by Betty Webb
As we stacked the chairs, the river otter keeper wondered aloud about something that had been bothering me. “Don’t you think it’s odd that the increase in sea otter deaths hasn’t been reflected in the reports from around here? According to the statistics Dr. Morrison quoted, we sound almost like a toxo-free zone, but I myself reported two deceased ones.”
“Same here,” Frank said. “I e-mailed pictures of three carcasses.”
“You’re not telling me anything I don’t know since I had to retype both your reports,” Darleene reminded us, sounding cranky. “Neither of you can type worth a damn.”
I let that pass. “But what about Booth’s count? He was covering the north side of the Slough. Surely he found carcasses.”
Darleene shrugged. “No clue there, ’cause I didn’t get his latest report, did I? Somebody killed him before he could send it to me for retyping. Anyway, I was planning to have a conversation with Booth about his methods if he didn’t report any deaths this year, but alas…” She mimicked an exaggerated expression of grief. “Say, either of you know where I can pick up another printer and fax combo? Cheap? Half my office equipment’s down for the count.”
A discussion followed on the merits of stand-alones as opposed to combo machines, and which chain offered the best prices. Darleene being no friend of conglomerates—she was especially Starbucks-averse—took Frank’s advice to check out the offerings at Buffalo Bob’s Electronics Emporium in Monterey Bay. Higher prices, but a sole proprietor.
Halfway back to Gunn Landing, I began to wonder.
Did Booth have the completed otter report on him when he died?
And if so, was it still on his phone?
Lex Yarnell wasn’t at the zoo when I arrived the next morning, no surprise there. Wisely or not, he’d loved Amberlyn and preferred keeping his grief to himself. But when I stopped by the employee lounge for a cup of coffee, I found the San Sebastian Journal being passed from zookeeper to zookeeper. When it finally reached me, I found that an “unnamed source” had leaked the entire Sugar Baby story.
Zookeepers aren’t saints. Myra Sebrowski, for instance, gloated, “A kept woman, can you believe that? I mean, how sordid can you get, whoring yourself out to some old fart for tuition money?”
“At least the poor woman was trying to better herself.” This from Robin Chase, who was rubbing hand cream on a new tattoo. “Last week you were carrying on about Booth being such a nice guy, and you weren’t referring to him as ‘some old fart’ then.”
“That’s before I found out…” Myra stopped abruptly.
“Found out what?” I asked.
Myra gave me a withering look. “Nothing. It’s just that he was pretty old, wasn’t he? For sure too old for that Amberlyn person. What was she, like nineteen or something? Pathetic, if you ask me.”
Robin, who had never liked Myra, snapped, “From what the Journal said, that ‘Amberlyn person’ was only five years younger than you. And his age sure didn’t stop you from drooling over him, did it? Not that he ever drooled back.” Robin narrowed her eyes. “Or did he?”
Looking flustered, Myra stood up. “I’m not going to waste any more time with petty gossip. Gotta get to my apes.”
She flounced out.
I finished my coffee, wondering briefly whether there might be a connection between Myra and Booth she didn’t want me to know about. But she was a brunette, where Booth had famously preferred blondes.
Still wondering, I left to load some animals for a trip to the TV station.
Bernice and I breathed a sigh of relief when for once, Anteaters to Zebras went smoothly, at least where the animals were concerned. Alejandro the llama hammed it up for the live cameras and didn’t spit on anyone. As for Charlemagne the hedgehog, he fell so in love with anchorwoman Ariel Gonzales that he didn’t curl up in a self-protective ball. After scuttling up and down her arm a few times, he settled himself on her shoulder and played with her bejeweled earlobe. Carlos, my favorite Collie’s magpie jay, was so thrilled at being out and about with me that he perched on my knee and delivered an oratorio of joy.
Teeteeteeteek: Long-billed Dowitcher.
Buzzy dzzt: Green-breasted Mango.
Churry chorry chorry: Mourning Warbler.
He didn’t even sulk when I popped him into his birdcage/carrier. He just sat on one of the crossbars and pretended to be a meadowlark.
But then a human began misbehaving, and wouldn’t you know it was a human being I’d always trusted. Which just goes to show.
With Carlos providing background music, Ariel leaned forward on the set’s faux-leather sofa, the hedgehog moving with her. “We here at KGNN always appreciate your stopping by with the Gunn Zoo’s wonderful animals, but I would be remiss if I didn’t ask you to say a few words about the double murder case the police are investigating in your area. I hear you actually found one of the bodies.”
“The only thing I found was a cell phone,” I said firmly. “Certainly no body. And as for the so-called ‘double murder case,’ those two events happened several miles apart, and as far as I know, are not connected.”
“And yet the newspapers reported the victims knew each other.”
“I wouldn’t know anything about that.”
“I also hear you’ve been questioned by the authorities. Several times, as a matter of fact.”
“Cite your source, Ariel.”
She glanced at Carlos, still in full trill. “A little birdy told me.”
Oh, Ariel, and here I thought we were friends. Determined to keep my voice steady, I replied, “Well, it’s untrue.”
Carlos picked that moment to shut up. After the glory of his solo concerto, the silence felt ominous. Even the hedgehog stopped playing with Ariel’s ear.
“But you knew both victims, didn’t you, Teddy? Professor Stuart Booth, head of the Marine Science program at Betancourt College, and Amberlyn Lofland, a student at UC Santa Cruz? Professor Booth kept a boat at Gunn Landing Harbor. Surely you two interacted at some point.”
Bernice, who had been standing just out of camera range throughout the interview, looked at least as uncomfortable as I felt. At my signal, she made a big show of carrying Carlos’ cage away, but in the rush, left Charlemagne behind. Not that he cared. The hedgehog merely returned his attentions to Ariel’s ear.
Trying not to let the TV host’s questioning shake me, I explained, “Professor Booth’s boat was moored in the expensive section of the harbor, next to the yacht club. My boat is docked in the, ah, discount area, so there’s no way we would normally run into each other.” I wasn’t about to let slip the info that Booth and I were both involved in the recent otter count.
“How about Amberlyn Lofland, then? The same little birdy told me you were seen visiting her apartment the day before she was murdered.”
It was time for redirection, a skill honed to perfection by every zookeeper. Forcing myself to look chipper, I said, “Did you know that miners’ cats aren’t really cats? They’re actually related to the raccoon family! They came by that inaccurate name because they were always slinking around silver miners’ camps, looking for table scraps! As for myself, I’ve always thought they look like a cross between a ring-tailed lemur and a fox, but some people…”
“Do you deny visiting Miss Lofland?”
“Come to think of it, another fascinating fact about animals few people are aware of is that koalas hardly ever drink water! I’ll bet you didn’t know that either, did you, Ariel? Koalas get most of their moisture from the eucalyptus leaves they eat, and thus are beautifully suited to their desert environment, so the move from Australia to Gunn....”
“According to my sources, this isn’t the first time you’ve been involved in a murder case. Don’t you think that’s odd?”
The camera’s red light was still on, but unless my waterproof, pee-proof Timex was wrong, we had less than a minute to go before my segment was finished. Then the red light would go off and I could take my animals and vamoose.
> I gave Ariel a bright smile. “The Gunn Zoo is especially proud of Sssybil, our Mohave rattlesnake. She’s an especially intelligent reptile and is quite active on social media. She’s on Facebook, Snapchat, has her own website, and tweets several times a day, frequently about her children, many of whom have gone to other zoos. Sssybil is also widely known for her…”
The red light blinked out.
“Shame on you!” I snapped at Ariel, plucking the hedgehog off her neck. “Anteaters to Zebras is supposed to be all about animals, but you turned it into the Agatha Christie Hour.”
She spread her hands. “Sorry, Teddy. Orders from on high. The station manager handed me that list of questions and told me to ask them or else. And we gals both know what ‘or else’ means, don’t we? Kudos to you for handling the situation so well. And give Sssybil my regards.”
Still feeling betrayed, I put the hedgehog on my own neck and left.
“Told you so,” Bernice said, as we drove the van out of the parking lot while the animals snuffled, chirped, and squeaked in the compartment behind us.
“Did not.”
“Well, I meant to. At least she didn’t bring up my niece.”
“Even Ariel wouldn’t do such a dastardly thing,” I insisted. “She’s a Marine. They’re all about honor.”
“But she’s a TV personality now, and you know what those folks are like.”
There was nothing to say to that, so I remained silent for the rest of the drive.
When we arrived at the zoo I found a note on my locker asking me to stop by the office. Certain that the zoo director had been watching the disaster on Anteaters to Zebras, I walked down to the Admin Building and into the head office, where Zorah peered at me over an intimidatingly tall stack of papers.
“Nice show,” she cracked.
“A laugh a minute. But it’s good to know you always follow my TV adventures.”
“So does Aster Edwina, who called and told me to keep you off the air until this thing blows over. I hope that doesn’t upset you.”
“Are you kidding? I don’t want to ever go through that again. Do you have any idea what it feels like to be cross-examined on live TV?”
“No, and I don’t want to. Now go ahead and do your zookeeper thing. I have to finish filling out these forms re those cheetahs we’ve applied for. If we don’t act fast, the San Francisco Zoo will get them. Or the San Diego, which is always one-upping us.”
I was almost at the door before she added, “Another thing. Kabuki’s been flinging feces at the visitors.”
“Again?”
Zorah made a face. “He usually misses, but today he’s already hurled a couple near-hits and it’s not even noon yet. If this behavior continues, we might have to take him off exhibit. Think you might be able to do something?”
“Why not ask Myra Sebrowski? She’s his keeper.”
“Nothing Myra’s tried seems to work. Kabuki’s always had a soft spot for you. Just give it a try, okay?”
Although I didn’t relish having to work alongside the surly Myra, I agreed and headed toward Kabuki’s enclosure. As I drove my zebra cart along the zoo’s pathways, it occurred to me that I could use the occasion to find out why Myra had been so quick to come to Booth’s defense.
But first things first.
Before Kabuki had been sent to us by another zoo, the Japanese macaque—commonly known as a snow monkey—had once observed a group of chimps flinging feces at an obnoxious teenage boy, and apparently thought it looked like fun. Before coming to us, he’d indulged in a few fastballs of his own. Now separated from the naughty chimps by three states and five years, Kabuki still went through periods where his old behavior reemerged.
Like elephants, monkeys never forget.
Kabuki’s enclosure was located between Tropics Trail and Verdant Veldt, a large enclosure strewn with boulders to climb on, ropes to swing with, and shaded by tall eucalyptus trees. A flowing stream added to its tranquil ambience. Several times a year the zoo trucked in snow for the macaques to play in.
While many people view macaques as unappealing animals, I found Kabuki rather handsome with his silvery coat, pink face, and deep-set eyes. As macaques go, he was quite the screen idol. This morning I found him sitting in lonely splendor atop the largest boulder in the enclosure, staring intently at three young men pointing at him and making rude remarks. The rest of the monkey troop were busy picking through the rocks at the far side of the enclosure, hunting for tasty insects.
With the exception of the famous Koko and a few other super-socialized gorillas, it is doubtful monkeys can understand human language. They’re intelligent, yes, but their minds don’t work the same way as ours. However, there is no question that most animals are sensitive to tone, the way certain words are pronounced. You can call a macaque an idiot, but if you say the word softly and sweetly, the word sounds tender. But if you overlay the word with the scorn with which it’s usually uttered, the animal picks up on that.
The three men made no effort to hide their scorn. They laughed, they pointed, they made insulting noises. Not only did they make fun of Kabuki himself, but they went on to disparage his mother, his father, his aunts and uncles, and any children he may have sired. While Kabuki couldn’t understand the words themselves, he knew he was being mocked.
I looked around for Myra, wanting her to step in and break up the insult session—there were children nearby—but she was nowhere in sight. Before I could go in search of her, Kabuki took care of the matter himself.
The macaque climbed down from the boulder, ambled casually toward the edge of the moat that separated him from the fence, and squatted.
Knowing what was about to happen, I yelled, “Duck, guys!”
Too late.
Having produced a fresh weapon, Kabuki hurled it toward the men, and before they could scramble out of the way, the turd hit the most vocal of them square in the face.
Kabuki had been practicing.
“Restrooms are that way,” I said to the man, somehow managing to hide my grin. “You can wash up in there. Some advice, though. Teasing an animal is never a good idea. The blowback can be excruciating.”
No answer from the victim, just gagging sounds. Monkey poo isn’t pleasant.
As soon as the trio hurried toward the restrooms, I approached the fence. Spotting me, Kabuki gave a little dance and moved even closer to the moat. He couldn’t get to me, though, so instead of staying there, I walked around to the rear of the enclosure where the keepers’ entrance was hidden behind strategically placed fake boulders. There I found Myra cleaning out the macaques’ night cages.
“Kabuki just hit a visitor in the face with a turd.”
She pulled her beautiful face into a frown. “I thought his aim wasn’t all that good.”
“It’s improved.”
“Oh, crap. Literally. Think the visitor will sue?”
I recalled the man’s muscle shirt, his Cleveland Indians baseball cap, his half-laced high-tops. “He didn’t look like the litigious type.”
Although Myra can be unpleasant with humans, when it comes to her monkeys and apes, she’s all care and concern. “At least that’s something. But geez, Teddy. I’ve been wracking my brain, yet still can’t come up with anything to stop his behavior. What about you? Kabuki’s not the easiest macaque to work with, and believe me I’ve tried, but maybe you can try?” Her face crumpled into a plea. “I’d hate to see him go off-exhibit.”
In zoo parlance, to go “off-exhibit” could mean one of three things: the animal in question would be given some extended R&R time in a non-viewable area; the animal would be traded to another zoo in hopes a change of scene would stop the negative behavior; or the animal would be euthanized, something the Gunn Zoo never did unless the animal in question was so ill it could not be saved.
R&R with Kabuki had already been tried and it hadn’t worked, which meant he was in danger of being traded. Neither Myra nor I wanted to see that happen. Neither would his harem.
“Have there been any changes in his habitat in the last couple of months other than the new baby? Seems to me I remember four females.” Yet all I could see were three grown females, one female adolescent, and one male infant riding on its mother’s back.
“Aster Edwina had us send Akemi to St. Louis last month. They lost their one female macaque last winter and the male was grieving.”
“Well, now we’re the ones with a grieving male. Kabuki had two babies with Akemi, didn’t he?” I waved toward the adolescent and the infant. “You say she left last month. When exactly did Kabuki start pitching practice?”
Light dawned. “Three weeks ago.”
“Sounds like he needs a new love interest. I’ll call Aster Edwina.”
Only later did I remember that I’d forgotten to ask Myra about her possible interaction with Stuart Booth.
As it turned out, I didn’t have to call Aster Edwina. She called me.
“Teddy, stop whatever you’re doing and come up here.”
Up here, meant Gunn Castle. “What if I’m in the middle of running from an escaped lion?”
“Then change direction.”
End of call.
I checked my watch. Just after four p.m. I would miss the glut of late-arriving visitors trying to squeeze their visit to the Gunn Zoo’s three hundred acres into two hours, always a busy time. After calling Zorah and telling her what was happening, I parked my cart and headed for the castle.
“Teddy, you promised to keep me informed about the Booth situation, yet I haven’t heard a word from you,” Aster Edwina said the moment I walked through the library door at Gunn Castle. “Why not?”
“I’ve been busy.”
“You had a whole day off Monday and could have contacted me then.”
It would never occur to the old harridan that anyone had a life that did not revolve around her orders. Nevertheless, I told her what I’d learned since we last met.
When I was done, she groused, “That’s all? The SOB had a kept woman?”
“They’re called Sugar Babies these days, as long as they’re in college.”