Marked Fur Murder (13 page)

She'd met her first husband at a powwow in Washington State. He was a mover and shaker in the aboriginal rights movement, and catapulted her onto the US federal stage. Her marriage hadn't lasted, but she'd kept the name and the political connections that went with it. Her interests seemed to lie mainly in ecology—no surprise there, considering her heritage—but she wasn't above attaching herself to higher-profile issues if it would get her some press. There were numerous photos of her with celebrities ranging from real estate moguls to movie stars, and in every one of them she was dressed like she'd been born on the red carpet. She was glamorous and ambitious and obviously very smart. Even without the ability to call up typhoons at whim, she was a major player.

I'd known some of this before I started—I research all of ZZ's guests before they arrive—but I hadn't really grasped just who Teresa Firstcharger was. I'd mentally slotted her in with ZZ's activist friends, most of whom were well-meaning enviromentalists with idealistic goals but little real clout. She was a different creature entirely; her modus operandi seemed to be to find an opportune climate, zero in on the most prominent alpha male and then roll over him like a hurricane.

I shook my head. “I could never do that,” I muttered. “Not in a million years.”

Whiskey lifted his head from the carpet. [Do what?]

“Chew through relationships like they were potato chips. I understand ambition, but
using
people the way Firstcharger does? No way.”

[Using people is the inevitable result of ambition, is it not?]

“Depends on how you're using them. Making friends, trading favors, manipulating events? Sure. But romance is a different game, as far as I'm concerned. Sleeping with someone for political advantage is just wrong.”

[Humans have such convoluted mating rituals.]

I leaned back in my chair. “I guess. We're convoluted beings. Must be a lot simpler, being a dog.”

[Oh, yes. I remember it well; everything was much less complicated. Pleasures were simple, emotions were pure. For the most part.]

I frowned. “But not anymore. Now you use words like
convoluted
in everyday conversation with a member of another species. I guess death comes with an automatic upgrade in intelligence?”

[You know I can't talk about certain things, Foxtrot.]

“Yeah, yeah.” I'd run into this before with my supernatural partners, and while I grudgingly understood, it still annoyed me. If there's one thing I can't stand, it's being out of the loop. I love the loop. I live in the loop. I keep a toothbrush, a change of clothes, and a spare cell phone charger in the loop. “So tell me, Romeo, what's a canine romance like? Simple and pure sounds pretty good to me.”

He sat up and regarded me solemnly. [It begins with a scent. A musk, interlaced with a thousand delicate variations of chemical beauty that makes human perfume seem as heavy and solid as a ball-peen hammer. It tells me more about her than mere words ever could, for there is no possibility of deception. It is her soul, filigreed upon the wind.

[I approach. I circle. We communicate with body language, a subtle dance that speaks of desire and expectation, of loneliness and need. Eyes flicker, posture shifts, there is an invitation and a challenge. I respond with my own signals, letting her know me as best I can; not of my desire—that much is understood from the very beginning—but of my status, my fierceness, my own longing and need. When we finally merge, there is as much gratitude and sympathy for our mutual plight as there is an overwhelming sense of destiny and joy. Our connection at that moment is complete and total, our most fervent hope not for pleasure but that our union produces offspring, our genes locked together in an embrace that will outlast both of us.]

I stared at him. He looked back, calmly.

“What happened to simple?” I finally managed.

[I did say, “for the most part.”]

“I guess you did. I'm sorry, Whiskey; I've been ribbing you about your crush on Kaci without really thinking about what I was saying. That was inconsiderate and rude. I apologize.”

[There's no need, Foxtrot. There are consequences to dwelling on the material plane, even as an ectoplasmic being. Having certain memories stirred up by particular …
scents
is simply one of them. It's hardly your fault.]

“No, but I should be more sensitive. It must be strange, to go from being a living animal to an ectoplasmic one. You can eat but don't excrete, you can change your shape and size … and apparently you're a lot smarter than when you were alive.”

[Control over my bodily functions, increased ability and intelligence—not that different from a stage you humans go through. I believe you call it “adulthood.”]

Well, he had me there. Small children and dogs did share a number of qualities beyond cuteness—though what it really made me wonder about was what human beings turned into when they died. Did we get a similar upgrade, or were those options only for animals?

I knew better than to ask, though. Instead, I said, “Let's see if I can make it up to you.”

[And how do you propose to do that?]

“Hey, I'm a professional facilitator. And to facilitate any project, the first step is always to know what you're getting into. In this case, I'm guessing there's not a lot I can find out about Border collies you don't already know, so let's tackle this from another angle: Kaci's owner.”

I straightened up and started tapping keys. “I wasn't able to find out much about him on my initial research run, but we have more information now. I had a little chat with him when he first arrived, and he told me the estate reminded him of a park in Kiev where he grew up. Let's see…”

[And what do you hope to find out?]

“Maybe he intends to breed her. You can pull off a passable Border collie, right?”

[Surely you're not intending what I think you are.]

“Why not? All we need to do is establish your artistic bona fides and you're a shoo-in. The real question is, what branch of the arts are you best suited for?”

[Foxtrot. I am not wooing Kaci by posing as a fellow artistic canine.]

“Quiet, I'm working. We need to convince Rustam you two are the perfect match, which means figuring out what he likes other than painting—uh-oh.”

[Other than the inherent dishonesty in such a maneuver, there's also the simple fact that my position doesn't allow me to draw attention to—did you just say “uh-oh”?]

“I did. I tried searching for
Rustam Gorshkov
,
Kiev
, and
art
.”

[What did you find?]

“Nothing on Gorshkov. But there's a story here about a Rustam Groshenko who was involved in dealing forged paintings. And there's a photo.”

I turned the monitor so Whiskey could see. He did me one better, transforming into a small poodle and leaping onto my lap. He peered at the screen intently.

[Hmmm. It might be him, but it's difficult to say. And the similarity in names could be a coincidence.]

“True. But con artists often change their last name and keep the first—easier to keep track of that way.” I studied the picture. “It gets worse. He disappeared when he was out on bail, and he had connections to the Russian mob. If this is him, he's not a nice guy. At all.”

[Which, ultimately, doesn't matter. I can't conduct a romance with Kaci, Foxtrot. It simply … wouldn't be practical.]

I shrugged. “Since when is love practical? Usually it's impractical, inconvenient, and aggravating. But that doesn't mean it isn't worthwhile.”

[Very astute. Might I remind you that she's among the living and I am not?]

I grinned at him. “Love beats death, Whiskey. Remember?”

He gave me a long-suffering poodle look and jumped off my lap. [I know, I know. But the question of the moment is what beats nosy, interfering partners of another species…]

*   *   *

I have a standing invitation to attend dinner at the house, but I chose not to that evening. I went home at five, taking Whiskey with me, and ate there. There was too much going on among too many people, and the thought of facing all of them across the table seemed exhausting. Besides, I had to prepare for my own evening—I had plans. Not quite the same plans as I'd had before the day unfolded, but plans all the same.

Ben showed up around seven. He had a helper who spelled him on certain evenings, like tonight: date night. Sometimes we stayed at his place—he had his own cottage on the grounds—but I wanted to get away from the estate for a while. Also, if I was going to break bad news to my boyfriend, I wanted the home-field advantage.

But he hadn't come alone.

Tango scooted past my legs as soon as I opened the door.

Ben sighed and stepped in after her. “She insisted on coming along. Says she has big news.”

“It can wait,” I said. I threw my arms around him and kissed him. Hard.

Okay, here's the part where I explain all the strategic advantages of showering him with affection before delivering my own unwelcome news, and exactly how I'm going to tell him to minimize any possible ugly scene.

Except I'm not.

If I was dealing with him at work, sure. I do that kind of finessing all the time, though rarely with household staff. But I wasn't at work; I was at home, he was my boyfriend, and under those circumstances I do my best to turn that part of my brain off. I'm not always successful, but I try.

As usual, Whiskey pretended he wasn't there and Tango interrupted us far too soon.

Shut up. Busy.

“Aaaaaand we're done.” I pulled away from Ben, but not too far. “Sorry. Tango's in my head, and she's not playing fair.”

“Yeah, I heard that, too. Okay, T-cat. What can't wait?”

“Your
news,
Tango,” I prompted. “Tell us your news.”

I surrendered to the inevitable and sat down on the couch. Ben waited until Tango sprang up and settled in, then sat down next to me. Whiskey trotted over nonchalantly and dropped to the ground at my feet. I took a second to just appreciate it; being loved is one thing, but having the ones who love you snuggled up against your body is something else.

“Serpent?” Ben said.

“Oh, I think I forgot to mention that,” I said. “There may or may not be a giant, multicolored snake roaming the grounds.” I told him about Cooper's dream and the calls Caroline was getting. “Tango said she'd follow up, see if any of the animals—deceased or otherwise—had encountered the thing.”

“Sorry. Take it away.”

.
I questioned a warthog, a cockatoo, a pair of pygmy marmosets, and a turtle. I concentrated on small animals first, because I figured they'd be the most aware of an impending threat. Plus, they're easier to intimidate.>

“A warthog is small?” Ben asked.

“Sadly, no one ever will,” I said. “You might want to be a little nicer to Perky. He outweighs you by a factor of ten and has a mean pair of tusks.”

Tango yawned.

[I've known a few poodles who would disagree with that assessment,] Whiskey said. [But only a few.]

“Did any of the animals see anything?” I asked.

[And did you, perchance, happen to talk to any of the
actual
snakes in the menagerie?]

[Indeed.]

[That you never went within twenty yards of the snake habitat.]

[Yes, of course. Snakes are notoriously loud creatures, especially in their sleep.]

The prowlers were animal spirits not ready to go on to their respective afterlives; they hung around the Great Crossroads the way transients hang around a bus station, attracted to the activity but not really part of it. Some of them were confused, and occasionally they could be hostile.

“Who'd you talk to?” I asked. “Topsy?”

“Why, because she's an elephant?” Ben asked.

electric
elephant. All that supernatural voltage makes my fur stand on end.>
Topsy had died of electrocution over a hundred years ago.