Marked Fur Murder (6 page)

Well, that wasn't the effect I was trying to produce. “I'm sorry,” I repeated. “I'll take Whiskey back to the house. It won't happen again.”

“No, no,” said Gorshkov. “Is all right. The inspiration, it was not coming anyway. We were about to take break. Really, is fine.” He began to put lids back on the paint cans.

Oscar's glare could have blistered said paint off the side of a house. “Really, Foxtrot. You're supposed to assist our guests, not hinder them.”

Gorshkov straightened up. “Oscar. You must learn first lesson of art. Creative urge have no master, or mistress. Blaming Foxtrot
or
her nice dog like blaming car wash for making the rain.”

Oscar's look softened. “Very well. I don't suppose there's any way to make the rain come back?”

Gorshkov shrugged and went back to putting lids on cans. “We wait, we have a little walk, we try again. Maybe have lunch first.”

Oscar sighed. “Yes, of course. One can't hurry art, can one.”

Gorshkov finished what he was doing and snapped a short lead to Kaci's collar. He spoke another word in Russian and she trotted off with him—but not without more than a few backward glances at Whiskey.

Good luck, Kaci,
I thought at her. She didn't react, but then it wasn't like I'd asked her a direct question. Or maybe she only understood Russian.

I sat down next to Oscar. “I really am sorry—though I'm also still a little skeptical about the whole Leonardo da Doggy thing.”

Oscar favored me with a tolerant sigh. “Oh, Foxtrot—
you,
of all people? I thought you'd embrace the notion of an artistic animal, since you're always extolling the virtues of your own hairy companion.”

“Whiskey's smart, but I don't claim he can paint my portrait. Intelligence and creativity are two different things.”

[I'm afraid I have to agree. Dogs tend to think more like engineers than artists.]

Oscar shook his head, but he wasn't arguing with Whiskey—he couldn't hear him, after all. “No, but neither does one preclude the other. Human beings can be clever
or
creative, and animals can, at the very least, be clever; doesn't that suggest they might be able to manifest the other talent, as well?”

“I'll grant you that,” I said. “It's not the possibility that Kaci's actually creating art that I have a problem with. It's what you said before that, about humans being clever
or
creative. Some humans even manage being both at the same time.”

The faintest trace of a smile bobbed to the surface of his face. “Ah. You doubt not our guest's capabilities, but their sincerity.”

“Convince me otherwise, Oscar.”

He chuckled. “I, Foxtrot? And why would I know anything about Mr. Gorshkov's possibly deceitful conduct?”

“For the same reason sharks study lawyers. Professional curiosity.”

He conceded the point with a graceful nod. “Very well. If this is a scam, it's a good one. I've watched him closely while Kaci paints, and have been unable to detect any way he might be influencing her actions other than what he claims—with his mind. He does not speak, or even move. Kaci seems to consider various brushstrokes, depending on what she's painting, and that varies widely. It's not simply a question of rote learning, which I understand a Border collie is quite capable of; she appears to actually be concentrating on the object in front of her, and doing her best to capture it.”

“Mmmm. If that's the case, then how exactly is this a collaboration?”

Oscar shrugged. “That part is much murkier. Gorshkov goes on about artistic synergy and how Kaci is actually tapping into the artistic area of his own brain, but it's all very metaphysical and ill defined. Then again, this is art, not science; one can't always expect a simple and concise explanation in such matters.”

[In my experience, one can rarely expect such an explanation from Oscar in general.]

“True,” I replied. “So very, very true … so. Is she any good?”

Oscar smiled. “Have you ever heard of Miracle Mike?”

“Wasn't that a movie about male strippers?”

“He was a chicken destined for the roasting pan in 1945. However, the aim of the axman was a trifle off, and his blow only took off the top of the cockerel's head as opposed to severing it cleanly. Any chicken will demonstrate the ability to run around—for a few moments, anyway—immediately after having his head chopped off, but Mike did them one better: He not only ran around, he refused to fall down.”

“Wait. Are you saying this chicken had his head chopped off and
lived
?”

“Indeed. Apparently enough of his brainstem was left to keep autonomic functions going. The wound healed, in time, and his owner discovered it was possible to feed him by the simple expedient of dropping food down the hole on the top of his neck. Mike survived for another eighteen months.”

I eyed him warily. “This sounds like the setup for an elaborate punch line.”

“I have no punch line to offer you, but I do have a point. This chicken could not dance, or perform magic tricks, or do anything of note other than breathe. But he became quite famous, Foxtrot; Mike the Headless Chicken toured the country, and people paid money to see him. At the height of his popularity, he earned four and a half thousand dollars a month and was featured in both
Time
and
Life
magazines.”

He paused. “Kaci is a dog who paints. The quality of her artwork hardly matters, does it? The point is, her work was created by a canine, a species that has yet to master the most rudimentary forms of self-expression. That alone means whatever she produces is sure to be valuable—and become even more so.”

I suddenly saw his point. “Oh, for—you see this as an
investment opportunity
?”

He sniffed. “And what's wrong with investing in art? If it weren't for the patronage of the wealthy, many famous artists would never have produced their most stunning works.”

“Sure. But the value of an artist's work always goes up after they die—and the life expectancy of a Border collie is considerably shorter than your average paint-stained wretch laboring in a studio.”

“Twelve years, on average. But up to seventeen, in healthy specimens.”

“And Kaci is how old?”

“Four,” said Oscar. “Meaning I can expect a sizable return on my investment in somewhere from eight to thirteen years. Barring unforeseen accidents or sudden illness, of course.”

[I'm guessing he could recite a list of medical ailments Border collies are prone to from memory.]

No doubt.
“So you're convinced they're the real deal?”

“My dear Foxtrot—again, you miss the point. Reality, in this case, is much like art: entirely subjective. It doesn't matter whether or not Kaci's creations are ‘real'; what matters is whether or not other people perceive them as such. I believe they will. And I believe they'll back that perception with cold, hard cash.”

Oscar got to his feet, tipped his hat to me, and ambled off in the direction of his new four-legged venture. I glanced down at mine. “Well?” I asked. “What's the verdict? Could you pick up any telepathic chatter between Gorshkov and his prot
é
g
é
e?”

[No, but that's hardly unusual. Communication between you and me is based on the fact that you can communicate with animal spirits, and I am one. I can't “speak” to Kaci with my mind, any more than you can do the same to Oscar. I could, however, ask her directly.]

The last statement was projected with such elaborate casualness that he might as well have just painted his intentions on a billboard and set it on fire. “Fine, Romeo. Just don't bother her while she's working, all right? You've already gotten me in trouble once.”

[I shall be the soul of discretion.]

“You'll be the soul of discretion later. Right now we have to—”

That was as far as I got. I was interrupted by the abrupt appearance of a herd of cats, sprinting at top speed across the crest of the nearest hill and straight toward us.

A herd of cats was unusual enough. But these felines were all deceased, as well.

And apparently being chased.

 

C
HAPTER
F
OUR

The first thing I always notice about ghosts—other than Whiskey, that is—is how colorful they are. Whites and oranges and yellows shine like neon; grays look silver; even browns and blacks somehow take on a brilliant sheen. I can see how the phrase
the Rainbow Bridge
caught on when talking about the place where animals cross over, though at the moment the bounding cats I was watching flowing over the top of the hill resembled a river of multicolored light more than a bridge.

[Good Lord,] Whiskey said. It was all he had time for, and then the wave of cats was flowing around and past us. A few even leapt right through me, though they avoided doing that to Whiskey.

And then I saw what they were apparently fleeing from. Theodora Bonkle charged into sight, pausing at the top of the hill to look around frantically. I had no idea what she could be searching for; she couldn't possibly see the same cats I just had.

Could she?

She spotted Whiskey and me and waved. “Foxtrot! Did you see them?”

I frowned at her as she hurried down the hill to join us. “See who?”

“The cats! Apparently, there were quite a few of them.”

That stopped me for a second. “Apparently?”

“Well, I didn't see them myself. But Very British Bear did, and he's quite reliable. Well, perhaps
reliable
isn't the right word, but he never lies.”

I knew certain people were sensitive to the presence of ghosts, but it had never occurred to me that a figment of someone's imagination might be one of them. “Haven't seen a living soul since Oscar left,” I said, quite truthfully. “What, exactly were these cats doing?”

Theodora squinted at me suspiciously, much as if I were hiding a herd of spectral cats behind my back. “Following me, at first. It started when I was examining a headstone, and progressed until there was quite a mob at my heels. Or so Very British Bear says.”

“You said at first. Did things … go wrong?”

[Really, Foxtrot. It's hardly kind to encourage the delusions of the mentally ill.]

Quiet, this is interesting. And we saw those cats, too.

“I believe it was more in the nature of a misunderstanding. Despite my companions being able to see them, the cats remained entirely unaware of either VBB or Doc Wabbit. Infuriated Doc to no end, I can tell you; he hates to be ignored. I don't know where he gets those sticks of dynamite, but thank goodness they never seem to have much effect. Beyond scaring Very, of course.”

“Of course.”

“I counseled patience. While neither Doc nor Very had ever reported seeing a ghost before, I was quite sure that must be the case—we were in a graveyard, after all. But as we traveled from grave to grave, accumulating feline spirits as we went, I felt sure that something odd was going on.”

[How
ever
did she arrive at that conclusion?]

“The cats were ignoring Very and Doc, so they must have been following me.
Ipso facto.
And there was only one reason I could see for them to be following me: the marbles.”

“The what now?”

“Oh, I'm sorry—did I fail to mention that? I found a marble on the grave of a cat named Happy. Being curious by nature, I picked it up, studied it, then returned it to whence it came. Before too long, though, I saw another one. This one had been placed on the plot of a cat named Felix. Intrigued, I began to look for others, and soon found half a dozen more. It was about then that Very told me we had acquired an entourage.”

[Of course she had. All it takes to captivate a cat's attention is a shiny object. More than one and they're practically hypnotized.]

“Okay,” I said. “So what did you do then?”

“Well, I knew something was up. I decided to test my hypothesis by visiting a grave that did not have a marble upon it, and asked Very if we had subsequently been joined by another apparition. He reported that we had not.”

[How terribly scientific. It's fortunate she has such trustworthy hallucinations to gather data from.]

Now I understand why dogs don't get irony. You've all had yours replaced with a gland that produces sarcasm instead.

“So,” continued Theodora, “having verified the causative link, I decided to pursue the matter in a more direct way by establishing a dialogue. Considering the various barriers to communication—species, invisibility, death, a natural tendency toward aloofness—I thought a more dramatic approach was needed. Calling up the names on the headstones from memory, I pointed a finger in the general direction of the feline crowd and declaimed, ‘Happy! Felix! Snuggles! Milo! Sailor! Parker! Claudius! Pickly Pete! I know you're there!'”

She paused. “In hindsight, perhaps that was a bit much.”

“Did it get results?”

“Oh, yes. They bolted, and we gave chase. I thought perhaps they might lead me toward an answer—or at least further information—but I'm afraid they simply outpaced me.” She looked crestfallen.

I wished I could help her, but my position as Guardian of the Great Crossroads came with one strict rule: Keep my mouth shut. Confirming the existence of ghost cats would be a definite no-no … but maybe I could assist in another way. “You know who a good person to talk to about this would be? Cooper, the groundskeeper for the graveyard. If anyone knows what's going on with those marbles, he would.”

She brightened immediately. “What a splendid idea! Could you arrange an introduction?”

“Sure. He's got a little cottage just over that rise. Follow me.”