by J. D. Crayne
"It is a lie!" Orloff cried.
Pigott opened the back door, letting in a lake breeze and glaring sunlight that made them all blink. "Nice view from here," he said. "If you're taking the doctor away, maybe I'll buy this place too, after I close the deals on the vineyard, bait shop, and antique store. Clear out all of the junk and make a hotel out of it. Might buy a nice little lake-sized yacht to tie up at the dock." He strolled out onto the dock, which was in bad need of repair, and bent over at the end, looking down into the water. "It could use a little dredging here too, and I..."
WHOOSH!
A huge black form torpedoed up out of the lake in a plume of spray. There was a savage crunch. Pigott screamed, and was gone.
The others, who were clustered around the open doorway, stared out at the ripples and at a wake that was making a rapid departure from the dock. The Sheriff's Department men looked after it with disbelief.
After a moment Carlson said, "Well, that sure saves the County a bundle in legal fees."
* * *
Sergent Skulper called for reinforcements from the County Seat, and took statements from everyone, including Mrs. Kimberley, who told them that she had several times fried Dr. Orloff's experiments for dinner and had no idea either of them was doing anything wrong.
"They do not have a very good taste," she admitted. "I am forced to use a thick sauce, which I do not wish to do."
Skulper nodded. "My wife says the same thing about the swordfish she gets at the market. Hell, I think half of it is shark!"
"Shark is not so bad!" Mrs. Kimberley said. "Grilled, and with a nice lemon sauce it is quite good. But these things of the doctor's. Pfui! Better he should have let them all go in the lake."
"Just how often did he release them?"
She pondered. "At first it is maybe once a month. Then, as he makes them grow faster, once every two weeks. Mostly it is when they get too big for the tanks and he decides the meat bill is too high."
"Meat?"
"Just hamburger, for the little ones."
"Yeah, even hamburger is getting pretty high," Skulper agreed.
"Then for the big ones, steak and rib roasts," she said, nodding.
The remaining denizens of the aquariums were impounded by a HazMat crew and sent to Sacramento for testing. The computers, notebooks, and anything that looked interesting was seized and carried off in boxes.
Dr. Orloff, crying out tearfully at being separated from his beloved Tina, was handcuffed and bound for a cell in Ukiah.
"It seems sort of a shame," Steve said, watching as Skulper stuffed his captive into the back seat of a Sheriff's cruiser with two strong officers in front. "He's not what I'd call a hardened criminal."
"They might just cite him and release him on his own recognizance," Carlson said. "Then again, they may decide to make an example of the poor old crackpot and toss him in jail for a while."
CHAPTER 6
When Steve finally got home, his mother was leaning on the bookstore counter, giggling like a girl and looking ten years younger than when he'd seen her last. Uncle Hank was standing on the customer side of the counter, refilling the two glasses in front of them from a green wine bottle without a label.
"Steve, dear! I was hoping you'd come home soon. Dearest, when are you planning to move out?"
"What?" Steve asked, taken aback.
"When are you moving out?" she repeated, tracing an invisible pattern on the counter top with one forefinger. "I remember you said that you were going to leave town. Or was it that you're going to marry that nice Sancy Pitt?'
"Well, I'm not sure..."
"You see," she said, ignoring his response, "now that Reverend Finsch has left to bring comfort to those poor people in South America, Henry has agreed to take over the Brotherhood of the Spirit ."
"You're taking over the church?" Steve asked Uncle Hank. "What do you know about organized religion?"
"Ministerial school and three years at a pulpit in Peoria," the elder man murmured.
"I'm sorry I asked," Steve said. "Yes, Mom? Please go on."
"You see," she continued, "it would be so much more convenient for dear Henry if he had a place to stay in town, instead of coming in from the rancheria every day, and I thought that your room would be just ideal for him!"
"Dear Henry?" Steve asked, around turning to stare at Uncle Hank.
The elder man studied his nails and murmured, "My intentions are strictly honorable, I assure you. You'll be calling me 'dad' before the year is out."
"I wouldn't be surprised," Steve said with resignation. "What the hell is in that stuff she's been drinking?"
"Why, there's lots of stuff in that," Uncle Hank said softly. "High John the Conqueror, galangal, comfrey, a dollop of the juice that the Klienzee boys brew up in the hills..."
"Uh uh. Okay." He turned back to his mother. "I'm not really sure, Mom. I'm thinking of buying a place of my own. Let's say sixty days. Would that suit you? It's sort of like escrow."
She beamed at him. "That would be just lovely. I hope you're not planning on moving back to Los Angeles, though. Nasty smelling place, and all that traffic!"
Steve went to his room and lay down on his bed. He felt like sleeping for a year.
* * *
His mother woke him at a little after eleven the next morning. Mrs. Kimberley was on the phone, and she was a very disturbed woman.
"What's the matter?" Steve said woozily into the phone, trying to wake up enough to be coherent, if not intelligent.
"I received a phone call from Dr. Orloff's attorney this morning," she said. "The doctor will be released tomorrow, and may return home again until a court hearing next month."
"Well, that's good news, isn't it?"
"Yes, but it is what he will find here that troubles me!"
"What do you mean?"
"Those men who cleaned out the basement and took away all of his work?"
"Yes?"
"Two of them were not careful, and they did not treat the doctor's beloved Tina with respect."
"Oops. What kind of condition is she in?"
"Here, I will let the boys tell you. I have not the heart."
There was some muffled talking in the background, a scrape of the receiver across something hard, and then Mickey Pitt came on the phone.
"Hiya, Steve!"
"Mickey? What are you doing over there?"
"Pete's dad told him what happened out here yesterday, so we came out to get a first hand look at the crime scene. We're helping Mrs. Kimberley clean up. It's a real mess down here!"
"I'm not surprised," Steve said, rubbing a hand over the stubble on his chin. "What's the problem with the dead dog?"
"Looks like someone kind of opened her up," Mickey said cheerfully. "Her head's off, her middle's open, and there's bunches of fur all over the floor. Maybe they thought he had a dope stash stuffed inside her or something. The doc is going to have kittens."
There was silence for a moment and then Steve said, "Why are you calling me about this?"
"Well, it's sort of your fault, isn't it?" Mickey said reproachfully. "You and Mr. Hope led the raiding party. Dr. Orloff is a nice old geezer, even if he is a little bit nuts, and he's going to be awfully upset. You're the Mayor; can't you do something?"
Steve sighed. "Okay, I'll see what I can do. You and Pete go on helping Mrs. Kimberley."
Steve showered and shaved; ate breakfast; and then phoned The Perky Pooch dog groomers in Ukiah, to ask if they knew of anyone with springer spaniels. That led to a three hour round trip to the coast, where he bought an enthusiastic year-old female spaniel – for more money per pound than T-bone steak, he thought sourly.
When he and the dog got to Dr. Orloff's house, the Mickey, Pete, and Mrs. Kimberley were just finishing up in the basement.
"Hey, neat," Pete said, as the dog bounded around the basement. "She looks just like Tina!"
"I guess that's the idea," Mickey said with a grin. "It's the old switcheroo, right Steve?"
"Right you are, and you can thank your lucky stars that Orloff didn't have one of those loveable mutts with different color ears and a funny looking splotch on his nose. Where are the remains?"
Mrs. Kimberley pointed mutely at the red velvet pillow, where Tina had been reassembled.
"Get me a big box, would you?"
Mrs. Kimberley bustled off in search of a suitable container, while Steve extracted the rhinestone collar from the wreckage and buckled it on Tina's replacement.
"There you go!" Steve said, letting the rambunctious canine loose to chase her tail. "When Orloff comes home, Tina will be here waiting for him. Better tell him that the HazMat crew accidentally dumped a couple of bottles of something on her, to account for her miraculous return."
"But won't he notice something different about her?" Pete asked.
"After fifteen years?" Mickey asked, scoffing. "As long as she doesn't actually bite him, he'll be tickled pink."
Mrs. Kimberley returned with a large cardboard carton, into which Steve and the boys bundled the scraps of the late lamented Tina the First. When Steve left, with the carton stowed in the back of the car, Tina the Second was happily gobbling down a plate of left-overs provided by Mrs. Kimberley, and the boys were disposing of chocolate chip cookies and milk.
It seemed a little heartless to just dispose of Tina the First at the dump, so Steve decided to drive over to Ernie's. Half way there, he had a sudden thought and went to George Regent's bait shop first.
George was sitting on a stool by the counter, dividing a large heap of wriggling night crawlers into small white take-out containers. He looked dejected.
"Business must be good," Steve remarked. "Why the long face?"
George sighed and wiped his brimming blue eyes. "Business is okay, but I got a letter from a lawyer this morning. Martha is filing for divorce."
"I'm sorry to hear that, George."
"Thanks." He sniffed sadly. "She wants the bait shop."
"As her part of the settlement, you mean?"
George nodded. "I offered to let her have the house, and my entire collection of trout and bass trophies, but she wants the shop."
"What would she want with a bait shop? I don't think she even likes fishing, does she?"
"She says that she and that woman she's living with want to turn it into a frozen yoghurt shop and sell sundaes to the tourists. She's going to call it Tlaklot Toppings."
"Oh. Well, maybe she'll change her mind and take the house instead. If I were you, I'd refuse to let her have the fish trophies though. Why don't you move them all down here instead? Make her a counter offer. Say she can have the house, but you absolutely refuse to let her have your fish."
George brightened up. "You know, you're right. She never did appreciate them, not even the six foot muskellunge I have hanging over the bed."
"That's the spirit," Steve said, clapping him on the back. "She's not worthy of them."
"I won't let her have the stuffed alligator either," George said decisively. "Thanks Steve. You made me feel a lot better. Want to help me sort night crawlers?"
"Ah, no not right now. I came about the guy who donated the claws to the monster museum."
"Huh? " George looked puzzled for a moment and then brightened up. "Oh yeah, yeah! He's still in the back room." He jerked a thumb toward the back of the building and went on sorting worms.
Steve wrapped the shopworn and manicured anteater in a tarp; carried it out to his car without attracting any undue attention, and crammed it into the box with Tina the First.
When he got to Ernie's cabin and took the carton to the door, it was Uncle Hank who opened it for him.
"What are you doing here?" Steve asked. "I thought you were over at the bookstore, helping Mom with her crystal gazing."
"My duty is here," Uncle Hank said, standing aside as Steve went inside. "Now that Ernie has undergone the traditional sweat lodge ceremony and his guiding spirit has revealed itself to him, he is ready to undergo training to be the spiritual leader of our people."
"What? You're giving up being the Huchnom shaman?" Steve asked, plopping the carton down in the middle of the floor.
Ernie, who was sitting on the wobbly chair, looked up with a grin. "Are you kidding? He's just moving over to minister to the money grubbing white man and leaving me to hold the fort."
"How was your stint in the sweat lodge?"
"Grim! Sweating like a hog, nothing to eat for three days, and a dip in an ice cold creek at dawn every morning."
"And you actually saw some kind of spirit guide while you were up there in the hills sweating your guts out?"
"Sure did! It scared hell out of me. It was a big seven-foot, hairy-yeti sort of thing, with yellow eyes and a real long yellow and pink striped..."
Uncle Hank cleared his throat loudly. "These are sacred mysteries that should not be revealed to outsiders. What's in the box?"
"A dead dog and an ex-anteater."
They looked at him blankly.
He opened the box, pointed, and explained.
Uncle Hank squatted down, and Ernie bent to look over his shoulder.
"I thought maybe you could loan me a shovel and point me to a piece of soft dirt where I could bury the evidence," Steve said.
"Not around here," Ernie said. "Haven't you ever wondered why murder victims are buried in shallow graves? The damned stuff's like concrete this time of year."
"Seems like sacrilege to bury them anyway," Uncle Hank said pensively. "Very attractive and interesting fur, especially that black stuff." He looked very thoughtful. "Why don't you leave the remains with us," he said. "We will see that they are disposed of properly, and that the earthbound spirits of these poor beasts are laid to rest."
Steve raised his eyebrows and looked at Ernie, who merely shrugged.
* * *
The next month was a happy one in Solitaire. The TV camera crews were back, this time attempting to catch pictures of the monster that was known to be in the lake, and the town was crammed with tourists.
The government Fish and Wildlife Service made a tentative suggestion that the water of Lake Mendocino ought be poisoned, to eliminate any possible hazard, and was politely informed that Solitaire would fight an action like that all the way to the Supreme Court. They were also threatened with legal action by the towns whose water supply came from the lake, and the enterprising dealers who were bottling some of it as a "Monster Water" health tonic for sale in local herb shops.
The County in general, which was rejoicing in the late-season tourist overflow, was firmly behind Solitaire, and the rancheria Huchnom tribe was gearing up for monthly monster-appeasing festivals, to be conducted from a sturdy platform that would be built on pilings at the shallow end of the lake.
Several small business men with vans set up tours for the benefit of tourists who couldn't get rooms in town, and a metaphysical society was planning a convention in Ukiah, to investigate the ley lines connecting Lake Mendocino with Confusion Hill and Mt. Lassen.
Carlson Hope's Grand Mogul Vineyard put out a special-label Cabernet Savignon called "Tlaklot Reserve" and Janey Reitz– whose Lead & Liquor store had exclusive rights to the label–sold out the whole bottling in less than two weeks. Half of the women in town were stitching up "Tlakie" stuffed toys for a mail order catalog, and George Regent's newly formed Friends of Tlaklot Society was posting signs around town showing cute pictures of a black whaley-porpoisey thing with humps, big eyes, and a toothy grin.
Steve, on his way to the post office, to mail another installment in his continuing paper fight with various lawyers, was surprised to see a new sign being winched into place over the door of Hetty's Antiques. Its large brown letters, outlined with gold scrolling, read Herkimer Gallery. A discreet line below announced "antiques and collectables."
Feeling a trifle bemused at this example of upscale ambition, Steve went in to see what was going on. He felt shocked. Where were the plastic dolls with the crocheted dresses? Where were the
gold-sprayed macaroni landscapes? There was a plush brown carpet underfoot, the lighting was subdued, and small, nondescript landscape paintings in gold frames dotted the walls. Hetty's glass cases, cleaned and shined within an inch of oblivion, held neatly arranged silver and turquoise, beaded jewelry, and tooled leather.
"Why, Mr. Mayor!" came a genteel shriek from the back of the room. "How nice of you to drop in for my grand re-opening!"
Hetty herself, still sporting a mop of red fuzz, and wearing something that the very near-sighted might call Seminole patchwork, barrelled toward him and planted a big kiss on his cheek.
"What's this all about?" Steve said, disengaging himself and waving a hand vaguely around the room.
She grinned broadly at him. "It's my new professional image! I met the nicest little old man from that indian reservation out on the county road."
"The rancheria, you mean?"
"That's the place! He explained to me that the tourists coming into town for the Tlaklot ceremonies are going to spend unbelievable amounts of money on indian collectables, and that I should get in on it. He's a really fascinating tribal elder, with long braids, silver jewelry and beaded moccasins. He said that if the shop looked like it was expensive, people would pay the prices. I must say, he was very persuasive."
"Was his name Henry Cross, by any chance?"
"Why yes! Do you know him?"
Steve nodded, and walked over to the far wall, where some beaded pieces of leather clothing were hanging on the wall, with quite unbelievable prices posted next to them. He prodded one with a finger. It was very, very, stiff. The label next to it said, "Traditional Drummer's Regalia".
"Wonderful, aren't they?" Hetty said, complacently. "Fantastic antiques, and very rare. He let me have them on commission."
"Uh-huh." Steve had put on his reading glasses and was looking in one of the glass cases at a set of rattles that seemed to be made of small gourds with plaited leather handles. They were ornamented with hanks of long fur. Some of it was white, some of it was brown, and some of it was an odd, coarse, black stuff that hardly looked like fur at all.
The case next to that one held some agate necklaces, fur and bead trimmed wrist bands, and two necklaces made of amber-colored beads and shiny white teeth.