by Betty Webb
“My baby!” she yelled, attempting to heave her heavy bulk over the three-foot-high wall.
Baby?
I looked down at the water five feet below, where I saw the tiny flower girl struggling in the water. She had somehow fallen in and was so mired in mud and reeds she couldn’t pull herself free. Her tearless face signaled she wasn’t hurt, just frustrated at her inability to move. Good. The water was only two feet deep in this area, so she was in little danger of drowning. That was the extent of her good luck, because she had landed mere inches away from the trumpeter swans’ nest, where several day-old cygnets sat waiting for their parents to bring them dinner.
The cygnets peep-honked, sounding an alarm at the girl’s intrusion into their territory. Their panicked calls summoned Romeo and Juliet, the zoo’s mated pair, foraging less than ten yards away. Romeo, the larger of the two, jerked his head out of the water, took one look at the little girl, then began to paddle madly to take care of this perceived threat to his babies. He was in full battle mode. Honking. Wings up. Feathers bristling.
And Mama Juliet was right behind him.
Trumpeter swans may be beautiful, but they are quick to defend their babies with beating wings and slashing bills. The injuries inflicted by these large birds aren’t as minor as you might think. A peck from a swan’s bill can take out an eye, and a blow from an enraged trumpeter’s four-foot-long wing has been known to break an adult human’s leg. God only knows what one could do to a five-year-old child.
If they reached her…
I vaulted over the stone wall and landed in the lake halfway between the struggling child and the oncoming trumpeter swan. Sodden from my plunge, I had just managed to haul the child out of the swan poop-infused mud when something large and white fluttered across my line of sight. It hit the reeking water with a splash. Juliet, taking wing? Holding the girl by one arm and wiping my wet hair out of my eyes with the other, I finally managed to see what had landed in the water.
The bride.
“My sissy!” the former fashion plate screamed, floundering through the muck toward the child, her exquisite wedding dress collecting reeds, lily pads, and swan poop as she sloshed her way toward us. “Don’t you let that monster get my sissy!”
Not to be outdone in the heroism sweepstakes, the groom followed his bride into the water. Now four of us—including the giggling flower girl—stood facing down the enraged Romeo. No birdbrain, Romeo honked a final threat, then paddled around us in a wide arc to reach his cygnets. Juliet, also honking, followed his lead.
Crisis averted, we slogged ashore, where I was delighted to find my radio still worked. The park ranger on the other end had just assured me help was on its way when the cute little cause of all this mess finally spoke up.
“I want my llama ride now!”
Chapter Fourteen
“Well, aren’t you the media queen?” Kenny Norgaard called to me as I squished past his High Life in my still-soggy boots.
Due to my habit of leaving a clean uniform in my locker, I was at least wearing dry clothes, but I hadn’t thought to include a spare pair of boots. Oh, well.
“Media queen?” I asked Kenny. “You mean that nasty Op Ed piece in the Journal?”
“That, too, and by the way I deeply deplore its tone, dear heart, but that’s mere small-town stuff. I’m talking about your latest TV triumph.”
I stopped. “What are you talking about? My Tuesday gig on KGNN?”
To my surprise, Darleene Bauer emerged from the High Life’s cabin. “No, silly. You’ve been all over the six o’clock news and now they’re getting ready to feature you on CNN. Come and see.”
Curious, I clambered aboard High Life to find Lila Conyers and Ruth Donohue huddled around the big plasma television set in Kenny’s cabin, which at one time had been quite nice. No one’s attention was on the ruined mahogany and brass fittings, it was on the TV, which at the moment was airing a deodorant commercial. “You’ll smell like a flower all day,” the announcer promised.
Don’t I wish.
The announcer, a svelte brunette wearing a skinny black dress, disappeared, replaced by a giggling Anderson Cooper.
“And now for the hilarious video we promised you earlier. A rescue of sorts went down a couple hours ago at a Monterey Bay-area zoo.”
Cooper’s white-on-white face disappeared, replaced by the little flower girl’s rosy-cheeked one. The videographer had caught her standing on the overlook at the lake, holding a bouquet of flowers. As the camera panned in, she climbed onto the stone wall, and said, “Watch me! I’m gonna visit the baby birdies!”
Before anyone could stop her, she jumped off the wall.
The videographer must have had excellent equipment, because the sound system picked up the splash of the girl hitting the water.
Not to mention the following screams.
The video sped up, and next thing you know, there was I, making my own leap off the wall into the lake. The camera caught my embrace of the girl and gave me a nice close-up as I clutched her to my chest and turned my back on the approaching trumpeter swan, prepared to get my butt pecked to a fare-thee-well.
Then there was another loud splash as the bride arrived, bringing much tulle and hand-beaded appliqués.
The groom’s splash followed.
Here came Romeo and Juliet. Amid much honking and hissing, they thought twice about their planned attack and rejoined their peeping cygnets. The camera panned again to follow me, the bride—now clutching her “Sissy”—and the bridegroom as we struggled past the indignant swans to the shore, trailing cattails, lily pads, and the tattered remnants of a once-priceless wedding gown.
“And with that fun video, we leave you,” Anderson Cooper said, still giggling. “Stay tuned for Don Lemon’s report on the latest White House firings on CNN Tonight!”
Kenny turned off the TV and beamed at me. “The camera loves you, dear heart.”
Darleene Bauer cracked, “I thought Teddy looked especially fetching with that lily pad on her head.” The president of the Otter Conservancy never failed to delight in someone else’s peccadilloes.
Not so, Lila. “Oh, Teddy, you’re so brave. Wish I was as brave as you.”
I blinked in surprise. “Are you kidding me? You were the first one who had the courage to report Booth’s behavior. Only then did the others come forward.”
“And look what it got me. Undereducated and underemployed.”
Darleene and Ruth exchanged glances. Kenny looked down at his Topsiders.
Ignoring the shift in mood, Lila asked, “Is the zoo hiring, by any chance? You know how much I love animals.”
I had to tell her no, but that I would keep trying. Since the day care center had fired her, I’d checked with Zorah every morning, but there were no openings in any of the zoo’s various districts. Even if there had been, Lila’s lack of a science degree—thanks to the predatory Stuart Booth—would have kept her from working directly with animals. Zorah had told me that the best Lila could hope for was service person at one of the food and beverage booths, yet all of them remained fully staffed. I made a mental note to check in with Preston Morrell to see why he hadn’t yet called her for an interview.
I hoped it wasn’t because the position had already been filled.
“Say, I hear they need a barista at Cappuccino & Chowder,” Ruth offered. “Do you have…?”
Lila shook her head. “I don’t know how to run one of those espresso machines.”
For all of Ruth’s sharp angles and even sharper tongue, the ex-soccer player had a soft heart. “I could teach you. I used to substitute at my cousin’s coffee bar in Florida. The tips can be pretty good, even for an old crone like me.”
“You’re no crone, Ruth,” Kenny said, leaning forward to pat her knobby knee. “And forty isn’t old, either. These days it’s the new twenty-five.”
Lila suddenly stood up and gave Kenny a pained smile. “Thanks for letting me watch Teddy’s adventures, but I need to get bac
k to my boat. I just remembered that I left some soup simmering on the stove.”
We all recognized the lie, but let her go without argument. After a few minutes of strained conversation, I rose to leave, too. That began a general exodus from the High Life’s cabin which, frankly, could have used a good cleaning. The rank smell of mildew more than cancelled out its once-beautiful fittings. Darleene and Ruth headed for their respective boats, Kenny went topside to his usual deck chair. He never missed a harbor sunset.
Or a margarita to toast it with.
My animals were overjoyed to see me, Bonz especially. The poor dog was all but crossing his remaining three legs in his hurry to make it outside to pee, but once he’d watered a harborside tree, he ran back into the Merilee’s cabin to gobble down the rest of his dinner.
“Don’t worry, Bonz, you’ll get a real ‘walkies’ as soon as you’re done,” I assured him.
He wagged his stumpy tail.
It didn’t take long for the little terrier to finish his meal, so within minutes we were headed for Gunn Landing Park. Bonz and I had both enjoyed our walk inland on the East Fork Trail so much the other evening, we decided to repeat it.
We were less than a quarter mile along when the fog crept in.
With my back to the ocean, and heavy chaparral blocking my sightline, I hadn’t noticed the fog’s approach. No matter. Carriage lamps still lit the trail, their yellowish beams creating large halos through the fog. I did miss seeing the moon, though. It had risen full and silver when we left the Merilee, but was now swallowed by mist.
Carriage lamps or no, as the fog deepened, the path became darker than I would have wished. The dense foliage made it appear darker still, so I decided to cut the walk short.
One thing about fog. It can surprise you.
As Bonz and I wended our way back toward the harbor, we encountered a clear patch. To my delight, I saw bats fluttering around one of the carriage lamps, gorging on moths and other insects. I’m not one of those people who dislike bats. In fact, I rather like their dog-like faces and tiny, human-like hands. The only known flying mammal—sugar gliders and Rocky the flying squirrel don’t count because they “coast”—bats are nowhere near as dangerous as believed. Their bad reputation has been caused by decades of Dracula movies, not to mention several flawed studies proclaiming that up to ten percent of them are rabid—a great exaggeration. Recent research strongly suggests that only one percent of wild bats carry the rabies virus.
This doesn’t mean we should all run out into the cool night air with a net to capture bats. In their own way, bats are very much herd animals; they nest in groups, and pine away when forced to live alone. Being mammals, they also nurse their young, so if a bat aficionado inadvertently captures a mama bat, her babies will starve to death. Another reason to never capture a wild bat is because he—or she—might turn out to be among that unlucky one percent. No matter how cute, none of us wants a rabid bat in our house.
I stood there for a while, admiring the bats’ sonar-assisted feeding frenzy until a rustle in the nearby chaparral caught my attention. When Bonz began to growl, I realized we had better move along. On rare occasion, coyotes came down from the hills to prey upon shore birds, and I didn’t want to get caught between a hungry coyote and his supper.
“Let’s go, Bonz,” I said, stepping toward the park light.
He didn’t budge, just strained against his leash and growled louder, his snarls evolving into sharp, ugly barks.
I leaned over to steady him with a calming hand. “Bonz! What are you…?”
That’s when someone shot me.
Chapter Fifteen
At first I didn’t realize I’d been shot. I felt no pain yet—that would come later—and all I knew was that something had hit me in the left shoulder hard enough to make me fall. At the same moment, I heard something that sounded like a firecracker.
As I lay stunned on the gravel pathway trying to figure out what was happening, Bonz jerked the leash out of my hand and plunged into the brush, making a snarling noise I had never heard him make before.
Then I heard a grunt.
Followed by a yip.
“Bonz!” I screamed. “No!”
More snarling. Another grunt, then a horrible ai, ai, ai sound from my dog.
Fuzzy though my brain seemed to be, I began to figure it out. The wetness on my shoulder wasn’t evening dew; it was blood. I’d been shot. And my poor three-legged terrier had attacked my attacker, and whoever he or she was, was fighting back.
“Leave my dog alone!” I yelled, and added a few loud shrieks for good measure. One of the liveaboarders might still be close enough to…
More yelping. Was I going to let Bonz be killed while I lay here awaiting rescue like some wimpy fairy-tale princess?
Hell, no.
After shrieking a final plea for help—“Somebody! Call 9-1-1!”—I scouted the ground for some sort of weapon, but all I could find were the white rocks lining the path. None appeared large enough to cause much damage, but they were better than nothing. I grasped a rock and lurched to my feet. The world tilted around me and my left shoulder, which had been numb up to this point, suddenly felt like it was on fire.
I shook the dizziness out of my head, and with the rock in my right hand, lurched into the bushes to save my dog. While slapping the chaparral away from my face, I could hear the attacker smashing his way through the brush, accompanied by gasps that could have been come from human or animal, man or woman.
When I reached the stamped-down area where the shooter had been lying in wait, he—or she –wasn’t there.
Just Bonz.
Lying on the grass.
Not moving.
Chapter Sixteen
The scene in the Emergency Room at San Sebastian County Hospital was chaotic. Caro arrived at pretty much the same time as Joe, and once they realized my wound was minor—a three-inch gash along my left shoulder—they spent more time arguing than consoling.
Caro looked smashing in her petal pink Missoni, and Joe was handsome as ever in his sheriff’s uniform, even though I detected a blood smear on his sleeve. Both shared the same angry expression.
“Teddy, you need to get out of that harbor.” Joe.
“For once the man is talking sense.” Caro.
“How’s Bonz?” Me.
“A murder investigation isn’t Amateur Night at the San Sebastian Karaoke Club.” Joe.
“I said, how’s Bonz?” Me.
“If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a hundred times, women have no business getting involved in such tawdry affairs as homicide investigations.” Caro.
“There’s a killer on the loose and now he’s focused on you.” Joe.
“HOW’S BONZ!!!” Me.
“He’ll be fine. Ariel Gonzales took him to the emergency vet hospital.” Joe.
“What’s a talking head doing at the harbor? She doesn’t even own a boat.” Me. Then, to the doctor, “Does that have to be so tight?”
“Yep.” The doctor.
“Ms. Gonzales said she could hear you screaming because she was down there visiting a friend, but by the time she got to you, you’d passed out holding Bonz. The Montinis heard you, too. They reached you right after she did, and they’re the ones who actually made the 9-1-1 call. Ms. Gonzales was too busy administering first aid.” Joe.
“What friend?” Me.
“What do you mean, what friend?” Joe.
“The one you said Ariel Gonzales was visiting.” Me.
“Oh. That. Well, it appears that Ms. Gonzales is on, ah, very friendly terms with the zoo’s new river otter keeper.” Joe.
“Frank Owens?” Me.
“Yeah. Him.” Joe.
While I was thinking, Caro filled the silence. “As soon as the doctor assures me you’ll be okay, I’m going to the Merilee and packing your things.”
“Oh, she’ll be fine as long as she takes it easy for the next few days,” the doctor said, doing something hurtful to my shoulde
r. “The bullet missed the bone and passed through the left deltoid. Lucky shot. Lucky for her, not the shooter.”
“Packing won’t take long since you don’t have all that much.” Caro.
“Don’t touch my stuff.” Me.
“Listen to your mother, Teddy.” Joe.
“But I can’t leave the Merilee. Who’d feed Miss Priss?” Me.
“I’ve fed that unappreciative feline before and I’ll feed her again. Bonz, too, as soon as the vet releases him. In fact, both Bonz and Priss are moving to my house. Same as you.” Caro.
“I’m not going to your house!” Me.
“You’re absolutely right, Teddy.” Joe.
“Huh?” Me.
“You’re coming to my house.” Joe.
“Really!” Me.
“If you people would shut up this wouldn’t take so long.” The doctor.
You know what happens when an irresistible force meets an immovable object? Someone gives, that’s what.
Thirty minutes later a grumpy ER doctor released me into Joe’s care with a prescription for pain pills, one of which I popped immediately. After declaring a temporary détente, Caro said she would stop by the Merilee the next morning to pick up Miss Priss and pack my things, which she promised to deliver to Joe’s. He thanked her profusely, and after he gave me a nudge, I did, too. Before assisting me to his cruiser, he allowed me to call the emergency vet’s office, where I learned that Bonz was still in surgery for a splintered rib, which was in danger of piercing a lung. His prognosis was good, I was told, and barring complications, he should heal in no time.
Relieved, I slept all the way to Joe’s house in San Sebastian.
When I awoke the next morning, two children were staring down at me.
“You’re supposed to ask for permission to come on board a boat,” I told them.
“You’re not on a boat,” said the oldest, a boy of about ten. “You’re in our house.”