The Anteater of Death (30 page)

I finished around midnight. While some of the technical terminology escaped me, the report was overwhelmingly positive.

With an exception.

One infraction was found in the zoo’s care of its animals, and that was when a keeper neglected to properly close an enclosure gate, which allowed a kit fox to escape. Fortunately, the animal had quickly been captured. The event had happened more than a year ago, before I started working at the zoo, which is why I hadn’t known about it.

The negligent keeper’s name was Jack Spence.

So
that
was why Dr. Kate refused to talk to me about the report. She’d been covering for him!

From what I’d seen, he’d had learned to be more careful, because he’d been promoted to the spectacled bears.

Other than the kit fox incident, the report was problem-free. It stated that animals’ nutritional and exercise needs were more than being met, and the medical care they received far exceeded the usual veterinary standards. The few animal deaths they investigated had occurred because of advanced age or disease, like our cheetah’s inoperable brain tumor; or from unpreventable accidents, such as the time an elderly chimp misjudged his leap from the bar on his jungle gym and fell, breaking his leg. Minor cuts, bites, scratches and scrapes didn’t count. That sort of thing was daily fodder at a zoo, and the vets had duly noted that our animals seemed less prone to getting in fights than at most zoos.

In fact, the vets had been so impressed that they had even taken the trouble to point out the care with which the groundskeepers groomed each animal’s enclosure. On the last page, they gave their summation, signed by all six veterinarians: “With its large natural enclosures, dedicated staff, and state-of-the-art medical facilities, the Gunn Zoo serves as a model for a caring, contemporary animal facility.”

I read that sentence again. Unless I was missing something, the positive tone of the report meant that the independent vet study had nothing to do with Grayson’s death. If that was true, he and Barry had died for another reason entirely.

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-TWO

I skipped my usual Monday morning walk through California Habitat and went straight to the administration building. I didn’t know exactly what I was looking for, but I was certain I’d recognize it when I found it. Unfortunately, Zorah was already there, riffling through a stack of papers on Barry’s desk.

She looked up with a guilty expression. “What are you doing here?”

“Maybe the same thing you’re doing. You don’t work Mondays.”

Placing her hand on the top page of the pile, she spread her fingers as if to hide what was underneath. “I just came in for a few minutes to finish up some paperwork. And you?”

Zorah wasn’t the paperwork type, but I let it go. “I left something in here the other day when I stopped in to see Barry about Lucy. That was before…”
Before someone murdered him.
“How’s your nephew?”

“Alejandro? I visited him again last night. Maybe getting shot will make him rethink the thrills of gangsta life.” She straightened, but her hand remained on the stack’s top page. Not enough, though, that I couldn’t read part of it. I was about to say something, when she added, “Not to change the subject or anything, but you have close ties to the Gunns, so I was wondering if you’ve heard what they plan to do about Barry’s job. He didn’t do much around here except model designer sports jackets and raise money, but at least he kept up with the paperwork.”

I pointed. “Is that an insurance claim under your hand?” The applicant’s name was Kim Markowski.

“You’re not supposed to be looking at this.”

“Neither are you. Insurance claims are confidential.”

“Somebody has to get the damned thing off this desk and back into the system! Kim told me…Oh, hell, I never could keep a secret. Apparently Kim’s ankle isn’t healing right and she needs a second operation, but so far, our insurance carrier has refused to cover it. They claim the only reason that fall in Carmel broke her ankle is because she has a pre-existing condition. The pigs.” She fumed to a stop, then resumed. “I take that back. Pigs are very nice animals.”

Here was yet another reason everyone at the zoo had wanted Zorah to be appointed director; no matter what the situation, she always sided with staff. “I didn’t know she had health problems.”

Lowering her voice, she said, “Brittle bone syndrome. She’s suffered from it since childhood. Don’t tell anyone, okay? I need to find her claim and stick it under the right nose. It’s outrageous that the insurance thugs have pulled this.”

“Kim really did break her ankle?”

“You thought she was
faking
?”

“She’s always smiling, isn’t she? When I broke my ankle, I cried for weeks.” A slight exaggeration there, since I’d sniffled only once in the emergency room.

“Wimp.” But Zorah smiled. “I’ll say this for her. That girl’s got grit. Surprising, isn’t it?”

Yes, it was. In more ways than one.

***

While attending to the day’s duties, I contrasted this new information against Kim’s standard chipper mood. When I tried to reconcile this with my suspicions it didn’t compute, which made me even more suspicious. Fortunately, I received a chance to talk to her during lunch break, when I was splitting an anchovy pizza with Zorah, who still wasn’t taking advantage of her day off, and hadn’t gone home. I’d once visited her tiny apartment, and understood.

We were gobbling down the last of the pizza when Kim crutched into the crowded employees’ lounge with a more-polished version of the anteater puppet. Apparently the puppet-making class she was taking in San Francisco had already paid off. Zookeepers are suckers for stuffed animals, so everyone surrounded it with a chorus of
oohs
and
aahs
.

She blushed prettily, and for a moment her pink face reminded me of Jeanette’s; their features were not unalike. “I’m glad you all like it,” she said. “I’ve been working really, really hard.”

My cue. “How often do you go up to San Francisco for your class?” What I actually wanted to ask her was how often she got together with Roarke Gunn, but with the other keepers present, the question would have been rude.

Unmindful of my suspicions, she chirped, “Every Tuesday afternoon. I’ve never missed.” Her bright face dulled for a moment. “Except for the class right after I broke my ankle.”

“The day I found Grayson’s body, right?”

The other keepers looked at me.

Ignoring them, I said, “I just asked because you weren’t at the fund-raiser.”

Kim’s lower lip began to tremble. “No, I…I…The car hit…”

When Zorah slipped a steadying arm around her, I noticed they were almost the same height. Strange how a pretty face and bright blond hair could disguise an Amazonian build.

Displeasure colored Zorah’s voice. “The car hit Kim on Sunday, the day before the fund-raiser. She was in a lot of pain the next day, which is why she missed both the funder
and
her puppet-making class. Now give it a rest, okay?”

Time to change tactics. “Should she be roaming around the zoo so much? It’s been, what, only three weeks since her accident, and what with…” Oops. I almost said, ‘that brittle bone condition of hers,’ but stopped myself in time.

Zorah noticed. “It’s nice you’re so concerned about her, but she’s getting along fine. Aren’t you, Kim?”

Lower lip still trembling, Kim nodded. “Oh, yes. I’m doing fine!” With an obvious effort, she controlled the lip action and summoned up a blinding smile. “Thank you for being so concerned about me.”

I felt like a heel.

After that, the day went from bad to much, much worse.

Zorah finally went home—I saw her headed out the employees’ exit an hour after lunch—and I was about to lift the latch on the Mexican gray wolves’ enclosure when I heard a familiar voice.

“Hold up there, Teddy!” Frieda Gunn, dressed in a drapey gauze blouse and pair of loose-fitting jeans that barely disguised her tummy bump, didn’t sound happy.

I relocked the gate, checked it twice, then stuffed the keys into my pocket. Where wolves are concerned, you can’t be too careful. “Is there a problem?”

Veins stood out on her slender neck and her fists were clenched. When she answered, a few zoo visitors glanced our way. “There sure the hell is! Stay away from my husband.”

My mouth dropped open. “Roarke?”

“Don’t act coy with me. I’ve been through this before!” Sensing that she had an audience, she turned and faced the visitors. “Oh, go gape at an aardvark or something!”

Not wanting to miss this free show, they stayed.

Appalled, I moved away from the gate toward an isolated area near the keepers’ trail. As soon as we’d left our gawkers behind, I said, “What’s the matter with you? I’m not having an affair with Roarke.”

“You think I’m not wise to those so-called business meetings of his up in San Francisco? How could you do this to me, after what you’ve been through yourself? You know how much I love him!”

I could hardly tell her that the other woman in her husband’s life was probably Kim, so I said the only thing possible in the circumstances. “You love your husband as much as I love Joe.”

The reference to Joe got through to her. “Then why go after…?”

“I didn’t, Frieda. What made you suspect
me
? My god, Roarke and I have known each other since we were kids. It would almost be incest!”

She pulled out a note from her jeans pocket. “You came by the
Tequila Sunrise
yesterday and said something to him I didn’t hear, and when you left, he acted really weird. And guess what? Today’s the first Monday in ages he hasn’t driven off to see his so-called ‘broker.’ There’s more. When I was sorting the laundry this morning, I found this in one of his shirts. I figured you passed it to him when you were on the boat.” She handed the note to me.

In a flowery, backward-leaning script no one would mistake for a man’s, it said, “Something’s come up and I can’t make it Monday night. Meet me at our usual place after the zoo closes. We need to talk.”

The handwriting wasn’t Kim’s. It was Miranda DiBartolo’s, the dark-haired Down Under keeper.

Instead of arguing further, I walked over to my zoo cart and picked up the clipboard where I kept my keeper’s log. “This is my handwriting.”

When Frieda studied the nasty scrawl that passed for penmanship, the anger left her face. “If you’re not the woman, who is? The note talks about the zoo and their ‘usual place’ so it has to be someone here. God, I wish I’d attended more zoo functions. The only likely candidates I remember meeting are that big blond education director, she’s pretty, and the cute little keeper who takes care of the wallabies. Oh, and the vet. She’s good-looking enough to attract Roarke.” Her eyes beseeched mine. “Is it one of them?”

Identifying the culprit wouldn’t help, so I said, “Talk with Roarke and see if you can work this thing through.” Hopefully, he loved her enough to repair their marriage now that a baby was on the way.

“You
do
know who it is, don’t you?”

All I could do was repeat my advice. “Talk to Roarke.”

Frieda glared at me for a moment, started to say something else, but stopped. Then, shoulders drooping, she turned on her heel and hurried back down the trail.

Heavy-hearted, I went back to the wolves’ enclosure and let myself into the keepers’ shed in preparation for separating Hazel, one of the less dominant females, from the pack so I could spike her afternoon treat of ground beef heart with an antibiotic. Several days earlier, in what appeared to be an unprovoked attack, Godiva had bitten the smaller female so badly she’d required several stitches. Things seemed to have settled down between the two, so we’d returned Hazel to the pack, watching the reintroduction carefully. All had gone fairly peacefully, the alpha female contenting herself to a pedestrian nip on Hazel’s rump.

Relieved by the distraction working with animals provided, I put Frieda’s unhappiness out of my mind. After inserting the medication into the beef heart, I looked through the shed’s small window and scanned the enclosure for Hazel. At first I didn’t see her, only Godiva dozing with her pups in the sunlight. Several wolves were hunkered down in the shade of a cottonwood not too far from the holding pen, but Hazel wasn’t among them, so I called her by name. That had always been enough to make her scurry over to the holding pen and snap up her doctored treat before the others caught on, but this time it didn’t happen.

At the sound of my voice, Godiva woke up. Instead of showing curiosity about my presence, she lifted her nose and scented the wind. Suddenly she flattened her ears and charged diagonally across the compound. Startled, I looked in the direction she was running and saw her mate Cisco, busily copulating with Hazel, half hidden by a stand of Great Basin sagebrush. Knowing what was about to happen, I ripped the radio off my belt and called for backup. No way would I enter that enclosure alone.

Godiva reached Hazel within seconds. At first, she seemed content to slash at her flank, driving the smaller wolf away from her busted “life-long” mate. But when Hazel made the mistake of defending herself, the alpha female deepened her attack.

All I could do was stand there, flapping a burlap feed sack, trying to distract her, screaming,
“No, Godiva! No!”

Jack Spence responded first to my radio call, followed by Miranda DiBartolo and three park rangers bearing a collection of safety boards, nets, fire extinguishers and Hot Shots—the electric prods used only in emergencies. More keepers and rangers soon arrived and began directing zoo visitors away from the enclosure. Cisco, the unfaithful male whose wandering eye had started the brawl, slunk back to his confused pups, leaving the two females to fight it out. The more timid members of the pack cowered behind a stand of boulders, howling out their terror.

Now that backup had arrived, I grabbed my safety board and catch pole—a long pole with a loop of rope at the end—and entered the enclosure with the rangers. Rank smells of urine and fear enveloped us as we approached the viciously fighting females. Godiva’s snarls were terrible as she ground her teeth into Hazel’s neck, but more horrible still were the smaller wolf’s screams, which sounded heartbreakingly human.