The Otter of Death

by Betty Webb

  “We weren’t ‘hanging around,’ we were on a mission.”

  A vision of the Blues Brothers popped into my brain; they’d been on a mission, too. “And that was?”

  “To save you from yourself.”

  “I don’t need saving.”

  “Yes, you do, you foolish girl. If something happened to you…” Her voice trailed off for a moment, and unless I was wrong, I heard sniffles. Caro being Caro, she recovered immediately. “Well, enough of that. You need to come up here and stay where you’re safe until this murder investigation is over.” A gasp. “What’s that? Is someone shooting at you?”

  “I’m in the zoo’s lunchroom and the bear keeper just put popcorn in the microwave.” Within seconds the air reeked of run-down movie house. I covered my nose, but it didn’t work. How could something so delicious smell so bad?

  “Well, it sounded like gunshots, Theodora.”

  “I’m perfectly safe here at the zoo, Caro. We have armed park rangers. If worse comes to worst, I can hide in the tigers’ night house.” I chuckled to make sure she knew it was a joke. “And as for my moving in with you, sorry, but I prefer living at my own place.”

  “That awful, leaky boat?”

  “The Merilee doesn’t leak. She’s not awful, either. In fact, she’s in great shape for her age. Maybe you need to come spend the weekend at the harbor with me and learn what a pleasant boat she is. You’d wake up in the morning and smell that fresh sea air…” There was no way Caro would even spend a night on anything less than a five-star yacht, but the longer I talked, the easier it was to lead her away from her favorite subject. Me. Back home. Where she could spend her life making my life miserable.

  It worked.

  A sniff. “I’m sick of hearing about that boat, but there’s something you can do for me.”

  Here it came, a second helping of crow. This time with giblet gravy.

  “I’m in a bit of a fix,” she said. “You remember my old friend, Miriam Haight-Smitherton? From San Francisco? Well, she and her family just moved down here permanently, and she encouraged me to join Keep Our Shoreline Clean with her. The things we do for our friends, eh? The upshot is, I promised to host their monthly dinner meeting Friday. For the speaker, I booked that nice vet at UC Davis to discuss the otter situation, which as you know, I’m very concerned about. But this morning she called and said she couldn’t do it, that she’d all of a sudden remembered she had to be somewhere else that evening. Hmph! People these days! Anyway, that leaves me with you. All you need to do is give a brief talk about otters or harbor seals or whatever it is you’re into these days, just as long as it lives in the ocean. Oh, and make it educational. From some of the things I’ve heard the other members say, they’re a bit clueless about wildlife.”

  When I recovered from my shock enough to speak, I yelped, “You joined KOSC? You have got to be kidding me!”

  Upon hearing me speak the infamous acronym, the other zookeepers started paying attention again. The bear keeper, even turned off the microwave so he and the others could hear better.

  “I just told you I did. Weren’t you listening?”

  It was my turn to shout. “You said you joined an ecology group!”

  Despite its name, Keep Our Shoreline Clean had nothing to do with keeping litter off the shoreline; it had everything to do with keeping people off. That is to say, certain kinds of people, such as teachers, hairdressers, bank tellers, and farm laborers. As far as KOSC was concerned, God forbid a gazillionaire had to share the beach with riff-raff.

  Caro sounded offended at my tone. “What’s wrong with you? Of course I joined KOSC. I care what’s been happening to our shoreline. Empty beer cans, plastic bags… Horrible! Besides Miriam, of course, I don’t know the members well at all, but they’re some of San Sebastian County’s finest people. This county has been good to us Bentleys and it’s time we returned the favor. The dinner will be a nice start.”

  “Nice start?” I snorted. “I’d rather help a giraffe through a breech birth than sit through a Keep Our Shoreline Clean function.”

  “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that. If you’d prefer not to, you don’t have to eat with us. Just give your spiel about otters or something, and I’ll make certain you’re in and out in less than an hour.”

  Ignoring my protests, Caro reeled off the guest list, some of whom surprised me, some of whom didn’t. But when she got to Harper Betancourt-Booth I snapped to attention. “Does Harper know you want me there?”

  “She thinks the UC Davis vet will be there, but what does it matter?”

  It was a good thing my mother couldn’t see my sour smile over the phone. “We’ve never really gotten along.”

  “She was perfectly nice to you during the funeral reception.”

  Observant, my mother is not. But I surprised her by agreeing to give a talk. “I’ll even shower for the occasion,” I added.

  “Smarty pants!” But she giggled. Being obeyed always put Caro in a good mood.

  On that note, she hung up.

  “You’re actually going to attend a KOSC meeting?” asked Jack Spence, turning the microwave back on. The bear keeper sounded outraged.

  “Hasn’t anyone told you it’s not polite to eavesdrop?”

  This brought a communal laugh from the other zookeepers, eavesdroppers all.

  “But honestly, Teddy,” said Robin Chase, only slightly less outraged than Jack, “if those snobs get their way, the entire coastline of California will be reserved for property owners only.”

  Ah, nothing like being the winner in a love triangle to turn a shy gal bold. But even though it looked like the Sumatran tiger on Robin’s arm tattoo was snarling at me, I stood my ground. “I have my reasons for going.”

  My explanation, vague as it was, convinced no one, so a few minutes later—leaving behind a chorus of frowns—I headed for Down Under and the less judgmental koalas.

  It was a day for miracles. The koalas, all three of them, were actually awake when I arrived, and Wanchu wanted to get picked up. I complied.

  “Who’s my sweet girl?” I cooed as she wrapped her furry arms around my neck.

  “Awwharl, awwharl!”

  A koala’s voice isn’t nearly as cute as the animal; it sounds like an aggrieved grizzly bear clearing its throat. In fact, the noise was so startling that it made Wanchu’s joey pop his head out of her pouch and study her.

  “Eeep?” he asked.

  “Awwharl, awwharl!”

  Satisfied that all was well, the joey pulled his head back in.

  Since Wanchu was used in the zoo’s popular “Name That Animal!” children’s production, being carried around had become part of her daily routine. So with her cuddled in my arms, we paced the enclosure together until she grew tired and began to look longingly at the fake tree where her mate had just dozed off.

  “Nighty night,” I told her, handing her over to a friendly tree limb. Before I could walk away, she was snoring.

  The only thing bad about working at a zoo is that the days pass by too quickly. After saying good-bye to Wanchu, it seemed only minutes before I was on the Merilee watching Bonz and Miss Priss eating their dinner. Once they were through, I gave Bonz a long walk through the park, but when we returned I didn’t feel like sitting around and watching Animal Planet reruns, as was my usual evening pastime. Besides, I hadn’t done any grocery shopping for a week, and my cupboard was almost as bare as Old Mother Hubbard’s. Hoping to snag an invitation to dinner, I called Joe, only to reach his voice mail. He wasn’t still angry with me—last night had proven that—but a county sheriff’s hours were more irregular than a zookeeper’s. Something had happened somewhere and he was out trying to fix it.

  Reminding myself to shop on the way home from the zoo the next day, I gave up trying to make a meal out of nothing but flour, sugar, and mustard, and walked down to Phil’s Fish Market, where the Wednesday special was always Frutti Di Mare, bits of sea food served on angel hair pasta.

  The ho
stess who led me to my table turned out to be Lila Conyers, wearing an ensemble of my castoffs: a navy blue dress with pink pinstriping, snazzed up by a pair of strappy pink sandals. Although she looked better in the outfit than I ever had, the court-ordered ankle bracelet somewhat spoiled the effect.

  Happy for her, I congratulated Lila on her new job, but she shook her head.

  “It’s only temporary. Phil’s full-time hostess got called for jury duty.”

  “Maybe it’ll be a long trial.”

  “Petty theft. Word is, there’s a plea deal coming.”

  ”Oh. Sorry.”

  Reverting to her hostess persona, she asked, “Do you prefer an indoor table or an outside one?”

  I scanned the dining room and found it even more crowded than usual, but the patio overlooking the harbor still had two empty tables. One table in particular, although occupied, interested me. “Outside is fine, and why don’t you seat me with Dr. Morrell?”

  “You know him?”

  “He used to date my mother.”

  Lila looked impressed, as well she should, since her original life plan had been to work at Blue Seas Marine Laboratory.

  With a hopeful look on her face, she led me to his table, where Preston proclaimed himself happy to make room for me.

  “We have to stop meeting like this,” he said, giving me a wink. “People will begin to talk.”

  “They already are,” I smirked back. As I settled myself down, I gave Lila my order, and once she handed it off to the nearby waitress, she returned to the hostess station to help someone else.

  “Did you know that our hostess majored in Marine Science,” I asked Preston, “and that she’s looking for a job?”

  A kindly smile. “Beauty and brains, an unbeatable combination. So why is such a paragon of the female gender working as a hostess?”

  By the time my dinner arrived, I had talked Preston into giving Lila an interview the next morning. Aware her police record would show up on her background check, I also gave him her reasons for spray-painting Booth’s boat.

  Preston was all sympathy. “That man was a menace. If there’s a Hell—and when I hear stuff like this I hope there is—Booth’s frying there right now. But before you ask, his file at Blue Seas is still sealed. Although…” He paused for a minute, looking down at his mostly eaten Frutti Di Mare. “….when I interview her, I promise that I’ll take all that into account. But it’s too bad she didn’t finish her education. The person she would be replacing was already working on his master’s, and I was hoping for someone with similar qualifications.”

  “If I remember correctly, Blue Seas fronted his tuition.”

  “Only because we’d received a large grant. Given this administration, though…”

  I wasn’t about to talk politics with him, so I interjected, “May I ask how much the grant was for?”

  He named a six-figure amount that reminded me of Amberlyn’s desperation before a killer had ended her dreams. “All the woman needs is a chance.”

  “I’ll tell my secretary to put her on the interview list. Can’t promise anything, though.”

  “Couldn’t ask for more.”

  Good deed done for the day, I stopped hyping Lila as soon as my Frutti Di Mare arrived. It was delicious.

  The first thing I did the next morning was stop by Admin to discuss the Japanese macaque situation with Zorah.

  She listened carefully, then nodded in agreement. “Clarabelle sounds like the perfect solution. A new female would keep Kabuki busy enough to stay out of trouble. And he’ll be good for her, too. He’s always been a big hit with the ladies. If Aster Edwina approves, I’ll call the National today and see what we can do. They’ve owed us a favor ever since we took that cockatoo off their hands. The darned thing can cuss in six languages!”

  We spent a few minutes discussing the difficulties of re-training foul-mouthed fowl before Zorah said, “Why don’t you call Aster Edwina yourself about Kabuki? You two have always been thick as fleas.”

  “Not lately, we haven’t.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “What’s she ticked off about now?” A longtime resident of San Sebastian County, Zorah had known Aster Edwina almost as long as I had. And anyone who knew the old harridan, however slightly, had at least once been burned by her scorching temper.

  With a sigh, I explained, “She’s demanding that I keep her abreast of the murder investigation, but Joe won’t cooperate. Not only that, but my mother’s convinced I’m about to be murdered and is strong-arming me to move in with her up at Old Town.”

  Zorah made a face. “Sucks to be you. Okay, I’ll call Aster Edwina myself and see what kind of deal we can work out with the National. As for now, don’t you have places to go, animals to feed? I’ve got a busy morning ahead.”

  She waggled her hand toward the door, where a half-dozen zookeepers waited in line, each carrying a large manila file folder with a picture of an animal on the cover. From the looks of things, the first zookeeper wanted to talk about a wildebeest.

  That evening I tuned into some more Animal Planet reruns while waiting for Joe to call, but after watching the late edition of the local news, I realized it wasn’t going to happen. A smiling news anchor reporting from the scene of an accident said that sixteen-year-old twin brothers, thinking it was a great idea to drink and drive, had wrapped their father’s Lexus around a tree. The camera zoomed in on Joe and his blood-splattered uniform. He was holding one boy’s hand as the EMTs carried him toward an ambulance to join his brother. The boy was sobbing, and from the expression on Joe’s face, I could see he wasn’t happy, either.

  Unfazed by this backdrop of misery, the news anchor chirped, “And in yet another accident on the PCH, but this one has a happier ending! The EMTs on the scene say the eighteen-year-old girl who was texting while driving suffered no major injuries from her drift into the water-filled ditch. She might even be released from the hospital tomorrow morning.”

  I turned off the TV and asked Bonz if he wanted another “walkies.” Taking his tail-wagging for a yes, I grabbed his leash and off we went.

  Usually Bonz and I take the Gunn Landing Park’s coastal pathway, but this time I chose the East Fork, which wound inland. Always well-lit by streetlights designed to look like carriage lamps, the path boasted gravel walkways lined with irregular-shaped rocks, most the size of softballs. Because of the area’s lush vegetation—chaparral, evening primrose, Pacific silverweed, and coyote bush—East Fork provided a nice break from the constant view of the ocean.

  Tonight was no exception. As we ambled along under the moonlight, we met up with several of Bonz’s favorites, most importantly the tiny poodle he’d enjoyed a celibate romance with for the past year. Tonight, MiouMiou had on a pink rhinestone-studded jacket that matched her painted toenails. The two dogs sniffed and nipped and danced like old lovers, but for obvious reasons it came to nothing. Sara and Jake Montini, MiouMiou’s owners, who lived on the Rising Sun, a sixty-five-foot trimaran moored at the ritzy north end of the harbor, were volunteers at the San Sebastian County No Kill Animal Shelter. Both understood the need for keeping the dog and cat population under control.

  All sweet assignations must end, so when the Montinis led MiouMiou back toward the harbor, Bonz and I continued our walk. It was a peaceful night, warm and pleasant, and other harbor-dwellers had turned out in full force. We even ran into Kenny Norgaard, taking a rare off-boat amble.

  “Shurprised to see you, dear heart,” he slurred. “You too, Bonz.”

  Not bothered by Kenny’s poor enunciation, Bonz wagged his stump of a tail and sniffed at Kenny’s Topsiders.

  “Why surprised? I walk Bonz every evening.”

  He gave me a tipsy grin. “Oh, you know, becaush of the murders, and you being a woman living all by yourshelf. Don’tcha think you oughta be more careful?”

  “Thanks for your concern, Kenny, but Bonz and I are fine. And as you can see…” I gestured toward another group of liveaboarders coming along the path
, “…we’re as safe here as we would be at Food 4 Less.”

  “Heard they had a robbery there las’ week.”

  “Kids stealing beer. Hardly Bonnie and Clyde.”

  “Theresh coyotes, too.” Here he vented a gaseous burp. “They come down from the hills, eat little bunnies.”

  Mother Nature; red in tooth and claw. “We haven’t seen coyotes this close to the harbor in months. Now, you take care getting to the High Life, okay? I wouldn’t want to see you fall into that nasty harbor water.”

  My own warning delivered, Bonz and I moved on.

  But as we walked along the trail, I remembered hearing a report of a possibly rabid coyote loose in San Sebastian County. Local wildlife officials hadn’t been able to confirm the sighting but in his booze-addled way, Kenny might have had a point. Deciding to cut our walk short—just in case—I let Bonz water one more tree, then turned around.

  It was only later, when I’d plunked myself in front of the TV again, that I began thinking about Kenny’s warning: You being a woman living all by yourshelf. Don’tcha think you oughta be more careful?

  Did he know something I didn’t?

  Chapter Thirteen

  Friday evening finally rolled around, and with it Caro’s dinner party for the detestable Keep Our Shoreline Clean high-muckity-mucks. I incurred Caro’s wrath by arriving late—strawberry crepes were being served—but her good humor returned when we moved into the sitting room where I launched into my speech about the necessity of an unpolluted seacoast.

  Pretending to listen were mother’s San Francisco friend, Miriam Haight-Smitherton, wearing a red Chanel; recently widowed Harper Betancourt-Booth, sporting a non-funereal pink Gucci; Harper’s more somberly clad father, Miles Stephenson Betancourt IV; Angus MacPherson, the publisher of the San Sebastian Journal; several local millionaires, whose names I didn’t bother to memorize; and—irritatingly enough—Betancourt lackey Frasier Morgan, whose pesky phone calls I had never returned.