eating, nodding and waving to everyone she knew at the same time. Suddenly, her father plopped into Pearl’s empty seat.
“Hey, honey. I heard you were over here.”
Her father looked good, all dressed up in a teal color-block shirt, black jeans, lizard-skin belt, concha-button boots, and a white Specialist hat.
“Hi, Daddy. I’ve missed you.” She gave him a big hug, latching on as if she might not see him again. Her experience the day before had made her appreciate her family more than ever.
He patted her back. “You wouldn’t miss me if you stayed at the ranch. I don’t like the idea of you being at the trailer. We agreed you should stay home until these murders are solved.”
Ansel pulled away. If he knew someone had tried to kill her with a poison dart, he’d be horrified. She wasn’t going to ruin the party for him. “I know, but I’m a big girl now.”
“Sure,” Chase said, giving her a scrutinizing stare. “Is Detective Dorbandt coming?”
She picked at her food. “He’s out of town. Chasing leads.”
“I don’t know, Sarcee. He might show up. I’ve seen the way he looks at you.”
“Yeah, like a murder suspect. Speaking of suspicious behaviors, why were you two giving each other funny looks before you drove away from my trailer the other night?”
Chase used two fingers and grabbed a piece of kangaroo meat from her plate. “What is this? Tastes like spotted m
ule and piccalilli sauce.”
“Don’t change the subject.”
Chase gave her a cagey smile. “Why don’t you ask Dorbandt?”
“Never mind. He and I are oil and vinegar.”
Chase laughed. “Which are you?”
Ansel made a face. “Very funny.”
“Hey, I’m just curious who’s at the top of the jug?”
“Me.”
“Figures.” Chase shook his head. “Smooth on the palate, but slicker than a wet noodle to get a bite hold on.”
Ansel smirked. “I think Dorbandt’s already found that out.”
“Oh, I don’t doubt that a bit. Well, remember that oil and vinegar can make one great vinaigrette,” he said, waggling his eyebrows.
Ansel’s features darkened. “Don’t even think it, Daddy. I have absolutely no interest in Dorbandt.”
“What are you two jaybirds squawking about now?” Pearl appeared, bearing two large plastic cups of beer.
Chase stood so Pearl could have the seat. “Salads.”
Pearl sat down and passed a cup to Ansel. She looked up at Chase. “Are you going to eat with us?”
“No, I’ve got to patrol the fences. Nothing worse than city slickers going loco on firewater.”
“You’d better eat or your blood sugar will go south on you,” Pearl said.
“I had a slab of buffalo ribs. I’ll catch up with you two in a bit.”
“Talk to you later, Daddy.”
“You bet,” he said as he gave them a wave and departed.
Pearl and she quickly finished their meals, drank their beers, and gabbed for another fifteen minutes until Pearl said, “I’ve got to circulate. Want to come with me?”
Ansel shook her head. “I think I’ll go to the dessert tent. Go have fun.”
“Are you sure you’re all right? You seem distracted. Anything you want to talk about?”
“I’m great. I’ll catch up to you.”
Pearl left reluctantly and Ansel wandered through the dessert tent. The chocolate-covered grasshoppers, jellied bug blox, candied cricket Spumoni sorbet, mealworm chocolate chip cookies, and maggot cake did nothing for her. She settled on the dubious choice of a cow udder eclair, only because it was smothered in chocolate syrup and whipped cream. As she walked out of the tent with her plate, Lydia Hodges appeared.
Mesozoic Murder Page 24