The Llama of Death Page 3

  And my voice.

  “Bad dog!” I yelled, my tone fierce. “Bad dog!”

  Anyone experienced with dogs, even feral ones, knows that the human voice carries more weight than a frightened animal’s cries. “Bad dog! Down, bad dog! Down!”

  The barking yips continued, ever-increasing in urgency.

  Not a coyote. Not a dog.

  A terrified llama.

  With no streetlights on the grounds and only a half-moon for illumination, the High Street was dark, but as I rushed up to Llama Rides I was able to make out a furry shape lying motionless inside the gate.

  Alejandro?

  Tears sprang to my eyes, but when I approached the prone form the yipping didn’t stop. It continued even louder. Then, as if desperate for help, Alejandro emerged from the shadows and galloped to meet me.

  Ipe-ack, ipe-ack! he barked. The second he reached me, he shoved his head into my chest, bleating out an almost human sob.

  “Oh, Alejandro. Did my brave boy kill it?”

  Normally, a llama will not go out of its way to kill an intruder, but he would use his strong, clawed feet in self-defense. If that’s what Alejandro had done, he couldn’t be blamed. Then I realized that the llama’s attacker, whatever type of canine it had been, might not be dead, merely stunned. To be desperate enough to tackle something the size of a full-grown llama, it had either been starved or rabid. I couldn’t see if Alejandro had any wounds, but the situation nevertheless called for caution. Taking him by his halter, I led him to the opposite end of the enclosure in case the animal got up again.

  To my relief, I saw the bobbing of a flashlight and heard feet pounding toward me.

  “Teddy! Are you all right?” I recognized the voice of Walt McAdams, the fireman who lived near me on the Running Wild. On vacation from the San Sebastian Fire Department, he had been hired as head of Faire Security.

  “Yes, but be careful!” I shouted back. “We may have a rabid animal on our hands!”

  Seconds later, Walt arrived with two more security guards armed with flashlights and tasers. They cautiously entered the llama enclosure and bent down to examine the still animal.

  One guard gasped. The other turned away.

  Walt looked stricken.

  “What is it?” I asked. “Coyote? Dog?”

  Walt’s voice shook when he said, “It’s…it’s what’s-his-name, the Henry the Eighth guy. He’s dead.”

  Aghast, I turned to the llama. “Oh, Alejandro, what have you done?”

  Chapter Two

  In the dark, Victor Emerson’s furry cape made the fallen man look like an animal, but once lit by several flashlights, Alejandro’s victim was clearly human. Victor lay on his stomach with his arms outstretched. From the bit of clothing I could see, he was wearing pajamas. When the security guards rolled him over, the llama vented a catarrhal sound that could have been a sob. As for me, I was relieved that one of the guards had positioned himself between me and Victor. I had never liked the man but had no desire to see his dead face.

  The guard closest to me made a gagging noise. Another swore.

  “Uh, Teddy?” Walt’s usually confident voice wavered even more. “Why don’t you, uh, tie that animal up someplace and keep it out of the way. Seems it didn’t have anything to do with this, ah, this situation. And as soon as you’ve got it secured, get the hell out of that pen. Duck under the fence so you don’t track all over this area.”

  “Him,” I snapped. “Alejandro’s a ‘him,’ not an ‘it.’” Nomenclature was a silly thing to be worried about at a time like this, but I’m a zookeeper, and to me, no animal is an “it.” I started to lead the llama over to the hitching post at the back of the enclosure, then stopped. “Wait a minute, Walt. Are you saying Alejandro didn’t stomp the poor guy to death?”

  Now the security guards did an odd thing. In unison, they flicked off their flashlights, and with Walt leading the retreat, walked backwards until they had exited the enclosure.

  “I’m calling Sheriff Rejas, Teddy,” Walt said.

  “You can’t ‘cause Joe’s…he’s…he’s in Virginia,” I stuttered, reminding him of my fiancé’s whereabouts. “He’s on that Homeland Security thing and…and he told me before he left that he might be out in the woods somewhere on some exercise and he can’t be reached because they’re clamping down a whatchacallit a…a news blackout or something like that on him and the other sheriffs and…and they took away everyone’s cell phone so they can’t talk or get calls and…and he won’t get back until…” I stopped babbling and forced myself to think. “Did you check for a pulse?”

  Walt nodded. “No pulse, fixed pupils, enough blood to float a boat. He’s dead all right, but he didn’t get llama-stomped. He’s been shot in the jugular with some kind of arrow and he bled out.”

  Alejandro moaned. Or maybe he was mimicking me.

  I swallowed. “In that case, I’d better remove Alejandro from the enclosure, too. Tell you what. I’ll walk him over to the Camel Rides pen and stash him there. The camel didn’t take well to the crowds, they usually don’t, you know how they are, so his owner trailered him home and they won’t be back. But that won’t be a permanent solution. It’s louder over there than here and Alejandro won’t like that anymore than the camel did. Actually, I can’t move him at all right now, because then Alejandro and I would be tromping all over the, um, crime scene. We shouldn’t disturb it more than it already has been, because the authorities, well, you know, they don’t like people messing with…”

  “Stop babbling, Teddy. I’ve got the sheriff’s office on my cell!”

  I stopped babbling.

  Time crawled as we waited for the authorities. Alejandro and I comforted each other while Walt and the other security guards huddled in the shadow of the big plywood castle. Shivering in the damp night air, I pressed myself against Alejandro’s shaggy side. As if he understood, he looped his big head around and nuzzled me. Whatever tension had once existed between us was gone. We were two frightened creatures huddling together for warmth.

  The guards tried to keep their voices down, but it was too late: the llama’s cries had awakened Faire workers. One by one, they emerged from their tents and trailers onto the High Street to see what the fuss was about. For the most part they were respectful when they heard there had been a fatality, but the more curious of them surged forward for a better look. The guards pushed back, keeping them away from the enclosure’s entrance. The onlookers whose costumes required fur capes were lucky; they’d thrown their capes over their nightclothes. Watching them, I realized that was what Victor must have done. He had wrapped his regal fur cloak around him before stepping outside.

  But why leave his warm tent in the middle of the night in the first place?

  A romantic encounter was the first thing that sprang to mind. Like many mail-order reverends, Victor had no church other than his little wedding chapel, and he wasn’t in the business of delivering sinners from the clutches of Satan. Religiously speaking, he was free to play around. And he did. With considerable enthusiasm. Who could have been tonight’s lucky lady? Victor was frequently seen squiring Bambi around town, but it was not unknown for him to be involved with several women at a time. What they saw in him was a mystery.

  Soon the wail of sirens pierced the night. Minutes later, a herd of uniformed officers galloped toward us led by Deputy Elvin Dade, Joe’s fifth-in-command.

  “Where’s the body?” he barked.

  Walt, along with around thirty others, pointed to the furry lump on the ground.

  “Get outta my way!” Elvin ordered, shouldering aside the security guards. He swaggered into the llama enclosure, circled the body several times, then knelt down and began pawing at it.

  After watching him tug at the arrow implanted in Victor’s neck, I yelled, “Hey, Elvin! Shouldn’t you wait until
the crime techs get here? You know, to check for fingerprints and stuff?”

  “That’s Acting Sheriff Dade to you, Teddy Bentley! And you stay out of this. You’re not dealing with that indulgent boyfriend of yours now. Leave the crime detecting to people who know something about it.”

  He yanked on the arrow again, finally succeeding in pulling it out.

  At the age of fifty-eight Elvin held more seniority than anyone else in the sheriff’s office. He’d run for the top job twice, but Joe beat him each time. Not because of Elvin’s abrasive personality, although I’m sure that factored in, but because the man was so full of himself he turned people off. Elvin had a temper, too, and all too often arrested people who annoyed him, whether they’d broken the law or not. Once he even tried to arrest my mother when her Mercedes CL beat his aging Ford Focus to a prime parking spot outside Sydd’s Salad Supreme. Only the pleas of his hungry wife kept him from hauling Caro off in handcuffs.

  If Elvin hadn’t been the brother of California’s powerful attorney general, Joe would have fired him years ago.

  Still, given Elvin’s less than pristine record as a peace officer, he was now in charge only because of a string of unfortunate events that not even a man as intelligent as Sheriff Joe Rejas could have foreseen. Two days earlier Head Deputy Stan Berringer, Joe’s second-in-command, had suffered an attack of acute pancreatitis and lay hooked up to a glucose drip in San Sebastian County Hospital. Deputy Pete Rimstead, Joe’s third-in-command, was recovering from a gunshot wound in the leg inflicted day before yesterday by a grandmother protesting the arrest of her teenage grandson for shoplifting. Ralph Wilson, Joe’s fourth-in-command, had suddenly eloped with his girlfriend to Las Vegas. Or maybe it was Reno. Wherever he was, no one could find him, and thus—according to the command structure set down by the county commissioner—the officer with the most seniority then ascended to rank of acting sheriff.

  Ergo, Joe’s worst nightmare—Elvin Dade elevated to command.

  “Look what I found!” Elvin crowed, standing up and brandishing the arrow. Whisking a handkerchief from his pocket, he proceeded to wipe it off.

  Several other deputies actually groaned.

  Aghast myself, I did a quick calculation. It was closing in on three o’clock here in California, which would make it around six in Virginia. Just in case the spooks at Homeland Security had changed their minds about cell phone confiscation, I would try to reach Joe anyway if I hadn’t left my cell phone in the Silly Slatterns’ RV. I looked over at Walt. Witness to the acting sheriff’s incompetence, he was already punching in a number on his cell. Joe’s, I hoped. I saw Walt’s lips move for mere seconds, too short a time for a conversation. Voice mail.

  Alejandro began muttering. Standing still for so long was getting on his nerves. I doubted he was wild about the smell of blood, either.

  “Hang in there, big boy,” I whispered. “This can’t last forever.”

  Almost as if he’d heard, Elvin glanced over at me. “What the hell’s that thing?”

  “Llama. Name’s Alejandro.”

  “Get it away from me before I shoot it.”

  Since the moronic man had already contaminated the crime scene beyond repair, I led Alejandro out of shooting range. I was tempted to transport him back to the zoo, never to return to the Faire. Only ghouls would turn up at the bloodied llama pen when the Faire opened, anyway. Then I remembered Aster Edwina’s orders the day before: “Don’t you give me any lip, Teddy. Conduct those llama rides or else!” God only knew what she meant by “or else.” The irony here was that although I worked with bears, wolves, tigers, lions, and rhinos with nary a qualm, the old bat terrified me. Accepting the reality of my situation, I straightened my shoulders and led Alejandro to the deserted camel pen.

  Halfway there, I ran into Melissa and Cary Keegan. The last time I’d seen them had been at the medieval weapons demonstration, when they were working with the longbow and crossbow. This realization made me stop so suddenly that Alejandro almost ran me down.

  “What’s happening, Teddy?” Melissa flowed toward me in a white, vaguely medieval nightgown, her waist-length black hair darker than the night itself. “Someone said there’s been an accident.”

  I thought for a moment before I answered. “Is the Royal Armory missing any stock?”

  Melissa started to answer, but Cary interrupted her. “Why do you ask?” The stormy expression on his face made me suspect that Melissa’s answer would have been in the affirmative.

  “Victor Emerson’s dead.” Given the size of the crowd at the crime scene, keeping it secret was a no-hoper, anyway.

  Cary frowned. “Are you talking about that reverend guy who plays Henry the Eighth?”

  “Yep. He had an arrow in his neck.”

  The two looked at each other. Melissa opened her mouth, but Cary shushed her again. “All our weapons are accounted for.”

  “But isn’t that…?” Melissa suddenly winced as Cary’s hand gripped her forearm tightly. Too tightly, I thought, for the first time noticing what a large man he was and how frail she seemed in comparison.

  “There’s nothing we can do about any of this,” he told his wife, in a tone that wouldn’t be argued with. “Let’s go back to bed.”

  Melissa didn’t argue.

  I watched them walk toward their quarters behind the Armory until Alejandro bumped me impatiently with his nose.

  “All right, all right,” I said. “The camel pen it is. I’ll get you some more hay, too. But promise me you won’t spit on anyone tomorrow. Except for Acting Sheriff Elvin Dade. Spit on him all you want.”

  ***

  After everything that had transpired, sleep proved impossible. I lay in the Silly Slatterns’ RV with my eyes wide open, thinking about Victor. Who would have murdered such a harmless, if annoying, person? Although I’d never cared for the man myself, he had many fans, especially among those whose approach to marriage tended to be on the casual side. Until his dust-up with my mother over the Anne Boleyn situation, I had never known him to make an enemy since he’d moved to San Sebastian County. Even women he once dated bore him no ill will. Maybe it was his gift of gab. He had been slick, no doubt about it.

  I also couldn’t stop thinking about the arrow Elvin pulled from Victor’s neck. Something seemed “off” about it. While attending Miss Pridewell’s Academy, I was on the archery team, yet never saw an arrow like it. For starters, the thing appeared to be less than a foot long, which was much shorter than the standard archery arrow. In fact, it had looked almost like…

  A crossbow bolt.

  Sunrise found me still staring up at the ceiling of the Silly Slattern’s RV. Somehow I managed to haul myself out of bed, clean off in a tiny shower stall, and dress in my Renaissance duds without ripping the fabric. This time, however, I dispensed with the corset. I felt miserable enough already.

  Hoping against hope, I punched in Joe’s number on my cell, but the call rolled over to voice mail. Good ol’ Homeland Security and their no-phones rule. I left a message anyway.

  “Elvin tromped all over the crime scene and then pulled the arrow right out of Victor’s neck, Joe. If a miracle happens and Homeland Security gives you your cellphone back, please call that foolish man and give him a talking to. Victor was horribly murdered, and the way Elvin’s going he’ll have the case so screwed up by the time you get back home it’ll take you twice as long to solve it. Love you. Call me as soon as they let you. And for God’s sake, call Elvin and put some sense into him!”

  I rang off wondering when Joe would get my message. What was Homeland Security doing with him and the other sheriffs, anyway? Were they bivouacking in the Virginia woods, or sitting in stuffy meeting rooms listening to FBI agents drone on and on about suspicious-looking Middle Easterners? Remembering Ted Kozinski, Timothy McVeigh, and Anders Brevik, I hoped they would warn them about suspicious
-looking Anglo-Saxons, too.

  Since there was nothing more I could do at the moment I left for the camel pen. This early in the morning few people were up and about. The vendors’ shops were still closed, except for Ye Queen’s Bakery, which was serving breakfast.

  Four miles inland, this narrow valley seldom suffered heavy bouts of the morning fog that plagued the coast, but today a few wisps had made it over the surrounding hills from the Pacific. Thanks to my low-cut bodice, the damp chilled me, and I was cursing under my breath by the time I reached Alejandro. Knowing how sensitive he was, I forced a cheerful note into my voice.

  “Miss me, sweetie?”

  A soft chuffle assured me that he did.

  After giving him a friendly ear-scratch, I dished out his morning meal of alfalfa pellets mixed with oat hay topped with a sprinkling of chopped carrots. Llamas are modified ruminants with three stomach compartments. They chew their food well, swallow, then bring it up again later for another round of chewing. Unlike cows, they don’t have a fourth stomach compartment, so colic can be a problem. When dealing with domesticated llamas, proper food measurement is critical so as always, I took great care with the proportions.

  Alejandro quickly polished off his breakfast, then walked over to nuzzle my ear. All signs of yesterday’s spit-fest vanished, he was now in his llama-ish way, declaring me his BFF.

  “Love you, too,” I crooned.

  For the next hour I swept llama turds out of the enclosure and took care of all the other chores necessary to keep a llama happy, which wasn’t much different than my job at the zoo. Work finally accomplished, I set off for Alejandro’s previous habitat to get the LLAMA RIDES sign and transfer it to his new digs. The entire enclosure was now blocked off by yellow police tape. At least Elvin got that part right. Even better, he had posted a deputy I knew at the entrance. Emilio Gutierrez was an old friend of mine who descended from one of my great-great-great grandfather’s vaqueros in the halcyon days when we Bentleys owned most of San Sebastian County. A string of bad investments, lawsuits, and the Depression had changed all that.