Stuffed (15 page)

Chapter 17

W
ell, the good news is that I finally got my Looney Bread and pizza. The bad news was that I had Walker for a roomie.

I managed to sleep fitfully for two hours, but by ten o’clock that evening, I was pacing the floor in what I’d packed for pajamas: red sweats and a white T-shirt. Where was Angie? Why hadn’t she called? Walker’s snoring was a growing annoyance. I was worried sick.

I picked up the phone and called my birdman, Dudley, back in Manhattan. He does bird taxidermy for me on occasion.

“Gawth, you ragpicker!”

“Dudley, I’m in a pickle. But I don’t have time to explain. I’m in Vermont.”

“Let me guess.” He cleared his voice. “The Deathmobile finally passed this mortal vale of tears.”

“Nothing like that. . . . It’s complicated and I can’t stay on the phone long.”

“Anything I can do?”

“You remember that guy Waldo?”

“Waldo . . .”

“The King of Gaff.”

“Indeed! I do recall that I referred him to you.”

“I need his number.”

“At this hour? I can only imagine what kind of jam you might have found yourself in where—”

“The number? Do you have his number?”

“Hold the line.” I heard him groan as he got up from his chair. He had the accent and build of Boss Hogg.

He was back within thirty seconds with the number.

“Gawth, do remember that Waldo is rather an odd fish, so handle him with kid gloves if you want any cooperation. Now, are you sure there’s nothing else I can do? This effort was a trifle. The timbre of your voice suggests grave circumstance.”

“Thanks, pal, I appreciate it, and if there’s anything else—”

“You call Dudley, y’hear?” He hung up.

I dialed somewhere in Florida. A long series of scratchy rings followed. They sounded like they might be coming from a phone at the bottom of a dry well in Timbuktu. The ringing stopped, and I thought I was going to get a recording telling me the phone was out of service. Or that the well was full of water.

I didn’t hear anything.

“Hello?” I looked at the receiver.

“Who is this?” shot back. The southern accent wasn’t buttery like Dudley’s, but deep and gravelly. And slurpy, like some kind of seething Klingon.

“Waldo? Garth Carson.”

“Who?”

“Carson, Garth Carson, from New York. I sold you some taxidermy a while back.”

There was a pause. “And?”

He was doing a very good job of making me feel uncomfortable. I didn’t know whether he remembered me or not.

“Dudley gave me your number.”

“If, as you say, you sold Waldo taxidermy, how come you don’t have Waldo’s number?”

“I lost it.”

I heard a click on the other end. He’d hung up.

I tried redialing, but the line was busy. My mind’s eye was picturing this Klingon as a mad scientist surrounded by bubbling vials, half-made mummies, little yellow fuzzy two-headed duckies in a freeze-dry chamber, and a Bimini mermaid on the operating table. Or maybe a bivalve and a rodent, strapped on gurneys, with little metal helmets and interconnecting wires, the intertranferencebifulminator shooting off sparks as it created yet another clam rat. He was a nut. And he probably wouldn’t have been any help anyway. I was grabbing at straws, waiting for Angie to call.

I turned on the TV and started pacing again, chewing and popping bubblegum like a metronome. The cops, the DEC—I had them believing my story now, but I almost wished I didn’t. Agent Renard had hatched a pretty loose plan. (Was this the kind of brain trust I could expect to join if I took a job at NYSDEC? Would every day on the job be like this one?)

I couldn’t figure Renard out. He was so dry and nonchalant, while trying to bust my chops over a snipe. I guessed he wasn’t too bright. Either that or he was trying to get me killed. Sure, there were two cops sleeping in an unmarked car across the road. Not much protection from a grease gun drive-by or a wad of dynamite. Of course, more than likely, Tex Filbert and MacTeague had left the state, figuring the heat would be on. How many days would I have to be imprisoned in this room with Walker before Renard figured this was a cockamamie plan?

Or was this the work of Jimmy Kim? I was off the hook, more or less, but I was also tucked safely out of the way, my nose against the back wall of a blind alley.

Anyway, at that moment I was more worried about Angie than my predicament, so I paced in front of the phone, watching the Late Nite Show with Buddy Fetterman and loathing bunky Walker, who, despite the flannel getup, still reeked of cop. I guessed he needed the undercover work to make detective sergeant.

And out came Aunt Jilly onto the stage of the Network Theater. Seems the writers had a gag whereby every time one of Buddy’s jokes bombed, Aunt Jilly was wheeled across the stage holding a Buttergut turkey. It was funnier than it sounds.

The phone rang and I pounced on it.

“Angie?”

“Waldo is calling.”

“Waldo? Is that you?”

“Waldo checked you out with Dudley. He asked Waldo to talk to you. What do you want?”

“Let me start by saying, Waldo, that I’ve admired your work for many years. Really top notch. Your artistry is first rate.”

Silence.

“Yes, well . . . look, I’m in Vermont. And I’ve got a situation here involving gaffs. I think.”

Silence.

I hadn’t heard a click, so I kept talking but tried to elicit a response. “Are you familiar with any of the showmen who traveled with the Faldo carnival?”

He paused so long I thought he had hung up. “What kind of showmen would they be if Waldo didn’t know of them?”

“Exactly, right, right . . . so, there’s a guy named Tex Filbert. Have you heard of him?”

“Waldo knows.”

“Can you, I mean, tell me anything about him, what he may have bought recently?”

He let another long pause sink in. “Why?”

I wondered if Waldo might be mixed up in this somehow. But if he were, what would he be doing down in Florida when the rest of the gang was here?

“I think he may have been planning to steal a gorilla carcass and make a Sasquatch gaff.”

“Swamp Demon.”

“Eh?”

“Swamp Demon. Waldo creates a Swamp Demon, not a Sasquatch.”

“Well, I wasn’t suggesting he bought this from you. He was trying to make it himself.”

He loosed a protracted growl. “And if someone had a gorilla carcass, why would he bother to make a gaff? It’s worth much more just for the hands and organs than a gaff could make in two years.”

“I know, that’s what’s so strange about it. Tex Filbert is working with a man named MacTeague.”

“MacTeague? Ha!” He came back fast that time, and with force. I’d obviously hit a nerve.

“You know MacTeague?”

“Waldo would not sully his reputation!” he exploded. “MacTeague is a hack! His Bimini mermaids are junk! You hear? Junk! Trash! Garbage!”

Man, these Klingons are so tightly wound.

“So MacTeague made gaffs?”

“Those are not gaffs!” His flying spittle reached me all the way from Florida. “MacTeague couldn’t make a true gaff if his life depended on it. He shames himself and the showmen who buy his roadkill!”

“Who could possibly come close to Waldo’s perfection?” I was pushing it, but I’d got pretty much what I was looking for already.

“You are a man of discernment!” he hissed, like a campfire hit with a bucket of water.

Discernment? Is that a word? Whatever—he was finally warming to me, at least a little, I hoped.

“What can I say? I appreciate fine art, fine craftsmanship. Waldo is a master, everybody knows that. Did Tex or MacTeague come to Waldo for any parts, any help with making a Sasquatch?”

“Waldo has not communicated with either in years,” he spat. “But know this: If MacTeague was involved, this atrocity he would call
gaff
would look like the work of a child. There would be no suspension of disbelief.”

“Look pretty fakey?”

“Very, very
fakey.”

A light on my phone lit up. Another call. Angie?

“Waldo has been very helpful, and Garth is extremely thankful for Waldo taking time out of his busy day to consult with him.”

He hung up without a word.

I pushed the blinking button.

“Angie?”

“Hi, sugar lips!”

“I was worried out of my mind.” Angie sounded great, and I groaned with relief. “Where are you?”

“Sea Bass Motel, in beautiful downtown Mallard Island. Guess what?”

“What?”

“We know who Guy Partridge is.”

“Who?”

“You know, Guy Partridge, the one who bought the crow?”

That was in the morning, and this was night, but it seemed like a million years ago. “Yes, I remember—so who is he?”

“Think. He’s been on television.”

“We’ve got a vintage thirteen-inch TV that gets all of three stations.”

“Partridge was the guy who had those specials on TV where he went looking for the Loch Ness Monster, or that dinosaur in the Congo. A real eccentric, rich, an adventurer into the unknown.”

“Yeah, right, okay. So is our crow his crow?”

“Get this. He collected all sorts of spooky stuff in his mansion here, including taxidermy. He was robbed of a bunch of skins just the way we were. Except he was killed.”

“Killed?”

“Stabbed. And one of the things they took was a white crow in a bell jar. Got the scoop down at the station hall. The local police are real helpful. They seem kind of bored.”

And probably deferential to cute blondes, I mused. My cute blonde. “But we don’t know for sure it’s the same crow?”

“Well, I mean it was in a bell jar and all. . . . Oh, and listen to this. It says here that when Partridge died, they found out he didn’t have five million dollars to pay for a Big Foot. In fact, he was practically broke from throwing money at his expeditions and publicity. He still lived in a mansion near here but all alone because he couldn’t pay his household staff. That’s sad.”

“Back up. What about Big Foot?”

“Let’s see. I got some clippings from the library. . . .” I could hear her shuffling papers, then she cleared her throat.
“Guy Partridge, Mallard Island’s wealthiest . . .
blah blah blah
. . . was apparently stabbed to death with a carving knife during a daylight robbery. He was known for his exploration into the unknown, the occult, UFOs . . .
blah blah blah
. . . He used a submersible to fathom Loch Ness’s mysterious . . .
blah blah blah
. . . his recent special taped in the Pacific Northwest in which he challenged America to prove the existence of Big Foot . . .
blah blah
. . . He’d just flown back from research in Korea, where he claimed to have physical proof of a kving-kie, a mythical wild cow with magic horns—”

“Whoa—again, what about Big Foot?”

“What do you mean?”

“What does it say about Big Foot, exactly?”

“Oh, well, like I said
. . . Typical of Mr. Partridge’s style was his recent special taped in the Pacific Northwest in which he challenged America to prove the existence of Big Foot. This quest gained him widespread media attention and legal troubles when he offered a ‘dead or alive’ reward for the capture of an actual Big Foot. State game officials arrested him for conspiring to kill protected species. Under Washington game laws, it is illegal to shoot or conspire to kill any bird, mammal, or reptile not listed as a game species. After paying a fine, Mr. Partridge altered his offer to read ‘alive or any mortal remains.’ Mr. Partridge’s five-million-dollar reward went uncollected, although a number of hunting accidents were blamed on those trying to cash in on his offer. His seaside Maine estate was besieged for a time by hoaxsters with photographs and plaster footprint casts, but none with physical proof.
That’s all there is about Big Foot, sweetie.”

“Wait a second.” I rummaged through my wallet and came up with piece of paper. “Remember that ad Durban gave me?
WANT MY WHITE CROW BACK. No questions asked, finder’s fee. P.O. Box 34, Wells ME 04090.
But Partridge lived on Mallard Island.”

“Oh my gosh, Garth. That’s right. The ad! Mallard Island is just down the road from Wells. You have some idea about what’s going on, don’t you?”

“To make a long story short, I think carnies tried to pass off a sideshow Big Foot on Partridge for the five million and then for whatever reason ended up killing him for the crow. So now we know where they got the crow, more or less how, but not why. Dammit.” My stomach went sour. Angie was too close to the source of this imbroglio.

“Partridge is trying to get it back?” Angie snorted. “But he’s dead. I don’t get it, Garth.”

“I don’t get it either.” I tried to avoid any suspicious pauses. “Somebody else must be trying to get it back. Look, you didn’t go up to his house, did you?”

“I went up to the gatehouse and partway up the drive before I noticed a dented green car, probably a caretaker or something. It kind of blended with the bushes. I decided to walk back to my car rather than get kicked out. Maybe I’ll try again in the morning. Too dark now.”

My jaw tightened. “A green car? Like an Escort?” MacTeague had a flight leaving from Maine the next day and Tex was cruising around in a green heap with Maine license plates. Tex could have gotten there in the hours since he dropped a boulder on the Lincoln. Might he and MacTeague have a rendezvous on Mallard Island to sell the crow back? Might they have recognized Angie at the gatehouse? If they knew she was around asking questions, what would they do? And who was the joker in the deck with the Wells P.O. box?