by Betty Webb
“Lila wasn’t the only victim, Kenny. There were more harass-ment allegations hanging fire.”
Ruth jumped back into the conversation. “A couple of other female students were saying the same thing, and you know what? Each time, he used the same defense he’d used with Lila, that the girls were the problem, not him. Unfortunately for poor Lila, it worked. As for the other victims, I’m betting Harper’s father bought them off.”
Kenny frowned. “Victims? You mean accusers. Nothing was ever proved.”
“You actually believe Booth’s side of the story?” Ruth sounded as incredulous as Dee Dee looked.
“Well, not to go that far, but....” He let the sentence hang.
I stepped away from my washer in order to hear better. Ruth was in her early forties, but appeared older, because unlike her partner, she sailed without bothering to apply sunscreen. Right now her sharp, deeply tanned cheeks were flushed. Although she had retired from pro soccer several years earlier, she’d kept herself in good shape. If Kenny was smart, he wouldn’t irritate her further.
“So the other girls were lying, too?” she snarled. “All of them?”
“That’s not what I said. I just think it’s wrong to accuse a person of horrendous things without having any proof.”
Ruth clenched her fists.
I had forgotten that Ruth—unlike everyone else in the harbor—had never warmed to Kenny. For that matter, neither had Dee Dee.
When Kenny noticed the discussion was in danger of becoming physical, he raised his pudgy hands in surrender. “Let’s just agree to disagree, shall we, dear hearts?
With that, he turned and dumped his clothes in the one remaining washer. Just in time, too, because the door opened again and several more liveaboarders came in lugging armfuls of mildew-endangered laundry.
Three hours later—there’d been a long line of liveaboarders waiting for too-few dryers—I stowed my clothes away in the Merilee’s too-few cupboards. Concerned that Kenny Norgaard might drop by to continue his gossip mongering, I decided to have lunch at Phil’s Fish Market, a restaurant too expensive for Kenny’s end-of-the-month pocketbook. It was also too expensive for mine, but after the morning I’d endured, I felt like splurging. As an added bonus, few, if any, of the other liveaboarders would be there to share their memories of the generally unloved Booth, and I could eat in peace.
So much for my plans. No sooner had I walked through Phil’s door than Preston Morrell hailed me from the restaurant’s patio.
“Get yourself over here, Teddy! I’ve got enough food for two.”
Dr. Preston Morrell, Chief of Operations at Blue Seas Marine Laboratory, sat hunched over a plate of food big enough to choke a whale. Although somewhere in his sixties, he was still a handsome man. His ruddy complexion and neatly trimmed salt-and-pepper beard and sea-green eyes were set off by his Blue Seas Burgundy sweatshirt. More than one female diner cast c’mere-sexy looks at him.
Preston had chosen one of the restaurant’s primo outdoor tables. Sun-drenched, it overlooked both the harbor and the wooded hill that led up to Old Town, and if I squinted, I could see my mother’s house. Not that I wanted to. The table also gave me a fine view of the Merilee bobbing gently at her berth, so I happily accepted Preston’s invitation.
“As it turns out, the Fisherman’s Fry-Up is too much for me,” he announced, pointing at the heaping plate. “Especially since I was foolish enough to indulge in clam chowder for an appetizer. You know how big the bowls are here.”
Without further ado, he slid one of his cod fillets, two jumbo shrimp, a crabcake, and a handful of fries onto an empty bread dish, then scooted it across the table to me.
“That’s sweet of you, Preston.”
He smiled. “’Sweet’ is my middle name. Remember?”
I did, and with some regret. After my father had embezzled millions and vanished into South America with the authorities in hot pursuit, Preston—this was a decade before he became head of Blue Seas—had fallen hard for the broke, bereft Caro, and had attempted to console her as much as was possible for a cash-strapped marine scientist. He hadn’t yet matured into the bearded handsomeness he now evinced, and at the time had looked downright geeky, but his open-heartedness made up for his unprepossessing appearance. He gave us rides on the magnificent Sea Scout, Blue Sea’s research ship whenever they launched Sea Quest II, the lab’s submersible.
Only around nine years old at the time, I’d been crazy about Preston and the adventures he led us on, so when Caro’s divorce came through, I assumed he would be my new stepfather, especially since she seldom used his given name, just called him “Sweet.”
“Sweet, could you take Theodora out on that boat again? She wants to see dolphins.”
“Sweet, could you get Theodora an all-access pass to the Grateful Dead concert benefiting Sea Quest II?”
“Sweet, could you refill my drink?”
Alas, it was not to be. Using her former Miss San Sebastian County beauty as bait, Caro chose a duller man with a bigger bank account.
“How’s your mother?” Preston asked, nibbling at a jumbo shrimp. “New marriage working out?”
Poor Preston. Never married, he still carried a torch for her. But even with his ascendancy to the top position at the marine lab, he would never have enough money for my mother.
“She’s fine. So’s the new marriage.”
“Ah.”
Then I remembered hearing something else. Before Booth began his career in academia, he had briefly worked for Blue Seas. Directly under Preston, if my memory was correct.
“Say, Preston, you heard about Stuart Booth, didn’t you?”
“Yep.” He speared another jumbo shrimp, took a bite. “These shrimp are delicious, aren’t they?”
“Didn’t he once work for you?”
“Mmm.”
I couldn’t tell if his Mmm was an assent or a culinary review. “How long ago was that?”
“Fifteen, twenty years. Time flies. Here, have some Tabasco for that crabcake.” He edged the bottle toward me.
“I’m fine. Exactly how long did he work for you?”
“You don’t think it’s too dry?”
“What?”
He pointed a finger at my plate. “The crabcake.”
“I like them dry, keeps them crispy. Why’d Booth leave Blue Seas? It wasn’t because he was given a better offer, because I heard he was out of work for several months before he signed on with UC San Bertram.”
“Mmm.”
“Was there some kind of a problem?”
He opened his mouth to reply, then a seagull flapped down and perched on a patio railing, eyeing our plates. I pulled mine closer to me. Like all seagulls, it had thieves’ eyes.
“Ah, yes, I’m glad you brought up Blue Seas. I lost my assistant last week, you know, the one who just got married to that pretty Italian girl who worked in our front office? She was homesick, so he’s moving to Italy to be with her. I told him he was making a mistake since she’s from Rome and you know what the rents are like there. But, hey, when love walks in, common sense walks out, doesn’t it?”
“You didn’t answer me, Preston.”
He put his fork down. “I can’t talk about Booth.”
“But he worked for you.” The seagull made a dive for my crabcake, and I covered my plate with my hand just in time.
“Awful birds, aren’t they? Why last week I was…”
Recognizing another evasion, I interrupted. “How long did Booth work for Blue Seas?”
“Rats with wings,” Preston said, shooing the gull away.
“C’mon, Preston. How long?”
“Only a couple of months.”
“So there was some kind of problem.”
“Like I said, I can’t talk about Booth.”
“Did you fire him?”
“I can’t talk about that.”
It sounded to me like Booth had been fired, so I restated my question. “Then he left under a cloud?”
/> His usually open face closed down. “Teddy, I told you, I can’t talk about Booth.”
“Something to do with women, maybe? Young ones?”
“I repeat my former statement. I can’t talk about Booth! Other than to say he left voluntarily.”
Stymied, I resumed eating for a few minutes. Then, as I gobbled down the rest of my crabcake, I remembered a couple of firings at the zoo and the way Human Resources always handled the cases when approached for references.
“Let’s see if I’ve got this right. You’re saying that Professor Booth once worked at the lab, then ‘voluntarily’ left, only to several months later take a less fun, lower-paying job at UC San Bertram. Frankly, I find that unbelievable, so how about this. Let’s pretend that at some point he saw the error of his ways and changed his mind…” I waved my fork for emphasis, “If he’d really changed his behavior, would he have been eligible for rehire?”
“No.”
“’No,’ as in you’re refusing to discuss it or ‘no’ he wasn’t eligible for rehire?”
“Mr. Booth—he wasn’t Professor Booth at the time, that was years away—was not eligible for rehire.”
With that, Preston stood up, gave me a friendly peck on the cheek, and scuttled away with the lunch check in his hand.
Chapter Four
When I walked into the Gunn Zoo’s staff lounge the next morning, several copies of the of the San Sebastian Journal were being passed around. When Frank Owens, the new river otter keeper, handed one to me I saw that Booth’s death had made page one. When it bleeds, it leads.
I ignored the pictures and went straight to the copy.
FAMED MARINE EXPERT DEAD!
The deceased man found in Gunn Landing Slough yesterday morning has been identified as Dr. Stuart Booth, 62, a resident of Old Town, the elite hillside community overlooking Gunn Landing Harbor. When questioned, San Sebastian County Sheriff Joseph Rejas stated, “The autopsy will determine cause of death, but in the meantime, I caution everyone to forego idle speculation. Dr. Booth’s family is understandably upset over their loss, and rumors don’t help.”
The sheriff then added, “And as for the press, instead of camping out in front of the Betancourt compound trying to get interviews, you guys should leave them alone to grieve.”
Rejas also refused to confirm the rumors that Dr. Booth had died of a bullet wound and that the person who found the body was the sheriff’s fiancée, Theodora Bentley, of the well-known Gunn Landing Bentleys. No stranger to death investigations, Ms. Bentley works at the Gunn Zoo and is best known for her regular appearances on Good Morning, San Sebastian, where she showcases the zoo’s animals. When contacted, Bentley would only say that the discovery came as a great shock. She declined further comment.
Dr. Booth was a longtime resident of San Sebastian County. After receiving his master’s degree in Marine Science from the University of California, Sacramento, he briefly worked for the famed Blue Seas Marine Laboratory, then returned to school to get his PhD from UC San Bertram, where he taught for several years. He eventually left to chair the Marine Sciences Department at Betancourt College in San Sebastian.
Dr. Booth is survived by his wife, former debutant Harper Betancourt-Booth. The couple had no children. Both of Booth’s parents predeceased him.
“Fame becomes you, Teddy,” Frank said. “Even wearing saggy sweats.”
I hadn’t noticed anyone snapping my picture as I stood talking to Joe. Weren’t photographers supposed to get a signed release or something? With my hair wild and my sweatshirt not only saggy but none too clean, I looked terrible, but my bedraggled appearance was beside the point. Why was I even in the paper to begin with, falsely identified as the person who found the body? I was so irritated that I almost missed Frank’s next comment.
“They say Booth was working on the sea otter count, too.”
“Several people were. Are.”
“You don’t find that odd?”
I looked up from the newspaper. “Why would I?”
With the river otter keeper’s sandy hair, near-perfect features and gym-toned body, Frank was considered a prime catch for just about any unattached female, but the frown on his face reduced his good looks.
“Because of Booth’s reaction to the toxoplasma gondii problem,” he said. “He once described it as ‘that overstated Toxo Terror.’”
Toxoplasma gondii was a parasite that had begun infecting numerous species, from cats to humans. The parasite is sometimes found in the soil and in undercooked or raw meat, but the infection usually goes unnoticed in otherwise healthy individuals. However, its impact on anyone with an impaired immune system—or pregnant women—can be severe. In otters, toxoplasma gondii was lethal, attacking the animals’ brains, leading to seizures, paralysis, then death. Recently, the incidence of dead sea otters washing up on shore had increased, making an accurate otter count of prime importance.
Before I could comment, Myra Sebrowski sniped, “Speaking ill of the dead, Frank? Have a little compassion, for heaven’s sake.”
I shot her a look of amazement. Myra, a flamboyantly beautiful brunette, had never shown compassion for anyone at any time. Myra loved only Myra. Well, and the great apes she took care of.
The other zookeepers stared at her, too.
“What?” she said, looking around. “Am I the only one here who cares about poor old Stuart?”
“Poor old Stuart?” mimicked Robin Chase, the big cat keeper. “I didn’t know you two were acquainted. And since you bring it up, wasn’t he a bit old for you? Like thirty years or something? Besides being married, and all.”
Myra shot Robin a dirty look. “As if you can talk.”
Oh, here we go.
Last year Buster Daltry, the rhino keeper, won an all-expense trip for two on an African photo safari, and having had a crush on Robin for a long time, invited her to go along with him. No fool she, Robin said yes. But two weeks before the departure date, Buster broke his leg escaping a charging rhino. Not wanting to spoil everything for Robin, he gave the other ticket to her and said she could take along whomever she wanted, expecting she would pick a female. Wrong. Robin, for whatever reason, chose Jack Spence, the bear keeper. While no one believed the two had had any sort of relationship before the Africa trip, by the time they returned, romance was definitely in the air. It broke up Buster’s and Jack’s long friendship.
Now here’s the kicker.
Robin Chase is no beauty. Big-boned, she towers almost six feet and is built like a WWF wrestler. With the exception of her face, her body is covered with realistic, full-color tattoos of every animal she has ever cared for in her years as a zookeeper. Tigers, ostriches, snakes, koalas, foxes, giraffes—well, you get the picture. Robin has taken care of so many different animals, that wherever she goes, her skin walks, crawls, and ripples with wildlife.
Come to think of it, maybe that’s the attraction.
Up until the Africa trip, Myra was the zoo’s official femme fatale, flirting here, sneaking around there, and she wasn’t taking the loss of her crown lightly. Whereas before she had simply ignored the hulking Robin, she now baited her rival every chance she got.
“At least I don’t date married men,” Robin replied, looking piqued at Myra’s verbal slap. “But from what I hear, you…”
“Ahem!” Jack Spence interrupted, sensing a brawl in the offing. “It’s time for us to get our butts to the commissary.”
The commissary was where we zookeepers picked up our charges’ meals, whether it be seeds, hay, or raw meat. It was also where I usually started my actual workday at the zoo. Unfortunately, this was a Tuesday, which meant that I would be taking some animals over to the TV studio to appear on Anteaters to Zebras, my live segment on Good Morning, San Sebastian. It wasn’t a job I particularly liked, but seeing our animals on television helped highlight ecological awareness; it also boosted the zoo’s gate proceeds.
I waved good-bye to the other keepers, ignoring Myra’s farewell scowl. She ha
d wanted to be the zoo’s so-called Television Ambassador, and had never forgiven me for being chosen instead of her. What Myra didn’t know was that I had actually campaigned for her to get the job, but my effort bore no fruit. As Zorah Vega, the zoo director, had explained after swearing me to silence, “Myra would make the segment all about herself, not the animal.”
Today’s star was El Capitan, one of the zoo’s ocelots. Raised in captivity, leash-trained, and used to people and cameras, Cappy, as we called him, was certain to be a calm presence. Sharing the spotlight would be Lilliana, the zoo’s popular four-foot-long green iguana, also a TV veteran. The only animal I had qualms about was Samuel, the seven-year-old bald eagle we acquired after he’d been hit by a car. Samuel’s broken right wing had never properly healed, rendering him unable to return to the wild. He could still fly short distances, but not well enough to hunt. Today would be his first appearance on live TV.
Qualms or not, I would have plenty of help. Although the zoo volunteer who usually accompanied me on my trip to the TV station was out of town attending her daughter’s wedding, two trainee keepers would assist. Janet Hewitt, who at the ripe old age of twenty-four still looked like a teenager, normally helped Robin Chase with the big cats. Usually fresh-faced and smiling, her eyes were pink-lined today, which I put down to allergies; they can be hell here in California. The other assistant was Tim Merriam, a jovial fitness buff stationed at the reptile house. Since both trainees enjoyed being around different species, I foresaw no problem.
With the humans, anyway.
The trip from the zoo to KGNN, the television station in San Sebastian, didn’t take long, and the animals were quiet during the drive. They remained silent as we carried them into the Green Room, although Cappy hissed at one of the station’s security guards. Ocelots have an excellent sense of smell, and he didn’t like the scent of the guard’s aftershave. Neither did I, for that matter. Cappy settled down when Janet, who had come prepared, fed him a cube of beef heart.