Night Kill (15 page)

“I’m still stunned at the idea of Wallace having a girlfriend.”

“Janet wasn’t the only one, but none of them worked out. Can’t seem to keep a woman happy. Mr. Crandall could teach him a thing or two about that.” She gave a knowing nod.

“That old goat? He’s married, been married for a hundred years.”

“Sure, he’s got this crabby wife in a wheelchair. Maybe he found somebody more fun.”

“Like you?”

“God, no!” Jackie looked around nervously, and gathered herself to go. She saw Hap and Denny coming in, changed her mind and settled back. She had my burglary to share.

I stood up to go back to work. Jackie had given me plenty to think about.

“You got good locks on your house?” she asked.

“Yeah, my dad put better ones on, but I’ve got to move. Look, don’t tell Denny about the housebreaking, or he’ll drive me crazy with fifty theories.”

“He’ll find out. Everybody at Finley knows everything eventually.”

I snorted. “I thought so, too, but no one can tell me the important stuff. Like why Rick came here the night he died.”

Jackie started digging around in her black purse for her lighter. “I got a theory.” She looked at me sidelong.

“Yeah? I could use a theory.”

“You won’t like it much.”

Hap and Denny were still in line ordering food.

“Try me.”

“Here goes,” she said, leaning back in her chair. “You two break up. There he is, good looking, straight, maybe not going to be married much longer, right?”

“Jackie, we were separated for one week. One week.”

“Yeah, yeah,” she went on, ignoring the warning rattle in my voice. “So anyway, why would he come here except to meet someone? He came to meet a woman. That’s what I think.”

Calm vanished in an eye blink, swamped by a caustic mix of anger and grief. “And exactly who might that be?”

Jackie dropped her gaze. “It wouldn’t be right to toss names around. He was friendly with plenty of women.”

“Meaning you don’t have any idea. Good, because you’re right. I don’t much like your theory. I think it’s a crock of shit.”

“Well, you’re the one that asked…”

I was gone, striding fast away from more ugliness about Rick. Served me right for pawing through Jackie’s opinions and observations. From her packrat midden of gossip, a rattlesnake had struck. Marcie and the bartender had persuaded me that Rick wasn’t a lying jerk, but Jackie had contributed a whole new dimension of betrayal. My stomach lurched and my eyes blurred. I took a shaky breath. Jackie’s fantasies had to be the product of an overactive imagination and a boring job. But part of me was sick—certain that the worst had to be the most true.

How many ways, exactly, could Rick break my heart? One more? Yes indeed, they certainly could take that away from me.

I tried to focus as I scrubbed and hosed out the pond in the World of Birds, distraught but still wary of all things electrical. Calvin worked on the wire mesh at the other end of the exhibit. He hadn’t let me do anything alone all day. It wasn’t clear whether he feared another accident or he didn’t trust my work. He would no doubt be very pleased to swap me back for Arnie.

Jackie’s lurid scenario might be right, no matter how painful. No point in asking questions if I couldn’t face up to the answers. I hooked up the hose and started rinsing the pond.

If only I could ask the lions what had happened. They probably wouldn’t tell me, although Rajah might. What woman could it possibly have been, anyway? Too late, I remembered to put the little screen back over the drain to catch leaves and feathers.

Wallace marched into the aviary as Calvin was squatting by the drain poking at it scientifically. He kept a long piece of coat-hanger wire hidden in the exhibit for just such problems. I’d already tried that and failed, which meant I’d had to ask for help. I was standing around since I couldn’t finish cleaning until the drain was cleared, and it felt cowardly to leave and do something useful elsewhere.

“L.A.’s ready for those Africans,” Wallace announced without preamble. “Took weeks to get off their dime, and now they want the birds yesterday.”

Dr. Dawson must have reminded him about the excess penguins. Wallace waited to see whether Calvin would go for this plan.

“Fine,” grunted Calvin, still crouching and focused on the drain. “When?”

“Soon as Jackie can make the arrangements.” He shifted toward the exit, done. “L.A.’s just going to hold them for that new aquarium opening up.”

Calvin looked up at him. “Somebody’s got to go with them.”

Wallace paused. “I don’t see why. The airlines know what they’re doing.”

Calvin’s knees creaked as he got to his feet. A couple of decades older, two inches shorter, and many pounds lighter, he faced Wallace like an old lion who’d seen everything. They looked equally matched to me.

“Airlines make mistakes,” Calvin said, “and we’d never know about it until the birds turned up dead in Minnesota or somewheres. Somebody’s got to see they get there all right.”

Wallace looked stubborn. “I don’t have the budget to ship keepers all over the country. Or pay for hotels and meals.”

“Aren’t they paying for these birds? Seems like we could use some of that.”

Wallace shifted his weight impatiently. “Day trip only, no hotel.”

“Day trip’s fine. Send Arnie. I hate travel.” Calvin got back on his knees and reached deep into the drain, pulling out a soggy handful of leaves.

Wallace looked peeved. “I need Arnie.” He stared at Calvin’s back for a moment, then turned to me. “You’re going. You can interview for that carnivore keeper job. I’ll set it up.”

My brain locked up. “Not a good time.” I searched for reasons. “My house was broken into last weekend and he might come back. I’ve got the dogs. I…I…” I didn’t want to interview for that job—the beginning of a greased slide out of Finley Zoo. And I didn’t want to be pulled off the trail of understanding Rick’s last night.

Calvin’s face seemed to say, “Safe to send her. She can’t screw this up.”

“Friday if Jackie can get the reservation,” Wallace said, ignoring my sputters. “L.A. people will meet you at the airport.” He hesitated on his way out. “I’m not paying overtime for this,” he said over his shoulder.

Calvin went back to work with the piece of wire.

“Got it!” he said. Hooked on the end of the coat hanger was a broken necklace made of plastic beads, still recognizably pink and purple. Something plastic dangled from it, dripping wet feathers. A tiny purple dragon with big eyes. “Some little girl’s probably cryin’ for this,” he said softly.

“It looks like it’s been there a while.” Not my fault the drain clogged. Not entirely. I put the screen back in place and finished up the hosing.

Wallace needed feckless Arnie. He didn’t need me.

Chapter Thirteen

Early Friday I was at the zoo in civilian clothes with a novel in my backpack, loading two portable animal kennels into my truck. A penguin shuffled nervously inside each kennel while Calvin fussed nervously outside. He gave me advice on plane trips, several emergency contact numbers, and pounds of paper to hand off to the Los Angeles Zoo keepers. He reviewed each page with me in detail, complete instructions for nurturing these particular birds.

At last the penguins and I escaped to Interstate 205, aimed south toward Portland International Airport, sharing the long curving bridge across the Columbia River with commuter traffic.

The night before I’d dropped Winnie and Range at my parents since I’d be back late. The folks both thought a free plane trip was a grand bonus. I hadn’t explained that it was a clear signal that my boss saw me as surplus at best and a liability at worst. Whatever. It would be cool to see the Los Angeles Zoo. This was an adventure, not a trial run at exile.

Sure it was.

But truly, the new bridge, “new” as of 1983, felt wide and open, free of the struts overhead that bound the ninety-year-old Interstate 5 Bridge I usually took to Portland. Trees in splashy fall dress dotted the riverbanks. A seagull drifted across six lanes, wings set at the perfect, effortless angle. I really could shrug off my troubles. So long, gray skies and unanswerable questions; hello, California sunshine.

In good time my truck was in long-term parking at the Portland airport and the penguins were in the hands of the airline, to be tucked somewhere in the plane where they wouldn’t freeze. African penguins are from the southern tip of Africa, not Antarctica, and don’t take well to frost, especially when they are used to indoor living.

I punched in a code at the ticket kiosk to get my boarding pass and discovered I was going to Burbank, not Los Angeles. Close enough. On the way to the security line, a sign outside Tina’s Lounge and Grill assured me that “there is always a reason to have a drink at the airport.” Not the best omen. My positive attitude faltered.

Security personnel scrutinized an X-ray of my backpack, shoes, and belt, and waved me through with indifference.

I had requested a window seat so I could survey the West Coast from above, a view I hadn’t seen since my parents took me to Disneyland years ago. A woman in a black pantsuit took the aisle seat and shoved a briefcase under the empty middle seat, ignoring me. Once everyone had wrestled luggage into the overhead bins and obediently fastened their seat belts, the plane turned toward open space and stopped. It sat and roared to itself for a moment, then floundered down the runway like a loon striding and flapping on a lake surface to gain enough speed for takeoff. As the ground receded, it came to me that this was a heavy hunk of metal, and we are not a species meant to fly.

The plane steadied itself as it leveled out. My row mate hauled out her briefcase, fired up a little computer, and got to work. I dared to peek out the window. Far below a silvery river was a thread among uneven dark forests. Snow frosted the hills, and clear cuts made patterns like a badly designed quilt thrown over the entire western half of the state. Clouds hovered at eye level and below, gray lumps of thick fog.

The clouds closed in to make a tight visual barrier stretching flat and monotonous in all directions. I pulled the novel my mother had provided out of the backpack. The jaguar in the title turned out to be a metaphor and the lead character was mean-spirited to friends and enemies alike. The airline magazine celebrated vacations and promoted gadgets I could never afford, and the crossword puzzle stumped me on a German river, then on Thai currency. I put it away and looked around, jumpy and impatient. Everyone else seemed calm. Bored, even.

A flight attendant, a cheerful woman about my own age, offered coffee. Weak, but hot and welcome. The oatmeal breakfast bar had a lot in common with monkey chow, without the crunch.

The plane droned on, chewing through a dull, thick fog. The view stopped a dozen feet outside the window. My row mate stayed focused on her laptop. I was caffeinated, safe, and immobilized. Thoughtful reflection was inescapable.

What would the wasteland of my life look like from 30,000 feet? I flinched away from the emotional Grand Canyon named Rick that dominated the landscape, then dragged myself back. Marcie believed putting words around things gave them handles.

Anger…grief…humiliation…self-doubt…abandonment…loss loss loss…

And bewilderment. What was Rick + Iris all about? Why did Rick die the way he did?

Answers were not forthcoming.

As for the rest of my pathetic little life—

Evicted from Felines, faltering in my new role at Birds, urged by the boss to take a job elsewhere. An accident-prone incompetent. No place felt safe—not my disaster of a house, not my job.

If putting words to feelings gave them handles, the handles were sharp-edged and red-hot. I sank in my seat, wishing codeine was available for wounds of the heart and that caffeine could counter emotional exhaustion.

So many questions without answers. I wasn’t good at this. Despite asking other keepers and wondering hard, I’d learned no more than I knew the day Rick died. Baldly stated, he had gotten drunk an hour or two after promising to stop and stumbled over the guardrail into the lion moat and to his death. Dr. Dawson had to be right, alcohol addiction was powerful. But today, that simple explanation didn’t feel right. Where did he go to drink? Would he really switch to whiskey so that he could keep his word about not drinking beer? I had to concede that was too twisty and tricky for Rick.

Friends who should be saner and more sensible than I remained convinced it was an accident.

Like Raj getting out was an accident. The little squeak of the cat door being raised…

Like the heat lamp accident. That one stank of booby trap—I didn’t buy the teenage vandal theory. Calvin hadn’t warmed to me as a coworker, but he simply wasn’t vindictive. I couldn’t believe he’d done it.

Who was the booby to be trapped? It could have been Calvin just as well as me. Whoever had set it was willing to risk hitting the wrong target. Was it meant to kill or only to frighten? A reckless prank?

Why would anyone have it in for Calvin? Nothing much had changed there for years. He took care of Birds and kept to himself. He and Wallace didn’t get along, but according to Jackie, that was of several years’ standing.

I was what had changed in Calvin’s world. I was displacing Arnie, insisting someone had let Raj out on me, asking about Rick’s death.

Arnie as the perpetrator, wanting Birds back? Arnie hadn’t the wits or the initiative to set a clever trap.

Who, then? And why?

Too many accidents. It didn’t add up. Something was going on.

I stared unfocused at the seatback in front of my face. Intuition struggled through acid sorrow and weary uncertainty to the surface and hardened into conviction.

Someone had killed Rick and was trying to kill me to hide it.

“Flying scare you?”

I blinked at the businesswoman across the empty middle seat. I must have made a noise.

“Flying is much safer than driving.” She smiled in sympathy.

I nodded vaguely. “I’ll be fine.”

I’d been too angry and sad, too rattled by accidents and change, to listen to fitful whispers from my subconscious. Stilled by a seat belt and the unvarying rumble of jet engines, I opened to another version of Rick’s last night. The blood alcohol level was a lab mistake or had been faked. He hadn’t been at the zoo to meet another woman, but for an innocent work-related matter. And someone, on purpose or by accident, had killed him.