The Koala of Death (21 page)

“Sounds to me like you already have,” I muttered, as I carried Wanchu back over to her tree. When she’d scampered up, I let myself out of the enclosure and led Joe to a nearby visitors’ bench. “All right. What’s so important that you have to add more gloom to an already depressing morning?”

“I want you off the
Merilee
.”

“You, too?” We had been down this road before. In an earlier murder investigation, I’d briefly moved in with Caro, but it hadn’t worked out. I reminded Joe of that.

“It was your own fault,” he argued. “You should have…”

“Shoulda, coulda, woulda. I’m not leaving the
Merilee
, especially not to move in with my crazy mother.”

“Then move in with me.”

Now I was well and truly shocked. Joe was a bit of an old-fashioned guy himself, but his mother Colleen was more Catholic than the Pope. She had no use for any male/female live-in arrangement that didn’t come complete with a church-sanctioned trip down the aisle followed by a drunken reception.

“Oh, c’mon, Joe. Your mother…”

“Suggested it.”

My mouth made a little round “O”.

He leaned forward, his beautifully chiseled face blurred with misery. “She’s as worried about you as I am, Teddy. In case you’re wondering, which judging by your expression you are, she says you can bunk down in the spare bedroom. But that any, um,
romantic activity
between us must be conducted somewhere else.”

“In the garage, maybe?”

“Don’t wisecrack at a time like this. Within two weeks, two people have been murdered less than ten yards away from the
Merilee.
I don’t want you added to the body count.”

I immediately felt contrite, and considering last night’s dream, almost gave in. Then I remembered that most of my friends at the harbor didn’t have the luxury of running away and staying with the sheriff. Whatever happened, they’d hunker down for the duration. I would, too.

The misery on his face increased when I told him.

“Teddy, you can’t…”

“Can and will.” To redirect his attention away from me, I said, “Now that someone else has died in the same way as Kate, what are you going to do about Bill? Since he was locked up at the time, it’s obvious that he didn’t kill Heck. And don’t tell me there’s a copycat killer running around, because we both know better.”

Further resistance being futile, Joe just sighed and said, “First thing this morning I placed a call to the county attorney. She needs to read a copy of my report on Mr. Liddell’s murder before she takes any action but, yes, it looks like Mr. McQueen is off the hook.”

Relief swept over me with such power that it was a good thing I was sitting down. As soon as I could breathe again, I asked, “When will he be released?”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Teddy. There are procedures…”

“
When
?”

He sighed again. “Tomorrow, possibly. Friday at the latest. But I’ll have to hang onto his passport. Just in case.”

A precaution even Bill would understand. “He’ll be able to come back to the zoo?”

“If Zorah will have him.”

“Oh, she will.” After a brief pang at the prospect of losing the privilege of caring for Wanchu and the rest of the Down Under gang, I managed a smile. “All’s well that ends well, then.”

Joe didn’t look as happy. “Except that the murderer’s still on the loose. And you’re living in Ground Zero.”

***

Zorah wasn’t the only person who could have a brainstorm. During lunch, when I tried without success to get other zookeepers to take the remaining two cats (“I’m all full up, Teddy. Six cats and three dogs.” “Sorry, no can do. My lease doesn’t allow more than two dogs and/or two cats, which I already have.” “What, are you nuts? I have six geckos, two snakes, four dogs, and a cat.”), I realized who might be able to help me. After wolfing down what was left of my Borneo Burger, I placed a call to Speaks-to-Souls and related my problem.

“How’s their health?” she inquired, sounding more businesslike than woo-woo.

“Both cats are neutered and up-to-date on their shots. They sneeze some, but that’s because of the environment they were living in. Their owner wasn’t a very good housekeeper, and he had too many cats for the space.”

“Hmm. You realize that I have a lot of animals myself? Both here at the shop and at home?”

“It would be better than the pound.” Guilt works well with animal lovers.

“What do they look like?” Yep, she was softening.

“They’re tuxedo cats, mostly black with white chests and paws. They even come when you call their names.”

“Which are?”

“Kennedy and Rockefeller.”

A giggle. “Oh, all right. I’ll take them.”

My heart gave a happy little bounce. “Can I drop them off after work this evening?”

“Tomorrow would be better. I have two evening appointments tonight, and I’ll be bushed afterwards. Channeling the spirits takes a lot out of me.”

I bet it did. But Thursday was the evening I’d promised the Bowling for Rhinos committee that I would hit up Aster Edwina for a donation. I did a quick time calculation in my head. The meeting with Aster Edwina would take thirty minutes at the most, the drive back to the
Merilee
to pick up the cats about fifteen minutes, then the drive from the harbor to San Sebastian another half hour. “I can have them there tomorrow evening between seven-thirty and eight. Would that work for you?”

Another
hmm
. Then, “I close the shop at five unless I have a client, which I don’t tomorrow, so you’ll have to bring them to my house.”

She started to give me directions, but I stopped her halfway through. Having lived in San Sebastian County most of my life, I had a pretty good idea of where she was leading me; a small piece of the old Bentley ranch that had been deeded to Carlo DiGiorno, a much-loved family retainer back in the 1850s. Since then, the property had passed through his descendants’ hands. The original house remained on its hilly lot, crumbling slowly, encumbered by Draconian phrases in the old deed. To paraphrase the legalese, not only did the property have to remain occupied by a DiGiorno at all times, but no new building could commence until the house was declared unsafe for habitation by three board-certified county engineers. Even then, the house’s footprint could not be enlarged.

“You’re living in the old DiGiorno place, aren’t you?” I said.

“You know it?” She sounded surprised.

“My last name is Bentley.”

“Oh. That’s different than your mother’s.”

No surprise there, since Caro had undergone several name changes since being born Caroline Piper. And I’d been married once, myself, but didn’t feel like explaining all that to a woman I hardly knew. “That’s right.”

I vaguely remembered old Elizabetta DiGiorno dying, as they say, “without issue,” several years back, and the house sitting unoccupied until the estate’s attorney’s dug up a relative who was willing to take on the crumbling property. “You’re a DiGiorno, then?”

A momentary silence, then, “Can’t keep any secrets around here, can I? Not that I need to.”

From the cautious tone of her voice, I wondered about that. With her Valkyrie features and build, she sure didn’t look like a DiGiorno, but I just said, “So seven-thirty is fine with you? For the cats?”

“I’ll be waiting with two new bowls and a tray filled with fresh kitty litter. After they work out the territorial situation with my other animals, they’ll feel right at home.”

Mission accomplished, I left the employees’ lounge and drove my cart to the rhino enclosure to discuss Bowling for Rhinos with Buster Daltry, the event’s chairman.

I found him working with Notch, the smaller of our two Southern white rhinos—if you can call a two-ton animal “small.” Respectful of Notch’s bulk, Buster was kneeling behind a safety rail fashioned from an old wooden telephone pole, attending to a small scrape on Notch’s foot. The big rhino stood on the other side of the rail, peacefully chewing timothy hay, her three-toed hind foot raised. Watching them from the other side of the enclosure was Half-Ear, her somewhat bigger friend.

“Nice training job,” I called across the fence. No way was I going in there. White rhinos may have calmer temperaments than black rhinos, but they’re still tanks on legs. Tanks squash people.

Buster, who was used to the great beasts, just nodded. “Notch will do anything for a little timothy, won’t you, my little piggy?” He reached over and patted the inside of her hind leg, a rhino’s “sweet spot.”

“How long did it take?”

He looked up, a frown on his sad lump of a face. “To train her to lift her feet? Six or seven months, I think. It took Half-Ear even more, ’cause she’s more stubborn. But it’s easier than having to lure them into a safety chute every time I need to attend to their feet or horns.”

Ah, yes. Rhinoceros horns, the main reason rhinos were nearing extinction. Used in the Near East for decorative dagger sheaths and in Asia as Chinese “Viagra,” a single horn—which is made out of a hair-like substance, not ivory—sold on the Black Market for as much as $55,000. Because of the great demand in 1970 alone, half the world’s rhinos disappeared. During the next four decades, most of the surviving 50 percent were slaughtered to accommodate the vanity of men who strutted around with knives on their belts or had trouble getting it up.

“Zorah told me you have the latest figures for Bowling for Rhinos,” I said. “How much have we raised so far?”

It may have been my imagination, but Notch glanced over at me with what seemed a hopeful expression on her face. Buster didn’t look as optimistic.

“I don’t have the exact dollar amount, but we’re down in contributions this year. The biggest lump sum donations so far have been five hundred and fifty from the Foot Fetish and three hundred twenty from Cappuccino & Chowder. How are your own fund-raising efforts coming along? Have you put the touch on your mother yet?”

“We can count on her for her usual contribution, but even better, I’ll be seeing Aster Edwina tomorrow, and she’s always good for a few thou.” Something else occurred to me. “Come to think of it, right after that, I’m visiting an animal psychic who might…”

Buster scowled. “That fraud over in San Sebastian? More likely, she’ll relieve
you
of your hard-earned green!”

His scowl disappeared when I related Caro’s experience with Speaks-to-Souls and the woman’s offer to take in two orphaned cats. “Okay, so maybe I’m wrong. But didn’t you say she was collecting donations for the No-Kill Shelter? Unless someone’s stinking rich, they tend to limit themselves to one charity. Two at the most.”

“Like you?’

He blushed. Although Buster, like most zookeepers, had very little money, he donated part of each paycheck to rhino and elephant sanctuaries. He also spent his week nights amassing sponsors for the marathons he ran, then donated the proceeds to various children’s charities. With his great bulk, Buster always came in at the back of the pack, but with his just-as-great heart, he always finished.

“Zookeepers are different,” he said.

I was about to reply when a loud noise made me look over at the other side of the enclosure, but it was just Half-Ear taking a dump, and since each rhino defecates more than fifty pounds of dung a day, the dump was large. I also noticed that the spot she picked was the same spot our dearly-departed Kehtla, the big male, had always used. A game of Follow-the-Leader? Or just a grumpy female’s editorial comment on the entire male gender?

Both animals liked Buster. Regardless of his less-than-handsome countenance, most females did, even females of the human species. But to Buster’s ongoing sorrow, women liked him only as a friend. God only knows how the poor man managed to get a date. If he ever did.

As soon as I left Buster and drove down the hill toward the giant anteater’s enclosure, something began to nag at me. What was it? My conversation with Buster? Zorah? Speaks-to-Souls? The discomfort remained while I was preparing Lucy’s evening meal of termites, but as soon as I’d stuffed her dinner into the small hollow log we kept in her night house, I figured it out.

Caro. Her name had come up twice during the day: once with Joe, once with Buster. I hadn’t heard from my mother since I’d run into her yesterday at the television studio, which was odd, since it was her habit to call during the day to complain about my job at the zoo.

I checked my watch and saw that it was a little after five. Apparently she hadn’t watched the morning or noon news. When I’d dressed for work this morning, Heck’s murder had headlined every local news program and newspaper. KTSS’s newscaster had proclaimed, “Second murder at the Harbor of Death!” KTRM had inaccurately brayed, “Yachtsman shot to death in Gunn Landing.” The
San Sebastian Gazette
had printed in a sixty-four point red Gothic font,
SERIAL KILLER LOOSE IN SS COUNTY?
All this should have had Caro showing up at the zoo with two burly cousins and a net to haul me away to the safety of Old Town, but as yet, I hadn’t heard a peep from her. This maternal silence was so unlike her that I began to worry, especially in the light of Kate’s Post-it note:
Tdy’s mom noz.

Once I’d locked Lucy and Baby Boy Anteater in their night quarters, I hauled my cell out of my cargo pants and punched in Caro’s number. It rang four times, then switched over to voice mail. As Caro’s voice began to explain that she was away from her phone, I disconnected. Knowing that she’d be furious for what I was about to do, I called her nearest neighbor, Mrs. Gwendolyn Wexford-Smythe.

“Have you seen my mother today?” I asked Mrs. Wexford-Smythe, once her maid Yvette fetched her to the phone.

“Shertainly nosh.” It was well known among Old Town denizens that Mrs. Wexford-Smythe often began drinking well before the sun moved past the yardarm.

“Are you sure, ma’am? Not this morning, not this afternoon?”

“Don’t keep trash of your musher’s wherea…wherea…where she ish.”

“Could I speak to Yvette again, please?” The maid had once worked for Caro, and knew her habits well.

“Shertainly.”

A crash, probably of the phone being dropped or Mrs. Wexford-Smythe’s plump butt hitting the parquet, then Yvette came to the phone. “’ow can I help you, Meez Bentley?”