Marked Fur Murder (3 page)

[Ah.
Now
we're getting somewhere.]

“What did she ask your advice about, Dr. Fimsby?”

“Her circumstances, Foxtrot. She'd recently undergone a rather significant change in her life, and was now worried about the consequences. So much so she thought someone might try to do her harm.”

“And now she's dead. I understand you trying to protect her privacy, but—”

“It's not her I'm trying to protect, Foxtrot. It's her brother. You see, I'm worried that whoever killed her will try to kill him, too.”

 

C
HAPTER
T
WO

I stared at Fimsby for a second before replying. “And what,” I said carefully, “makes you think she was murdered?”

“Because they shared a secret, Foxtrot. One I'm afraid I can't reveal. But Anna told me about you and Ben, which is why I'm telling you this now. You need to convince him that he's in danger.”

“Wait. This is all too murky and mysterious for me. Why would Anna even confide in you in the first place?”

“We didn't meet here by chance, Foxtrot. Did you know she'd recently been to Australia? She contacted me there, asked me some very odd questions. I helped her, as best I could, and she convinced me to come here to meet with her brother, as well.”

“But—ZZ was the one who invited you.”

Fimsby looked uncomfortable. “We enlisted her aid as a ruse. She disliked lying to you, but we persuaded her it was in everyone's best interest. I'm sure she feels terrible, now.”

“I'm sure she does. She's retreated to her bedroom and won't talk to anyone.”

“Not even you?”

“I haven't tried yet. When ZZ says she wants to be alone, she means it.”

While true enough, that had more to do with respecting my boss's wishes than any physical limitations. If it was important enough, I could reach ZZ by just pounding on her door and yelling—but it would take a dire emergency for me to resort to those measures, and this was hardly that.

But whether or not to bother ZZ was the least of my problems.

[Foxtrot. Do you think it's possible Fimsby is aware that Anna and Ben are Thunderbirds?]

I don't know, Whiskey. Fimsby's a specialist in exotic weather patterns. He's from Australia. When Anna's abilities first manifested, she ran for the biggest, emptiest place she could think of, the Australian outback. And Fimsby said she'd come to him for advice on an unusual problem …

[But that doesn't mean he
knows
. And even if he does, he doesn't know that you know.]

I know. Which means that admitting I know is a big no-no, in case what he knows isn't what I think he knows. You know?

[Is it just me, or has that word lost all meaning?]

“While I understand the need to respect Anna's privacy,” I said, “we're discussing this while she's on the way to the coroner. If it's true that Ben's life is also in danger, then I think you need to be a little more forthcoming.”

I gave him my best Shondra-stare, locking eyes and projecting resolve. He stared back, his features composed but stern.

[Don't back down, Foxtrot. Think fierce thoughts—that's the key to winning a staredown.]

I did my best. I thought about Vikings rushing into battle waving their swords in the air. I thought about Zulus charging into the fray with their spears held aloft. I thought about Maori warriors making menacing faces as they bellowed at their foes.

The last one was a mistake, though. Maoris think sticking their tongues out makes them look scary, and they cover their faces with intricate tattoos that in my overstressed imagination looked more like the face of a dad who had fallen asleep in the presence of a toddler with a Magic Marker. Totally ruined my staredown mojo.

“I wish that I could,” Fimsby said at last. “But it's not my place. I promised Anna I would tell no one, and I must honor that promise even in light of her death. If you knew the secret, you would understand.”

He paused. I waited. After a moment, he continued. “Please, just tell Ben what I've told you. I don't want to approach him directly.”

“Why not?”

“We are not the only ones involved, Foxtrot. Discretion is called for.”

[He smells of fear. Whatever he's talking about, he's genuinely afraid.]

Whiskey, the nose that always knows. “I'll let him know.”

“Thank you. And Foxtrot—tell him I'm sorry for his loss. The death of a sibling is always devastating.”

I nodded. “Excuse me. We'll talk more later.”

“Certainly.”

Whiskey and I left.

As soon as we were out of earshot, I said, “He doesn't know I know.”

[Are you sure?]

“Yes. That long pause? He was hoping I'd admit I was in the loop. I did my best to seem clueless instead. Think he bought it?”

[I can smell fear, not satisfaction, so I have no idea. However, you do feign innocence quite convincingly.]

“Thanks. I'll call on you as a character witness at my trial, okay?”

[And why would you be on trial?]

I looked down at him, opened my eyes as wide as they could go, and blinked once. “Golly, mister. I have no idea. I really, really, don't.”

[I'll send you a cake with a file in it. It's your only hope.]

“Didn't know dogs could bake.”

[We can't. You're doomed.]

We were on our way to talk to Ben—mysterious warnings about murder and family secrets tend to jump right to the top of my to-do list—when we were interrupted by a very distinctive noise: a rhythmic grunting. Were this coming from the gym, the zoo, or even one of the bedrooms, I would have ignored it—but the sound was emanating from the breakfast nook just off the front hall. I poked my head in to see what was making it, and found Miss Theodora Bonkle.

Miss, not Ms., by her own insistence. Approximate age, mid-forties. Dressed in a peasant frock, sturdy walking shoes, and a loose-fitting white blouse. Brown, frizzy hair pulled back in a sensible bun. A wide, rugged face wearing a tad too much makeup and thick, tortoiseshell glasses.

Muscular, tattooed arms, currently pumping iron.

She was sitting on a wooden kitchen chair, brow furrowed in concentration, one manicured hand hefting a shiny silver barbell up and down. It was a bit incongruous, like finding Popeye in drag.

She noticed me and smiled, perspiration running down her face. “Oh! Hello, dear. I was just getting in a few reps before indulging in a cup of tea. Would you care to join me?”

“In the tea, sure. You know we have a fully equipped gym, don't you?”

Theodora put down the barbell, picked up a napkin, and dabbed at her face. “Oh, I know, dear. But lifting weights helps me think; it oxygenates the blood, giving brain cells that extra little boost they sometimes need. Add a little caffeine, and
voil
à
! A recipe for inspiration.”

“Sounds good to me,” I said. I sat down, noting that Theodora already had two cups and a teapot in a cozy on the table before her. “Are you expecting company?”

“Not exactly.” She had a slightly breathy, soft voice that seemed to be from another century. “Considering the parameters of this gathering, I figured that anyone who happened by was fair game. I find that the only thing better at stimulating creativity than tea and exercise is a good conversation.”

I laughed and sat down. “Well, I'm glad to see you're embracing the spirit of the event.”

Whiskey stayed on his feet, his head cocked as he studied Theodora. “Hello, sweetie,” Theodora said. She put out her hand, and Whiskey sniffed it. “How are you? Some of my friends aren't fond of dogs, but I certainly am.”

[Hmmm. She smells of rabbit.]

She probably owns one.
In fact, Theodora Bonkle owned at least one, though not in the physical sense; one of her more famous creations was a character named Doc Wabbit, a trickster who spent as much time getting into trouble as he did solving mysteries. His partner was a kind and gentle soul named Very British Bear, who rescued DW as often as he needed rescuing himself. They were the heroes of a series of children's books called
We Solve Everything!
where they had grand adventures while answering some of life's Big Questions: Where do lost socks go? Why do people have to take baths? What makes air invisible?

But those weren't the only books Theodora wrote. Oh, no.

She also wrote mysteries, under the name T. B. Kloben. They starred an investigator named Killian, a man with a dark past that is never fully explained. He seems to be seeking redemption for terrible things he's done, though what those things are is only hinted at. None of the people he helps know him—in fact, most of them don't want his help, at least at first. Killian's approach is to look for trouble, insert himself into a situation he doesn't understand, and refuse to go away until he's made things better. He doesn't care if people like him, he doesn't care about consequences, he doesn't care about rules. The one certainty he carries with him is that there is
always
something good to be accomplished, as long as you stick it out to the bitter end. He always does.

The first book was called
The Meddler,
and to date had sold two million copies. He was a classic example of an unlikable character you wound up rooting for anyway; a movie was currently in development, with Dwayne Johnson rumored to be taking on the lead role.

I loved both series, even though I didn't have kids. I was the one who'd introduced ZZ to the books, and she was the one who told me to invite Theodora to a salon—despite Miss Bonkle's ongoing psychiatric problems.

“How are you settling in?” I asked, pouring myself a cup of tea. What I really wanted to know, of course, was exactly how crazy she was at the moment—not that I could ask that.

“I'm fine, thank you for asking. However, Very British Bear has a question.”

The smile froze on my face. I could actually feel little icicles forming on my cheekbones.

“Yes?” I managed.

“He wants to know if you really have a honey badger here. Doc's been telling him that honey badgers eat anything that's overly sweet, and Very's a bit worried.”

I studied her face. Whiskey studied her face.

[She can't be serious.]

I think she's serious.

[She's pulling your leg.]

If so, feel free to start calling me Hoppy.
“We do have a honey badger in the menagerie. But we keep it securely locked up, so Very has nothing to worry about.”

Theodora nodded. “Well, I'll try to reassure him, but he tends to take Doc at his word. God knows why.” She rolled her eyes.

And then there was a pause.

It wasn't one of those pauses where both people just happen to fall silent at the same time because neither of them knows what to say. It wasn't one of those pauses that occur because one person has just dropped a conversational bombshell and the other person doesn't know how to respond. No, it was an
expectant
pause; the kind that seems to last nine months and gets more and more uncomfortable as it grows. The kind that eventually gives birth to a response that's more blurt than reply.

“Well,” I said weakly. “Both of them are … short.”

Theodora raised one plucked eyebrow. “Short?”

“And … furry.”

[And imaginary.]

My smile was now so firmly fixed you couldn't have gotten it off my face with a crowbar, though I desperately wished someone would try. A nice blow to the head—at the moment, that sounded heavenly. I kept waiting for Theodora to give me a wink, a grin, anything to let me know she was kidding.

“Short and furry,” she mused. “I suppose that's true. Can't be easy, going through this world being their size and species. Bears get a certain amount of respect, but rabbits? It's no wonder Doc acts the way he does.”

[Also, there's the whole non-existence problem. By which I mean they don't exist.]

“Then it's a good thing they have each other. And you,” I said.

[They don't have anything, Foxtrot. They're fictional. One's null, the other void. They have neither pulse, breath, nor voice. The state of their reality isn't. If they had a family crest, it would be a zero rampant on a field of nothing. When their names are announced at roll call, only silence ensues. Their glasses are half empty and half gone. They are, to put it simply,
not
.]

Have you been watching Monty Python reruns late at night again?

[You know I despise television. But John Cleese
is
a genius.]

“I wish I could stay and chat more,” I said. “But I have some rather urgent business with our chef. If you'll excuse me?”

“Yes, of course.” She nodded graciously and smiled. She didn't seem crazy at all, except maybe in a Norman-Bates's–mother sort of way. Who was, you know, actually Norman Bates in a dress. After he'd killed his mother.

Norman Bates didn't have forearms like a stevedore, though.

*   *   *

“He said
what
?” Ben asked me. We were in the kitchen, Ben chopping vegetables for dinner.

“That Anna came to him for advice. That he knows a great big secret about Anna and you but won't tell me what it is. That ZZ and he and Anna arranged this get-together, and that you're in danger.”

Ben gestured with his knife. “But—that sounds like he knows about me and Anna being Thunderbirds! And ZZ, too!”

“Not necessarily. He was very cagey when I talked to him, which means he might have done the same thing with ZZ. I'm not sure how much he actually knows.”

“He's a weather expert, Trot. I don't think Anna went to him for fashion tips.”

“Granted. But let's not overplay our hand here. He's being really careful, and so should we. If someone killed Anna, that someone could very well be after you, too.”