Marked Fur Murder (5 page)

“Not really practical, is it? No, I think we need another approach. Problem is, I don't know how to proceed.”

“Fimsby obviously has an agenda. If he won't share it with us, we need to find out all we can on our own. Forewarned is forearmed, and you know me: I prefer five- or sixwarned if possible.”

“And how do you plan to attain this level of preparation when Fimsby won't talk?”

I grinned. “Leave that to me, boss. Research is my middle name, remember?”

[I thought your middle name was Foxtrot.]

“So here's the plan: Leave Fimsby alone. He's no doubt expecting either you or Ben to talk to him, so keeping our distance will throw him off balance.”

ZZ nodded, but she looked unsure. “And then?”

“I'll do some more digging, figure out what's actually going on and what Fimsby's agenda is.
Then
we can talk to him and not be totally in the dark.”

“That's your plan? Digging and figuring?”

“Pretty much.”

She sighed, but it was one of relief. “Well, you excel at both. I'm so sorry I kept this from you, Foxtrot. I didn't want to—it felt like keeping a secret from myself, actually.”

“Aw, boss. You say the nicest things. But I understand, believe it or not. Everybody has secrets.”

[Indeed.]

And then I left, taking my telepathic ghost dog with me.

*   *   *

I like to read. I used to read a lot more, when I was younger—but then I chose a career that swallows my time the way a hippo swallows cantaloupes (in case you've never seen a hippo eat cantaloupes, it's like watching a steam shovel gobble bowling balls. Yeah, not really that great a metaphor, which is why I went with the whole hippo thing in the first place), so these days I don't get to just kick back with a novel very often.

But when I do read, I like mysteries. I like how many different kinds there are: hard-boiled, police procedurals, cozies. There are mysteries that center on particular places, or cultures, or professions. There are even mysteries about people who own cats—though
own
isn't really accurate when describing one's relationship to a cat.

My cat used to curl up in my lap when I read. That was back when I'd probably be deeply enraptured by a dog-eared (sorry, Tango) Agatha Christie paperback; now I'm more likely to be eyeball-deep in research at a workstation, and my childhood pet is long dead.

Which apparently hasn't changed
her
routine at all.

she said for the umpteenth time, trying to get comfortable on my lap.

I gave up trying to work the keyboard and give Tango a comfortable spot to sprawl at the same time. “I used to be a limber tween with a hammock, an overstuffed armchair, and a pillow fort. Currently I have to make do with an overpriced office chair designed to keep my back straight. Sorry if that inconveniences you.”

I glared down at her. “Bony? You know how many hours with a ThighMaster I put in to get those things in shape?”

“How did I have you for all those years without realizing you're made of pure evil?”

[If you were a dog, you'd have figured it out much sooner.] Whiskey was relaxing on my office couch, which I let him get away with because ectoplasmic fur doesn't really shed. [Probably before birth.]

“Stop. I'm trying to do research, here. I don't have time for—for—”

“Stop.”

“Cut it out.”

“I'm serious—wait, what?”

“Are you drooling on my skirt?”

[Fortunately, evil diluted by gluttony tends to be less worrisome for the general public. Though not for the local population of songbirds and small rodents.]

[Our amazement knows no bounds.]

Tango jumped off my lap and trotted out the door of my office. Whiskey and I watched her go.

[And how is your research coming along?]

I leaned back and stretched. “Unsuccessfully. I know a little more about Fimsby, but not much. He's a meteorologist who studies unusual weather patterns. He's chased tornadoes in the Southwest, braved monsoons in Asia, and studied blizzards in Alaska. Could be a really useful person for a newly fledged Thunderbird to know, actually.”

[Which is, no doubt, why Anna went to him in the first place.]

I frowned, studying the screen. “And apparently trusted him enough to enlist his help. But what kind of help? What sort of trouble was she in?”

[When one animal is threatened by another, it's almost always for one of two reasons.]

“Which are?”

[Either the other animal is competing with the first for the same resources, or it's attempting to turn said animal
into
a resource. Usually by eating it.]

I sighed and swiveled my chair away from the computer. “Unfortunately, there's not a lot of research to be done on Thunderbirds. Native American weather spirits, can take on human form, used as messengers to the gods. And a tribe of them apparently settled on Vancouver Island in Canada quite a while ago and interbred with the locals. Humans, I mean, not birds.”

[Perhaps we need a more immediate source. There
is
a Native American presently on the grounds.]

“Firstcharger? Well, yeah, but how am I supposed to start that conversation?
Hey, mind if I ask you about a few Native myths? I'm sure you must be an expert on the subject, what with being a genuine Indian and all.
It would be like strolling up to Shondra and quizzing her about Zulu marriage rites.”

[Humans are so touchy about their cultures. We canines have a saying: No matter how high it is off the ground, it still smells the same.]

“Please tell me that doesn't refer to what I think it does.”

[Granted, like many sayings it's not literally true. I mean, they
do
all smell different—otherwise, why bother sniffing them? The point is, whether you're talking about a Great Dane or a dachshund, their hindquarters—]

“Yes, yes, I get it. Everybody's butt is equal in the great butt-sniffing go-around that is life. Maybe if human beings all used that as a universal method of greeting things would be a lot more equal, but we don't. We have all these protocols and prejudices and social conventions, and I can't risk alienating one of ZZ's guests by saying the wrong thing to her. Besides, Thunderbirds are part of a coastal tradition; with a name like Firstcharger she's probably descended from a Plains tribe.”

[A bit odd her being here in the first place, though.]

“I suppose. Still, no odder than Theodora.”

[That's an entirely different sort of odd. Less coincidental and more…]

“Schizophrenic.”

[Exactly.]

“I'll talk to Firstcharger eventually, but I think I'll skip the supernatural stuff. She's a suspect because she slept with Anna's husband, not because of her race.”

[I don't know why humans are so touchy about their breed, either. A terrier doesn't get upset when you assume he's fond of rats.]

“You know, sometimes I'm really, really glad I'm the only one that can hear you talk.” I got to my feet. “Come on. I've found out all I'm going to about Thunderbirds on the 'Net. Time to go converse with actual people.”

We headed downstairs and then outside. I was looking for two guests in particular, and thought I knew where I'd find them.

They weren't in the gardens, though, or the menagerie. Caroline, our resident vet, said they'd been there but left a short while ago. Then she told me where they were going.

The cemetery.

The Zoransky estate abuts one of the largest animal graveyards in the United States, housing upward of fifty thousand former pets ranging from mice to thoroughbreds. It's also a mystic nexus, kind of a Grand Central Station of beasty souls; a place where animals can leave their respective afterlives and enter a human one, in order to visit those they loved—and still do.

Most people are completely unaware of this. They think of the cemetery as a final resting place for their pet—or, as I used to, as just a resting place. It's quiet and pretty and there are benches; in fact, not too long ago it was my favorite spot for a tea break and some peaceful meditation.

Now, not so much.

Other people still take advantage of its bucolic charms, though, and those often include our guests. Keene enjoys strolling among the headstones and reading the epitaphs for inspiration, while others prefer to take pictures. Annie Leibovitz got some spectacular shots of Lady Gaga riding a marble horse here.

And some people like to paint. Though in this case,
people
means “Border collie.”

Whiskey and I found them over by Davy's Grave, of course. It's a nice setting, surrounded by tall trees, with a number of benches. Davy was the first resident of the graveyard, way back at the end of the nineteenth century, and as such his grave has been afforded special status over the years. I've never actually seen Davy in the ectoplasmic flesh myself, but not every dog likes to roam. He might be content in doggy heaven, or may have moved back in with his former (and long-since-deceased) owner.

Anyway, the current dog occupying the space was Kaci, a sprightly brown-and-white Border collie. She sat gripping a rubber bone tightly between her jaws, the bone lashed crosswise to a short artist's brush. She stared intently at the canine-height easel before her, which held a square white canvas about two feet across. The canvas showed a few bold strokes in black, but I wasn't sure what they were supposed to be. Several small cans of paint were lined up neatly in a row beside Kaci.

On one of the benches, around ten feet away, were two men. One of them was stout, with an elegant gray goatee and mustache: Rustam Gorshkov. He wore an expensive topcoat, pin-striped trousers, and square-toed boots; his hands rested on the head of an elaborately carved cane upright between his knees, and his eyes were closed. The expression on his face was one of deep concentration.

The other man, sitting beside him and staring at him with rapt interest, was Oscar. Oscar wore a wide-brimmed white Panama hat, khaki shorts, and a pale-green silk shirt. He looked a little strange to me for a second, and then I realized it was because he didn't have a drink in his hand.

Whiskey, of course, was focused on Kaci. Dead or not, he was still a dog, and as such had dog concerns. And to dogs, with their deeply ingrained sense of pack structure, the most important thing upon meeting another canine was to immediately establish exactly what their relative social positions were. I've wondered what it would be like if people meeting each other for the first time ranked each other with the same obsessive precision:

ELDERLY BANKER:
Hello. I drive a Mercedes, I own five homes, and my wife is thirty years younger than I am.

YOUNG LAWYER:
Hello. I'm a junior partner in a large firm. A number of professional gangsters owe me favors. I have a large penis.

Yeah, I know. But it'll take those two all evening, half a bottle of scotch, and several anecdotes to impart that information, whereas dogs do pretty much the same thing in under thirty seconds without saying a word.

Whiskey approached Kaci carefully, his head slightly lowered. They were approximately the same size, which is always the first factor that comes into play. A large dog will sometimes ignore a much smaller one; a small one will never do the same for a dog that's significantly bigger.

Kaci knew he was there. I saw her eyes flicker toward him, and she gave an almost imperceptible whine. Other than that, though, she didn't move.

“Focus, Kaci,
focus,
” Gorshkov rumbled. His eyes stayed closed.

Oscar gave me an irritated glance. “Foxtrot, please. Can't you see she's working?”

I could have called Whiskey back, of course. But I was curious to see how Kaci reacted to him.
Ignore me,
I thought loudly. “Whiskey, get back here!”

Whiskey sniffed the place dogs always sniff first. Kaci stayed perfectly still. It went on for what I thought was a little too long.
C'mon, Sherlock. Unless she's smuggling the Crown Jewels up there, I think you've done just about all the investigating that's required.

[Ah, yes. Almost done. Just give me a minute…]

Seconds ticked by.
Okay, seriously. That's enough.

[Hmmm. Yes, yes, absolutely.]

“Whiskey!”

He shot me a furtive look, then trotted back with an innocent expression on his doggy face. His voice, however, held some embarrassment. [I'm so sorry. Certain instincts simply won't be denied.]

I don't have to remind you that you're dead, do I? I'm not even sure what suffix to attach here. Necrovoyeurbestialisomething.

[Please. The only breach of protocol was when you called me back before she could reciprocate.
That
was rude.]

I suppose by canine standards, it was. “Sorry,” I said, though not to Kaci. “How's today's masterpiece coming?”

“It is not, I am afraid,” said Gorshkov. His eyes were open now, and he was staring at Kaci with a disapproving look on his face. She, in turn, was studying Whiskey intently. Green paint dripped from the end of her brush and onto the ground. “Her concentration, it is broken. We must take a break and refocus. Excuse us.” He got up abruptly and limped over to Kaci. He spoke a word in Russian, and she dropped the paintbrush into his hand.