Marked Fur Murder

 

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C
HAPTER
O
NE

You can't kill a Thunderbird with lightning.

That's what I desperately wanted to tell the investigating detective, a square-shouldered black man with a neatly trimmed beard at odds with his tangle of dreadlocks. His name was Officer Forrester, he was a new hire for the Hartville Police Force, and he was currently questioning me—Deidre Foxtrot Lancaster—as part of a homicide investigation.

It shouldn't even have needed to be stated. It should have been glaringly obvious that a supernatural being descended from an ancient Indian tribe of weather spirits—spirits that tossed around thunderbolts like they were baseballs—would sneer at a few hundred volts of house current.

But that was in my world, a decidedly weird place stocked with ghost pets, reincarnated cats, telepathic canines, and the occasional animal deity. Lieutenant Forrester's day-to-day existence was no doubt a bit more mundane; the only Thunderbirds he dealt with were the kind either involved in fender-benders or reported stolen.

Forrester and I were not hunched over a scarred wooden table in a windowless, locked room for our interrogation, either; no, we were seated in a large, comfortable space lit by a wall made of glass, both of us sunk into oversized beanbag chairs of neon orange and pink. ZZ was redecorating again.

“Sorry about the chairs,” I said for the third time. I don't normally repeat myself, but I was kind of in shock. “My boss doesn't just embrace change, she kisses it. With tongue.”

That rough, raspy voice was Tango. She was the black-and-white tuxedo cat currently curled up and purring in my lap. She and I could communicate just by thinking—

[Don't be absurd, Tango. He's obviously a professional, and as such will shortly eliminate Foxtrot as a suspect.]

—and those deep, cultured tones belonged to Whiskey, the dog lying at my feet. He was an Australian cattle dog (though his accent was British), sometimes known as a blue heeler, and looked a little like two dogs smushed together: His chest and legs resembled those of a golden retriever, while his upper half was speckled black, white, and gray. One of his eyes was blue and the other one was brown, which added to the effect.

He was also—technically—dead. Looked, smelled, and felt like an ordinary dog, but actually made of ectoplasm. That's what allowed him to shift his shape into any other breed of dog, of any size or shape. He could communicate with me telepathically, too.

Get that look off your face. I am
not
crazy.

My
life,
however … that's pretty much nuts. Aside from the ghost dog and the reincarnated cat (did I forget to mention that part? Life number seven, in case you were wondering), there was also what I did for a living. And the non-living, I guess.

Officer Forrester and I were in the sitting room of the Zoransky mansion, situated on the Zoransky estate, which abuts one of the largest pet cemeteries in the continental United States. The estate was home to my boss, Zelda Zoransky, her son, Oscar, and a private zoo that cares for animals who need it. I was ZZ's administrative assistant, which meant I handled not only all the day-to-day details of the estate but also the minutiae of ZZ's hobbies and interests, which were legion.

Oh, and I looked after the graveyard, too.

Not the grounds themselves—that was done by a sixties survivor named Cooper—but all the animal souls within. And by “look after,” I mean protect from danger. The Great Crossroads was a mystical nexus where dead pets could leave their respective afterlives via one grave and hop, swim, trot, or crawl to the human one via another. It was sometimes called the Rainbow Bridge, but there was no actual bridge involved—just a constant swarm of the furry, scaly, or feathered formerly-alive on their way to visit the humans who loved them in this life and now love them in another. Love, it turns out, beats death.

None of which had much to do with my conversation with Officer Forrester, though. That was mostly about the body in the swimming pool.

Forrester finished writing something down on his notepad, looked up, and smiled. “All right, I think I've got everything I need about the deceased and how the body was discovered. I'd like to ask you a few questions about the people currently staying in the house. You said Ms. Zoransky is hosting a saloon?”

I nodded, then knocked back a huge gulp of Irish breakfast tea from my Three Investigators mug. “Salon. It's an old Victorian tradition—get a bunch of interesting personalities together to engage in lively discussion. ZZ invites all sorts of people to stay here, where they can eat and drink and generally indulge themselves. The amenities of the estate are provided free of charge, the only rule being that everyone has to show up for supper. She likes a nice mix of politics, popular entertainers, and science, usually.”

“So I wasn't imagining things—that really
was
Keene?”

I nodded. “Our semi-resident rock star, yeah. He likes it here, comes back a lot. He's always an interesting dinner guest, so ZZ's given him a standing invitation.” I sounded fine—calm and in control—but that was more out of sheer habit than anything else. When I'm in crisis mode, you could blow up a car fifty feet away and I'd have noted the make and model before all the wreckage had hit the ground. It has nothing to do with being brave, just years of training.

But that wasn't how I felt. Inside, I was screaming.

“Who else?” Forrester asked.

“Let's see. Teresa Firstcharger. She's an aboriginal rights activist. She contacted ZZ and asked if she could attend.”

“Is that usual? People asking to attend?”

“Sure. Her salons are very popular. But the main reason ZZ said yes was because Teresa had some influential friends vouch for her. She's a rock star in the activist world, gets a lot of celebrities to endorse her cause. Johnny Depp is one of her supporters. But she has kind of a reputation, too.”

Forrester tapped his pen against his knee. “What sort of reputation?”

“Well, she rubs elbows with a lot of rich and famous people. And some people claim she's
all
elbows.”

“Any truth to that?”

I shrugged. “Some. Unfortunately, one of her elbowees was also one of our guests. Who was here with his wife.”

“Things got ugly?'

“Things got deadly. You saw what we fished out of the pool.” It was a glib and heartless thing to say, but I'm one of those people who use humor to deal with pain. Right then, I was doing my best to put a wall of bad jokes topped with razor-sharp wit around my feelings so I could keep functioning; on the other side of that wall was a whole lot of hurt. From the look on Forrester's face, I'm guessing he'd encountered this kind of reaction before.

“Uh-huh,” he said. “So was there some sort of confrontation?”

“You could say that. The Metcalfes were talking in the lounge when Teresa arrived. She walked right up and—well, she was very blunt. Told him he could do better and she should get lost. I thought there was going to be a fistfight.”

“How did Mr. Metcalfe take it?”

“He was embarrassed and angry. His wife was … just angry.”

“All right. Who else is a guest?”

“Let's see. Have you heard of Theodora Bonkle?”

“I'm afraid not.”

“She's an author. Writes mysteries and children's books; I'm a fan, and so is ZZ. Theodora's an interesting person in her own right, too.”

Forrester glanced at his pad, scribbled something down. “Oh? How so?”

“Well, the fact that she used to be a he is hardly worth mentioning when compared with the rest of her life. Theodora suffers from schizophrenia, which led to her being hospitalized at one point. She was placed on medication to help control her hallucinations, which worked—but as it turned out, the drugs blunted her creativity so much she couldn't write. She mounted a legal challenge to be taken off them for specific periods of time, and won.”

Forrester frowned. “So the court agreed it's her right to be crazy?”

“Only now and then. And yes, this is one of the thens.”

“Okay … anybody else?”

“Dr. Efram Fimsby. He's an exotic meteorologist, an expert on unusual weather patterns. Climate change is one of ZZ's current obsessions, so he's here to talk about global warming and storm systems and things like that. Like Theodora, it's his first time here. Oh, and Rustam Gorshkov. He's an animal psychic.”

Forrester raised his eyebrows. “He reads animals' minds?”

reads
a mind, Einstein,>
Tango remarked.

[And if it were,] Whiskey added, [yours would undoubtedly be a softcover. You do understand the inherent pointlessness in telling someone they can't read your mind by making a telepathic comment they can't hear?]

Tango yawned and stretched, extending one paw as far as she could and stretching her toes so the claws popped out.

“That's what Mr. Gorshkov claims,” I said. “But it's a little more complicated than that. See, he has a dog that paints.”

“A dog that paints.”

“Yes. He says it's a collaboration—he stands a short distance away and concentrates, and the dog paints what he tells her to.”

“Oooookay…”

I tried for another gulp of tea, but it was empty. I set the mug down on the floor, regretfully. “And that's about it. I've already given you a list of the household staff, and who was here last night.”

He nodded. “Yes, thank you. You're very organized. There's one more thing before you go, though.”

I knew what he was going to ask, of course.

[If he didn't ask, it would mean he was incompetent.]

Forrester looked up from his notes and made eye contact with me. “What exactly was your relationship with the victim?”