The Llama of Death Read online

  But could either of us rely on Caro?

  ***

  The idea of my mother as Jean Valjean relentlessly pursued through the California sewers by a Javert who strongly resembled Elvin Dade kept me awake half the night. The gentle bobbing of the Merilee didn’t soothe me, nor did the sleepy call of a gull nearby. Not even the warm bodies of Miss Priss, DJ Bonz, and Feroz Guerro snuggled near my feet eased my anxiety.

  The only person who could have helped remained somewhere in the Virginia woods, playing spy games with Homeland Security.

  Chapter Six

  I awoke at four knowing exactly what I had to do. If Elvin Dade was too focused on Caro to catch Reverend Victor Petersen’s real killer, I would catch him myself. Yes, chasing killers could be dangerous, but previous run-ins with homicidal types had taught me the value of caution.

  While taking the dogs out for their pre-dawn walk, I replayed the night of the murder in my head: Alejandro’s screams; Victor Emerson lying dead in his royal robes at the llama’s feet; Elvin screwing up the forensics before the other deputies could stop him; the pandemonium as dozens of Faire workers descended upon the murder scene. In my mind’s eye, I could see their faces. Melissa Keegan’s terrified expression as Cary, her thuggish husband, jerked her away from the scene. The near-panic of young Howie Fife, the Faire’s leper. Deanna and Judd Sazac, part-time liveaboarders who unaccountably seemed to be arguing even as Victor’s body cooled. They were all part of the crowd of assorted monks, minstrels, and peasants who arrived at the crime scene moments after me. But that meant nothing. Killers often returned to the scene of the crime to gloat.

  Which of them wanted Victor dead, and why? As far as I knew, Victor had never caused trouble for anyone, unless, of course, I counted that Anne Boleyn dust-up with my mother. Then I remembered something else to take into account: Victor wasn’t just a mail-order reverend with a tacky wedding chapel—he was also a notary public. That meant he was frequently called upon to notarize all sorts of legal documents, ranging from real estate transactions to wills. Maybe he had inadvertently put his stamp on a transaction that turned out to be fraudulent. Or maybe he’d merely offended a Faire worker and that person had taken his late-night revenge.

  One thing was certain. I needed to learn more about Victor Petersen.

  As soon as I returned the dogs to the Merilee my cell phone chimed the opening measure to “Born Free.” It wasn’t even five yet, but caller ID informed me that the doyenne of San Sebastian County was on the line. Groaning, I answered.

  “I’m not due at the zoo until six, Aster Edwina, so whatever you want, can’t it wait until…”

  “Hi, sweetheart,” my felonious father interrupted. “I knew you’d already be up, taking care of some animal. What’s all this I hear about your mother? Is she really being charged with murder?”

  I looked at my cell again. Yes, that was definitely one of Gunn Castle’s phone numbers. “Dad, what the heck are you doing back in the States?”

  During my childhood, my father embezzled millions from his partners at Bentley, Bentley, Haight & Busby. Since then, he had become quite the globe-trotter, but his usual domicile was somewhere in Costa Rica, a country known for being slow to extradite its tax-paying guests back to the States. The Feds still had a cell waiting, and the thought of Dad on American soil scared me half to death.

  He sounded perfectly at ease. “As soon as I heard about your mother, I hitched a plane ride with a friend whose name I can’t reveal since he’s an even bigger crook than I. Aster Edwina was kind enough to hide me here in the castle for the duration. Well, enough of the niceties. Is your mother being represented by counsel? If so, how good is he? Or she.”

  If not always honest, dear old Dad was always politically correct. “Mother is well-represented. Maybe too well, if you get my drift.”

  Brief silence at the other end, then, “Single man with money?”

  “How well you know her.”

  “Let’s change the subject.”

  It might have been my imagination, but I thought he sounded jealous. “So how’s the weather in Costa Rica? Warm?”

  “Humid. And the howler monkey who lives in the tree outside my villa screams all night. To return to an even more unpleasant subject, how honest is your mother’s attorney?”

  “I’ve never heard of Albert Grissom being mixed up with anything shady.”

  “That’s not good,” he said.

  “Why?”

  “Because sometimes it takes a crook to catch a crook.”

  I digested that for a moment. “Please don’t tell me you’re thinking of investigating Victor Petersen’s murder yourself. Leave it to the police. They know what they’re doing.”

  “Teddy, you’ve got your fingers crossed behind your back, don’t you?”

  I uncrossed them. “Listen, Dad…”

  “Aster Edwina told me that sheriff boyfriend of yours is out in the D.C. area doing something with Homeland Security, and in his absence, the ever-foolish Elvin Dade—by a series of flukes—has taken over. Imagine! Trying to pin a murder on Caro when the whole county knows she wouldn’t hurt a fly. Well, not unless the fly stung or bit you. Which is it?”

  “Which is what?”

  “Flies. Sting or bite?”

  Talking to my father can be as irritating as talking to my mother. “Most flies don’t have stingers, but their jaws work in a sideways motion, causing great pain and sometimes even…”

  “Good to know. Anyway, this thing with Elvin Dade, it’s nothing more than a personal vendetta. Your mother told me all about the time she was foolish enough to go out with him and what happened, told all the ghastly details, including a few I’ll bet you don’t know about. Take my word for it, Elvin’s out for blood.”

  “He’s married now. More or less happily, I’ve heard.” I wasn’t trying to defend the man; I simply wanted my dad to get the hell out of Dodge before the Feds showed up.

  “Happily married or not, men never forgive that kind of public humiliation. Especially at the hands of a woman.”

  “When Joe gets back, that’ll all change.” I hoped. While Joe was definitely a law-and-order type, he had common sense. And uncommonly strong arms, the better to hold me with and…

  Dad’s voice interrupted my erotic fantasy. “Hate to burst your bubble, kid, but Aster Edwina, who around here has more power than God, already called several higher-ups in Homeland Security about the situation here. Even she couldn’t get them to release Joe early. They wouldn’t let him have his cell phone back, either, saying that national security was more important than whatever little problem San Sebastian County is having.”

  Before I could point out the outrageousness of the agency’s position, he said. “Shush. As if that’s not bad enough, Aster Edwina also found out Joe won’t be back for at least another week—maybe more—which will give Elvin plenty of time to fabricate evidence against your mother. I can’t allow that to happen. The only good news here is that she’s locked up safe in jail on that incitement to riot charge and can’t get herself into any more trouble.”

  “This is all about guilt, isn’t it?”

  “She’s not guilty!”

  “I’m talking about your guilt, Dad. For embezzling all that money and leaving her destitute. Remember when the Feds swooped down and took the house, the cars, the…”

  “Have a nice day, Teddy. They still say that in California, don’t they?”

  “All the time, but…”

  Dial tone.

  ***

  For the next few hours, my concerns about my parents receded into the background while I buried myself in work. On Tuesdays I appeared on Anteaters to Zebras, my live television segment on the early morning television show, Good Morning, San Sebastian. The job wasn’t as onerous as it had once been now that the program had a new a
nchor, who—unlike the previous anchor—had enough sense not to grab at an animal no matter how loveable it appeared. Ariel Gonzales was an ex-Marine and a highly-decorated veteran of the Iraqi War. The perfect early morning host.

  Today’s all-Africa segment on Anteaters to Zebras went well while I showed off Gloria, a loveable meerkat, followed by Jinks, a leash-trained jackal. But then came Roscoe, the Gunn Zoo’s adolescent honey badger. Last week I had tried to convince Aster Edwina Gunn that a honey badger’s temperament wasn’t suitable for live TV, but the old lady had been adamant.

  “Teddy, ever since that clever ‘Honey Badger Don’t Care’ video ran on YouTube, Roscoe’s become quite the star. I’d like to raise his profile even further, enough so that….”

  “Uh, Aster Edwina, I don’t think…”

  “…we can lure a young female honey badger over from the National Zoo, where they have an extra. I envision a honey badger breeding program…”

  “But…”

  “…that will be the envy of the Association of Zoos and Aquariums.”

  “Roscoe bites, Aster Edwina.”

  She merely smiled. “You are a zookeeper, aren’t you? Deal with it.”

  So here I sat in front of a live TV camera, holding a more-or-less subdued honey badger on my lap. I was gloved and had a good grip on his thick collar, but given past incidents, I wasn’t taking any chances. A honey badger’s skin is so loose no collar should be considered escape-proof.

  “With Roscoe’s white stripe down his back, he resembles a skunk,” Ariel said, smiling down at him, then up at the camera. “Are skunks and honey badgers related?”

  “An astute observation, Ariel,” I chirped. “Both animals are members of the polecat family—weasels and skunks, if you will. Notice his strong odor?”

  “Now that you mention it, the air in here has become rather ripe.”

  “No kidding. But unlike skunks, a honey badger doesn’t spray its enemies. It just kills and eats them.”

  “How fierce! Can you tame a honey badger, Teddy? He sounds like he’d make a fine guard dog. Or should I say, ‘guard badger?’”

  “Roscoe is as tame as a honey badger ever gets, which isn’t much. Did I mention that they’re also related to wolverines? Wolverines can bring down a moose. That aside, Roscoe does settle down somewhat when we put on his collar. He’s figured out that every time we do that, food shortly follows. Honey badgers are very intelligent animals.”

  Roscoe had been collared for almost a half hour now and if he wasn’t fed soon, there’d be trouble. Bernice Unser, one of the Gunn Zoo’s volunteers, waited in the Green Room with an entire raw chicken we had brought to reward him the minute we left the set, but Ariel didn’t appear ready to bring Anteaters to Zebras to a close.

  “You mentioned enemies, Teddy. Do honey badgers have many?”

  Keeping a firm grip on my little charge, I said, “Oh, sure. Snakes. Hyenas. Lions. But even those animals usually have more sense than to mess with these guys. Honey badgers are the most fearless creatures on earth. For instance, if Roscoe here decided you represented a threat he wouldn’t be frightened, he’d just see you as lunch. Another interesting thing about honey badgers is that unlike most animals, they devour all parts of their prey—flesh, hair, skin, teeth, feathers, even bones. They’ve even been known to dig up human corpses and…”

  Ariel beamed at the camera. “And now a word from our new sponsor, San Sebastian’s very own Speaks-To-Souls. If your pet’s been acting out, his past life could be the problem. Let Speaks-To-Souls, a certified animal psychic, get to the root of the matter in the Past Life Regression Room. And look for Speaks-To-Souls and her rescued greyhounds appearing this weekend at the Gunn Landing Renaissance Faire. Huzzah!”

  Once Speaks-To-Souls’ phone number and store address flashed across the monitor, Ariel turned her attention back to the honey badger. “Ever wonder who Roscoe was in his previous life, Teddy?”

  “Attila the Hun.”

  She pulled a face of mock horror. “But Roscoe’s so cute!”

  Truth be told, with his saggy skin, pointed snout, tiny eyes, and crooked teeth, the young honey badger bore a stronger resemblance to Acting Sheriff Elvin Dade than to the Hun, but I answered, “I’m sure Roscoe’s mother thinks he’s cute.”

  As if aware he was being talked about, Roscoe flashed his teeth, which didn’t look at all cute to me. They didn’t look cute to studio staffers, either. With the exception of one camerawoman, the others moved further away from the bright Good Morning, San Sebastian set and into the darkness of the big room beyond, where office types were tapping away at computers.

  “Is southern Africa the only place where honey badgers are found, Teddy?”

  “Oh, no, Ariel,” I said to the camera’s red light. “They can be found throughout Morocco, Algeria, Iran, Turkmenistan, India, and western Asia, where they spend much of their time raiding chicken coops and small livestock pens. Needless to say, they’re not popular with the locals.”

  Roscoe flashed his teeth again and made a sound like a mewing kitten. Never a good sign.

  “Uh, Ariel, not that this hasn’t been fun, but…”

  Another mew.

  I started to rise, but it was too late. With a whip-like motion, Roscoe slipped his collar and jumped to the ground. Accompanied by a chorus of shrieks and a swiveling camera lens, he scurried off the set and into the open office area beyond. Studio staffers climbed aboard their desks, scattering Diet Coke, Fritos, apples, and Whitman’s Samplers every which way. A few grabbed Rolodexes for weapons, but fat lot of good those would do against a honey badger. He’d simply eat them.

  Ariel sat calmly amidst the chaos. “Quick little bugger, isn’t he?”

  Roscoe might be an adolescent but his teeth were still large enough to inflict a nasty bite if he got hold of someone. Still, I knew better than to chase him. The exit doors were shut, guaranteeing that the tiny terror wouldn’t make it out to the street, so at least he was safe. The staffers’ ankles? Not so much.

  Fortunately, Roscoe found the Whitman’s Sampler box, which slowed his progress. While he chewed his way through cardboard and cream fillings, I dashed into the Green Room, grabbed the raw chicken from Bernice, and ran back onto the set.

  “Roscoe! Look what I’ve got!” I waved the chicken around by its slimy legs to spread its scent through the studio.

  Roscoe paused in his gobbling and raised his pointed snout. Chocolates or chicken?

  Both, apparently.

  With the camera still trained on him, the honey badger gobbled faster, finally finishing up the last piece of cardboard. Then, ignoring the chaos around him, he wheeled around and headed for the chicken.

  I dropped the chicken to the floor and Roscoe pounced. Slurp of skin. Juice of meat. Crunch of bones. Two staffers gagged. Honey badger didn’t care, merely continued his make-the-chicken-disappear act. By the time he finished, the TV audience had been treated to a full-bore honey badger pig-out.

  But I’d managed to slip his collar back on.

  As I carted the bloated little furball off the set, I heard Ariel say, “Oh, man, I gotta get me one of those!”

  ***

  In a rare fit of mercy, Aster Edwina had given me the afternoon off, so once I returned a snoring Roscoe to his enclosure at the zoo, I headed back to Gunn Landing to talk to some boat people.

  As much as I love the Pacific Coast village, it does have a problem. The only actual buildings were old fishermens’ cottages, which had all been transformed into antique stores or restaurants, the better to entice tourists, the village’s main industry. A few houses lay within the tiny village’s limits, but they were the two-million-dollar-plusers up in Old Town, the snobbish enclave which loomed above the village proper on a steep hill. The less financially-flush of us hunkered down on cobbled-together houseboats
in the harbor.

  Today the village was packed. Several tour buses had pulled into the harbor’s parking lot, and a herd of knee-sox-wearing folks were snapping pictures of pelicans, sea lions, and otters. Normally I didn’t mind these incursions, but they were blocking the gated entrance to the boat slips. I finally managed to shove the most recalcitrant tourist aside, and made my way to the My Fancy, where Howie Fife, who had performed as the Renaissance Faire’s leper until he injured his ankle, lived with his mother on the rusty trawler she’d purchased on the cheap after its former owner’s untimely death.

  “Captain of the My Fancy, permission to come aboard?” I called from the dock.

  Ada Fife poked her head out of the hatch. “Oh, for Pete’s sake, Teddy, we don’t stand on ceremony here. Come on in.”

  A newcomer to the harbor, she had bought the rickety My Fancy not so much out of a love for the sea but because she and her son couldn’t afford landlubber housing. Fortunately, liveaboarders are a helpful lot, and her neighbors quickly taught her how to vanquish mildew, scrape barnacles, and the premium time to use the laundromat and public showers at the far end of the parking lot.

  As further proof of near-penury, Ada had done little in the way of redecorating My Fancy. The former owner’s sickly green galley table still tilted to starboard and the long dining settee remained covered in disintegrating purple Naugahyde. At least she’d thrown a bright madras scarf over the back of the settee, partially covering the bilious thing. Also new was a series of photographs taped to the cabin walls: Howie as a plump toddler, Howie as a Little Leaguer, Howie sitting on one of the stone lions that guarded the New York Public Library, a gangling Howie in a black robe and mortarboard cap holding his high school diploma. Nowhere did I see a picture of Ada herself or Howie’s father, whomever and wherever he was.

  “Coffee? Tea?” Ada asked, after I sat down across from the crossword puzzle she had been working.

  Ada Fife’s voice was as rugged as her face, a low alto perfectly suited to her large, almost masculine features. Her gray-streaked hair hadn’t seen a stylist in a long time, if ever, and I suspected that her cheap polyester slacks and blouse came from the San Sebastian Goodwill store. The elderly cockapoo snoring on the settee could have used a professional grooming, too.