by Betty Webb
There was a long pause before the old harridan said, “Janet’s had a rough time lately.”
“Such as?”
“None of your business.”
Even stone eventually wears away if water drips on it long enough, so I continued. “She could also wind up getting someone else hurt when they have to rush in to rescue her. Think of the lawsuits. Look, I know Janet has a bachelor’s in Marine Science, so why not stick her in a lab somewhere like the one run by the Monterey Bay Aquarium? She’d help rehab injured otters, and they’re not lethal.” I was careful not to mention the open slot at Blue Seas because I was still hoping Lila would snag that job.
“I don’t want the girl to be so far away.”
“Monterey is less than thirty miles from here.”
A note of disquiet crept into Aster Edwina’s voice. “There are…ah, family complications. But you say she actually tried to pet Maharaja?”
“That’s what Zorah told me. And just a few minutes ago I saw her leaning against the holding pen while the giant anteater was still in it.”
“That anteater’s a menace.”
“The anteater is simply being an anteater. Janet is the menace.”
Another long pause. Then, “I’ll give the situation some thought.” Promising nothing, she ended the call.
I wasn’t happy. After dinner last night, Joe had hinted that time alone with just the two of us would be nice, so we’d driven down to the harbor. Before we boarded the Merilee, I had seen Lila Conyers sitting on the deck of her houseboat looking bereft. When I’d called out a hello, her return greeting was so feeble I could barely hear it. She’d been crying again. The realization had cast a pall over Joe’s and my romantic tryst, and we returned to his house earlier than planned.
Now, as I checked on Janet’s welfare at Friendly Farm—even chickens can peck until you bleed—I remembered the haunted expression on Lila’s face. Since Joe was still refusing to share any information about the Booth/Amberlyn case, I could only assume the official investigation was at a standstill. Poor Lila.
Friendly Farm was a good place for hard thinking. Now that I didn’t have to worry about Janet wandering too close to something lethal, I could concentrate. While the trainee raked out the communal paddock, I compiled a mental list of people who might have disliked Stuart Booth enough to murder him.
At the top was my “dearest friend” Harper Betancourt-Booth. Not being an idiot, I didn’t buy her story about not minding her husband having a mistress; she might have murdered Amberlyn out of jealousy. And then there was the money Harper was about to inherit from her husband’s death. She wouldn’t have been the first woman to kill someone to gain financial independence. Regardless of the paperwork she had given me, I decided to do a little more checking on her story about being in Banff.
To be fair, my suspect list also needed to include Lila herself, because she had the strongest motive for killing Booth. But try as I might, I couldn’t see her killing Amberlyn.
Which was the central problem, wasn’t it? Why would Booth’s killer also murder Amberlyn? At times it seemed that half of San Sebastian County—the female half, anyway—bore a grudge against the man, but the same could not be said for his Sugar Baby. Aside from the method she had chosen to get through college, Amberlyn had been no threat to anyone…
I stopped myself right there.
How did I know Amberlyn was no threat? Perhaps she had seen something, heard or seen something, or...
“Okay, I’m done. What do you want me to do now?” A sulky Janet stood in front of me, holding a rake.
I looked at my Timex. Eleven-thirty. “Why don’t we get an early lunch?”
She didn’t answer, just dropped the rake where she stood and walked off.
Jack Spence, bears, had made a pizza run into San Sebastian, and although the vegetarian pizza was only lukewarm by the time I bit into it, it was still delicious. The pizza made the staff lounge more crowded than usual, and gossip was rife. Over the weekend, Robin Chase, big cats, had broken up with Jack in order to reconnect with Buster Daltry, rhinos. Myra Sebrowski, apes, had been spotted at the San Sebastian Cinema’s showing of the French classic, A Man and a Woman, with Manny Salinas, birds. Oleg Checkov, marsupials, had been involved in a fistfight at Ye Old Alehouse with Danny Wong, herbivores, over the charms of Betty Howell, reptiles.
My ears pricked up when I heard that Frank Owens, otters, had given Ariel Gonzales, anchorwoman, a big fat diamond ring. Since when did zookeepers have money for a big fat diamond anything?
Intrigued, I gobbled down the rest of my pizza and headed for California Trail, leaving Janet Hewitt still sulking in the lounge.
All five North American river otters were in their pool, rolling and tumbling in what appeared to be a group game of You Can’t Beat This. Only half the size of sea otters, they were also more limber, and as a result, more playful. When they spotted me, Mr. Wiggles left the pond and weaseled up to the fence, hoping I would ignore the DO NOT FEED OTTERS sign. I didn’t. Instead, I walked around to the keepers’ entrance, where I found Frank tidying up their night quarters.
“You again.”
Trying to sound non-threatening, I replied, “Just wanted to congratulate you on your engagement.”
“Can’t keep anything secret in this place, can I? But I doubt you came all the way up here for that. What do you want this time?”
“I hear the diamond was quite large.”
To my surprise, he laughed. “Jesus, Teddy, do you ever listen to yourself?”
“Anatomically speaking, it’s impossible not to.”
“Always ready with the repartee, aren’t you? Must be the Old Town blood in your veins. But okay. Get your questions off your chest so I can answer them and get back to my low-paying job.”
I granted him the Old Town snipe since it was well-known that only the two-percenters could afford to live there, which we Bentleys had done for generations. “Okay, since you brought it up yourself, I was wondering how a zookeeper could afford what’s being described as a real whopper.”
“Seen my boat yet?”
“Huh?”
“As nosy as you are I’m shocked you haven’t checked her out already, so let me describe Ring of Bright Water for you. She’s a completely refitted 1965 Classic Feadship Motor Yacht, sixty-five feet long, fifteen-and-a-half in the beam, cruises at eleven knots, and has three double en-suite cabins. Cost me almost two mill.”
I swallowed. “That’s a lot of boat.”
“Especially for a zookeeper, right?”
“Right.”
“You’ve got guts, I’ll give you that. So as a reward, Ms. Nosy, I’ll tell you a secret.”
After wiping his hands on his pants, he walked toward me. I hadn’t realized until then how big he was, six-four at least. But I stood my ground as he leaned over and whispered in my ear.
“Lithium batteries.”
I jerked my head away. “Huh?”
“Some lithium batteries have been exploding. But not the ones manufactured by Light, LTD.”
“So?”
“Light, LTD, was started by a friend of mine. I’d come into a small inheritance, so when he needed funding for a project he was working on, I bought in. Just as a favor, old school tie, etc. Imagine my surprise when shares in Light, LTD, skyrocketed and I wound up rich.” White teeth flashed.
I was familiar with the saga of Light, LTD, as was anyone who read the Wall Street Journal on occasion. “Then why are you shoveling shit in a zoo?”
His smile faded. “Because as it turned out, being a member of the idle rich wasn’t good for me. It gave me too much time to party, which I did. Big time. But you know what they say. All parties have to end, and mine ended with me having a near-death experience in the ER. After detoxing—booze wasn’t my only vice—I quit living on my too-easily-gotten gains, and started working again.”
“In a zoo.”
“Did I happen to mention that I’ve always liked animals?” A wr
y smile.
“How’d you meet Ariel?”
“At Cal Poly. We were tight until I messed it up. She dumped me—hard, I might add—and joined the Marines right after graduation. Ariel isn’t the kind of woman you forget, though, so once I cleaned up my act, I went looking for her. I didn’t have any luck until one day in Seattle, while I was sitting on deck and watching Good Morning, America, they reran one of the interviews she did with you. You know, where the honey badger got loose in the studio. I was laughing my sober socks off when all of a sudden, there Ariel was, the love of my life. The second the program went to commercial, I set sail for Gunn Landing. So you see, my dear Teddy, you and that wild-ass honey badger inadvertently played Cupid for me, which is the only reason I’m telling you all this.”
“You just showed up and proposed?”
“Don’t I wish. It took almost three months of demonstrably sober behavior before that woman would even go out with me again. But once she did, the flame rekindled. Thus the ‘real whopper’ of an engagement ring, which I can certainly well afford.”
“As well as the big boat.”
“Yes, my beautiful Ring of Bright Water. She’s large enough, by the way, to accommodate the engagement party Ariel and I are throwing next weekend. You’re invited, of course. Just don’t bring that honey badger.”
Like most women, I love a good romance novel even when its plot seems implausible. Real life can be implausible, too. As I steered my zebra cart toward the koala enclosure, I thought about the number of coincidences necessary for Ariel’s and Frank’s love story to have a happy ending. Boy gets girl, boy dissipates, boy loses girl, boy goes to rehab, boy gets girl again, and somewhere in the middle of all that, boy amasses a fortune. Life being life, it could all have happened the way Frank claimed.
As soon as I had parked near the rear of the monkey enclosure to visit Kabuki, my phone vibrated. While hurrying toward the night house, I hauled the phone out of my cargo pants, expecting a call from Joe, who had promised to call around noon.
But the voice on the other end of the phone wasn’t Joe’s.
In fact, the connection was so distorted I couldn’t tell if the caller was male or female. His/her message was clear, though.
“Back off, or the next shot will be to your head.”
Chapter Twenty
Reporting the threat to Joe was out of the question. He was already so apprehensive about my welfare that he had only half-jokingly threatened to lock me up in the San Sebastian Jail for my own protection.
If he knew about the call…
“Shoulder hurting?”
I glanced up to see Lex Yarnell sliding his cell phone into his pocket. Still grieving over Amberlyn’s death, the park ranger’s eyes were bloodshot, but he had pulled himself together long enough to send me a bouquet of orange-speckled tiger lilies, which his note said reminded him of me. Of all the flowers I’d received, they were my favorites.
“A twinge, that’s all.” I hoped he would interpret the quaver in my voice to physical weakness, not fear.
“Geez, Teddy. Should you be working so soon after being shot?”
“I’m fine. Who were you talking to just now?” I motioned toward his pocket.
“My sister. Why?”
“Merely wondering how your family is doing.”
“They’re doing fine, getting a lot of work in the fields. Thanks for asking.” He didn’t look grateful. If anything, he looked suspicious.
The fact that Lex and I were the only people behind the ape enclosure made me feel edgy, so I said, “Well, I guess I’d better go now.”
“You be careful, okay?”
Were his words simple politeness, or a warning? Uncertain, I scratched my visit to Kabuki and climbed into my cart. When I drove away, Lex was watching me with an unreadable expression on his face.
As I disappeared over the hill, I considered two other doomed lovers. Would Juliet have loved Romeo if he’d been rag-picking poor? It seemed nice to think so, but…I was regretting my own cynicism when I saw another unlikely couple strolling hand-in-hand down the trail.
Harper Betancourt-Booth and Frasier Morgan.
I braked so hard I almost went through the cart’s nonexistent windshield.
Harper looked smug, but Frasier appeared mortified. He couldn’t snatch his hand away from hers fast enough.
“Goodness gracious, Teddy!” Harper said, a sly glint in her eye. “Shouldn’t you be home recovering?”
“How odd you should ask since I’ve been out and about, even taking tea with my ‘dearest friends.’”
“Taking tea is different than working like a field hand. Isn’t that true, Frasier?”
Frasier duly agreed. At least he looked guilty about it.
What was going on? Harper had told me only yesterday that she was eager to escape from her father’s Machiavellian matchmaking, yet here she was, strolling around the Gunn Zoo with Frasier. Had she already re-thought her bid for freedom? Maybe she was one of those people who dreamed of leading a different life but when the opportunity arose, decided the unknown was too scary. At least while living in the family compound she didn’t have to worry about food on the table. Or rent.
While a red-faced Frasier pretended to be interested in a pair of band-tailed pigeons hoo-hooing at each other from a nearby live oak, Harper continued, “Silly me. I forgot you’re staying with that handsome fiancé of yours in San Sebastian instead of on your odd little boat. How gauche of me. Did you hear that, Frasier? Teddy’s shacking up with the sheriff!”
Frasier’s face grew even redder. “Um.”
“What was that, Frasier dear?”
“Um.”
If Harper was trying to make me jealous over the poor man, she was failing. I wasn’t, and never would be, interested in Frasier. And anyway, he appeared to be firmly under her thumb.
His problem, not mine.
After bidding the unlikely couple a cheery farewell—at least they had Prime Pacific Oil in common—I delivered my zebra cart to the shed and clocked out for the day.
My conscious mind had planned a return to Casa Rejas, but my unconscious mind refused to cooperate, and I found myself driving toward Gunn Landing Harbor. Something Frank Owens had said was bothering me.
Once at the harbor—oh precious ocean, oh precious moored boats, oh even precious thieving seagulls—I found Darleene Bauer enjoying a noontime margarita on the deck of her Fleet Foot. The president of the Otter Conservancy raised her gray eyebrows when she saw me. “Well, as I live and breathe, if it isn’t the harbor’s latest gunshot victim. Get your ass on up here, Teddy, and join me in a margarita. I made enough for two, although I’ll confess I meant them both for myself.”
I turned down the margarita but boarded the Fleet Foot anyway. Not wanting to waste any time, I started right in. “Was there anything weird going on with the otter count? I mean, other than Stuart Booth getting murdered while writing down the numbers.”
Darleene snorted, blowing away a dusting of salt on the rim of her drink. “Funny you should ask. I was going to discuss it with you, but for obvious reasons you haven’t been around much lately.” She gestured at my shoulder. “But that can hold off until the next Conservancy meeting when we can all talk about it.”
“Maybe you could let me know while I’m here. I need to get back to Joe’s or he’ll send the Coast Guard out to hunt me down.”
The crusty old thing actually smiled. “He is a bit overprotective, isn’t he? Though not without cause.”
“Darleene. The otter count.”
“Oh, all right.” She took another sip of her margarita and then cleared her throat. “This year we had four people tracking the otters. Me, you, Stuart Booth, and Frank Owens, who replaced Inger when she moved to San Diego. Granted, otters being what they are, mobile and such, we can only come up with estimates. We might miss a few and count others twice, but by and large, the individual counts pretty much agree. A hundred and five otters—give or take a couple—live in
or near Gunn Harbor Slough. You following me?”
I nodded. After nearly being hunted to extinction by fur traders during the last four centuries, the Slough’s otter population was recovering nicely.
“So four indiv—” Darleene was cut off when a fish-stuffed pelican flew by, one of its great wings almost touching her. Recovering from the near miss, she said, “Darn pests. Getting bold, aren’t they? Anyway, as to the otter count. Four individual counts by four individual people, with a combined variance of no more than four. That’s not bad.”
“Especially, as you say, with otters being otters.”
Another pelican landed on Fleet Foot’s gunwale, cocked his great head at us, then flew off only to be replaced by an evil-looking seagull. He stared at Darleene’s margarita.
She held her glass closer to her scrawny chest. “There is one glaring difference. I didn’t think much of it at first, because as you know, Booth died before he could send in his numbers. But your handsome fiancé, after considerable nagging on my part for the last week, finally sent me a copy of Booth’s count, took it right off that cell phone you found. Here’s the weird thing. Booth’s count was exactly the same as last year’s, and I mean, exactly.”
“What’s weird about that? I think mine was, too. I counted a total of twenty-four in my sector two years running.”
“You’re talking live otters. You, me, Frank—and Inga before him—also counted sick and dead otters.”
“Well, sure. We always take the sick ones over to the Monterey Bay Aquarium for treatment, and bundle up the expired ones for autopsy so the techs can get a handle on the toxoplasma gondii situation.”
“Teddy, this year you rescued two sick otters. Frank, three. Me, one. Booth didn’t rescue any.”
“Pretty much the same as last year. I’m not sure if Booth…”
Darleene raised a cautionary finger. “Something else was off.”
“Which is?”
“The number of deceased otters. This year you found two in your sector, Frank found three in his, and I found three. Last year you found one, I found two, and Inga found one.”