Marked Fur Murder (26 page)

That part of my brain that keeps track of puns, alliteration, and rhymes noted what he'd just said, and the part of me that worked my mouth kept it shut.

“This is not wise. This will not do. Your dog with mine must not screw,” Gorshkov said.

No, he didn't,
my brain silently replied.
That's ridiculous
.

“Rolling around in dead things that stink? That's not proper canine behavior, I think. Maybe for a schnauzer, an Alsation or hound, but not for a dog that's celebrity-bound. A husky or poodle could frolic that way, but my Border collie must not go astray. She's destined for much better things, as you know, so gallivanting with roadkill is not apropos. She's not an Airedale, a basenji or pug, she's not a sheepdog with a coat like a rug. She doesn't scare folks like a snarling rottweiler; her art sparks ideas, she's a real thought-riler. Her health and well-being are all I desire … so stay away or I'll kill you. And set the body on fire.”

I stared at him. He stared back, calmly. And then he spun around, opened the door, and left.

My brain was totally stalled. I tried to get it going, but it just sputtered a few times and refused to do anything else. My eyelids still worked, so I blinked them a few times to reestablish a feeling of control. My eyebrows were stuck at the highest possible setting.

“What. The. Farfegnugen,” I said at last. “That was … that was…”

*   *   *

said Tango.

I'd gone back to my office to regroup. Not much surprises me and even less rattles me, but having my life threatened by a poem had accomplished both. Which was, I realized, exactly what it was supposed to do.

Whiskey was gone but Tango was there when I came back. “It's kind of brilliant,” I said, stroking Tango's glossy fur. She was curled up in my lap while I tapped away at my laptop's keyboard.

I have a rather impressive memory—in my job, you have to—and I'd just finished reciting the whole ditty for Tango as I typed it up.

“Not the poem itself—the fact that he used it to deliver a threat.”

“No, threats are supposed to make you back off—the fear is only a means to an end. What Gorshkov did was twofold: He made me doubt his sanity—guaranteed to provoke caution in somebody as order-oriented as I am—and provided himself with plausible deniability. Who's going to believe he threatened me in rhyme? It just makes me look like a flake—so much so that I probably won't tell anyone, which isolates me and increases my fear. Oh, he's
good
.”

“Okay, also a possibility,” I admitted. “Which means he just might be serious about the whole post-murder arson thing. I should really make sure Whiskey's up to speed—did he say where he was going?”

“Does he still stink? I did my best to scrub the dead badger off.”

I gave her a look. Specifically, Foxtrot Look #7, the
My Animal Companions Are Pulling on One of My Lower Appendages for Their Amusement
. “The aroma of wet dog is—no, no, I'm not going to repeat that statement. But I would like an explanation. Well, maybe
like
isn't the right word.”

always
right, of course, but it's nice to have the principle demonstrated.>

“So your belief system is buttressed by an offensive odor?”

“I wouldn't dare.”

“Um … I know I shouldn't ask this, but—what if it's never caught?”

She glared up at me from my lap, then bolted with that sudden burst of speed cats can summon at will. She bounded over to the open crack of the door and stopped, looking back at me.
will
be caught one day. Oh, yes, it will.>

And then she slunk through the doorway and disappeared. I shook my head and wondered what cats had worshipped before the invention of Laser Pointers. Flashlights, maybe? And what about before that?

Whiskey interrupted my thoughts by sticking his nose through the space Tango had just occupied. [I caught the tail end of that. Are you deliberately trying to antagonize her or just unlucky?]

“I think I just attract abuse, frankly.” I told him what had transpired in Gorshkov's room.

When I was done, Whiskey growled—both in my head and aloud. [A threat conveyed through rhyme is still a threat. Perhaps we should threaten him in return.]

“With what? Iambic pentameter?”

[I was thinking along more direct lines.]

“I think rolling around on rotting flesh has riled up a few too many of your primal instincts, pal. How about we ignore the overblown threats and stick to catching an actual killer, okay?”

[Hmmph. I suppose. What avenue of investigation should we pursue next?]

I sighed. I'd been putting it off, but I knew I had to face it sooner or later. “I was thinking it's about time we had a little talk with Keene about his late-night activities. And his hair dryer.”

 

C
HAPTER
S
IXTEEN

“Hullo, Foxtrot,” Keene said. He was in the billiards room, playing against Oscar. “Care for a game?”

“Not right now, thanks. But I would like a word.”

“Mamihlapinatapei,” said Oscar. He leaned over the table, lining up his shot carefully. “A wordless yet meaningful look shared between two people who desire each other but are both reluctant to initiate proceedings.”

Keene looked at me. I looked at him. Both of us grinned and looked away again.

“I meant a word with Keene,” I clarified. “Though, as far as words go, that one's pretty good. Kind of hard to pronounce, though.”

Oscar sighed and put his cue down on the table. “Very well, Foxtrot. I shall leave you two alone, to do … whatever it is you two do. If only there were a word for it…” He strolled out of the room, humming something I couldn't quite identify.

“So what can I do for you?” Keene asked, leaning against the billiards table. “Got a dragon needs slaying?”

That was uncomfortably close to the truth—but I was about to yank him a whole lot closer to an even less comfortable one.

“I know you slept with Anna,” I said.

He stared at me with those big, long-lashed puppy eyes, then looked away. “Ah. Well, I won't insult your intelligence by denying it. Yes, I did. Though I'm not sure why you would care.”

“I care because she died, Keene. And because I know what your hair dryer looks like.”

“My what?” Now he looked confused. “You mean you've seen it? Excellent. I can't find the bloody thing anywhere.”

“I'm not the one who found it. The police did—in the swimming pool.”

“But—oh. You mean
that's
—I thought she drowned.”

“She did,” I said. “The police think it was something called electric shock drowning, which happens when an electric current in water paralyzes a swimmer.”

He shook his head vehemently. “What, from
my
missing appliance? I suppose Anna could have nicked it on her way out the door—I was, sad to say, just a wee bit unconscious at that point. But what does that mean? Was it an accident? Or did she—you know … top herself?”

“We don't know exactly what happened,” I said truthfully. “But I'm doing my best to find out.”

He nodded. “If anyone can, you can, Trot. I mean that.” He hesitated. “But there's something you should know. About me and Anna, I mean.”

“You don't have to justify yourself to me, Keene.”

He smiled. “Wouldn't dream of it. No, I'm just a big old man-slut with poor impulse control—that's pretty much a given. I'm talking about Anna, and why she decided to … you know. With me.”

“Let's see. Because she'd just learned her husband had cheated on her, and you're a great big man-slut?”

“No. It was because of a song I wrote. ‘Midnight Melody.' It was their song, you see. Now she can't hear it without her heart breaking. I know what that's like—everybody does, I think. I told her I was sorry, and asked if there was anything I could do. She told me she wanted to change what that song meant to her, and there was only one way she could think of to do that.”

He crossed his arms, looking more like he was hugging himself than anything else. His eyes were sad.

“Wow,” I said. “That has to be one of the best pickup lines I have ever heard.”

“I know,” he said. “I've heard them all, and that one is clearly on the top of the heap. What could I do? I let her drag me off to bed and did my best to be…”

“Memorable?”

“That's it. So don't think too badly of me, okay? She knew what she needed right then, and I've always found it hard to turn away someone in pain. So I didn't.”

“Good for you,” I said, and I meant it.

“Electric shock drowning, huh? I notice you said the police think that, not you. What do you think really happened?”

“Like I said, I don't know. But by now, I bet the coroner does.”

*   *   *

Harriet Tilford's work voice mail told me she wasn't in today. However, something I heard in the background of her message gave me an idea, and I decided to drive into town to the coroner's office, her place of employment, anyway. And I took Tango with me.

“Now remember,” I told her as we pulled into the parking lot. “We need a cooperative ally, not a terrified prisoner, okay?”

She gave me a relaxed glance from where she sprawled on the passenger seat.

“You look like a cat,” I muttered as I turned off the engine.

“It means you're in the habit of ignoring what I tell you and doing whatever you want.”

“Exactly.”

The building the Hartville coroner's office was in was also the town hall, which wasn't surprising considering Hartville's size. It was a three-story brick structure that tried for stately but barely managed county. We went up the worn stone steps, through the front door, and into a lobby with a signboard and a marble staircase to one side. There was a short hallway to the left, which from prior experience I knew held the restrooms, a storage closet, and the coroner's office at the very end.

When Tango and I got there I tried the door: locked. I tried knocking, but nobody answered—well, nobody human, anyway.

Squawk!

Tango lowered her head in that way cats have when they spot a bird.

“Well, we'll just have to listen really closely. I need to find out if the autopsy found anything unusual about Anna's death, and I can't wait for Harriet. Besides, she'll clam up on me if the coroner found anything that points to murder. She's helpful, but she's not stupid.”

“Don't be so negative,” I whispered. “Birds have great memories, especially for sounds. Now go on, get her attention.”

I thought about Ben and how upset he was to learn he'd gotten his job through his father's influence. “Yeah, birds have definite ego issues. So this is how I want to handle this…”

I told Tango what I had in mind, and she agreed it was probably the best approach to take. She cleared her throat, then warbled in Parakeet the words I whispered to her telepathically:

“Hey there yourself, beautiful,” Tango translated. “Where are you and why aren't you in here with me? Also, what do you look like?”

Perfect.

“Me? My name is Rudolfo, and I'm a full-blooded barred parakeet from Caracas, baby. My plumage makes sunsets weep and my voice brings the stars out at night. I have the wingspan of an airplane and the talons of an eagle. But enough about me—what about you?”

“That could be—though the same question has been asked of me, many times. I think sometimes the woman who takes care of me may have something wrong with her brain.”