Marked Fur Murder (7 page)

As we walked, I told her a little about the graveyard's resident caretaker. “Coop's an old hippie. I get the feeling ZZ gave him this job out of a sense of obligation—she and Cooper go way back, though I've never been able to pry any details out of either of them. Maybe you'll have more luck.”

We arrived at the cottage, a small, neatly kept white bungalow. Cooper answered the door at the first knock, a steaming cup of coffee in one hand. He was tall and skinny, with a long face and a graying ponytail that stuck out from under a battered straw hat that seemed to be permanently attached to his head. He flashed me a grin from under his bushy gray mustache and said, “Foxtrot! Good mornin', hello, and
namaste
!”

“Back atcha, Coop. Someone I'd like you to meet—Cooper, this is Theodora. She's a guest at the estate and wondered if she could ask you a few questions about the graveyard. That okay with you?”

He stepped back and motioned us in. An old Rolling Stones T-shirt hung from his lanky frame, and scuffed cowboy boots peeked out from the cuffs of his worn blue jeans. “Come on in,” he said. “I just put on a fresh pot of coffee, if you're in the mood.”

“That would be lovely,” Theodora said.

The interior of the cottage was a little weird.

Cooper had a love of all things mystical. He wasn't particularly discerning about which flavor, either; new-age crystals threw rainbow sparkles over crimson-fanged, six-armed statues of Indian goddesses; Native American carvings hung on the walls over bookshelves crammed with lore ranging from the pagan to the metaphysical. One of his lamps had a cow skull for a base. The furniture was old and worn but comfortable, and there was a huge throw rug covering the floor inlaid with a psychedelic mandala. “Make yourself at home,” Cooper said, and went to grab us some mugs.

We settled in, Theodora at one end of the couch, me in an armchair, and Whiskey at my feet. [Always such interesting scents in this house. Stirs the memories.]

Oh? You spent time at an incense factory?

[No, as a drug-sniffing dog.]

Well, I did say Coop was an old hippie.

“What an enchanting place,” Theodora said in her soft, breathy voice. She peered through her glasses at a skull adorned with a red candle on the coffee table. “It practically
bleeds
inspiration.”

Cooper came back with a mug of coffee and handed it to Theodora. “Black, right?”

She took it from him and raised her eyebrows. “Why, yes. How did you know?”

Cooper sat down next to her on the couch. “Oh, I just kind of have a feel for those things. Generally get the coffee one right. Foxtrot, I put some water on for your tea.”

“That one has nothing to do with ESP,” I said. “Coop knows my habits.”

Cooper chuckled. “Guess I do. Know the boneyard, too. It's got its own habits, believe me.”

“I'm sure it does,” Theodora said, taking a delicate sip. “Have you been here long, Mr. Cooper?”

“Going on twenty years, give or take. Doesn't seem that long to me, but for some of the critters buried here it was their whole lifetime, birth to grave. I try to keep that in mind.”

Theodora nodded. “It would give one a certain perspective, wouldn't it? And perspective is
so
important … what's that, Very?” Theodora fixed her eyes on a spot at her feet, bent over slightly, and listened for a moment. “No, no, no. You don't take perspective in a pill, Very. You're thinking of a
prescription
.”

I glanced over at Cooper. His eyes flicked from Theodora's face to the spot she was gazing at and back again, but he didn't look fazed in the slightest.

“Well now,” said Cooper. “Might you be talking to Very British Bear, Miss Bonkle?”

“Why yes, Mr. Cooper. Would you like an introduction?”

“I'd be honored, Miss Bonkle. Is Doc Wabbit around, too?”

“I'm afraid he disappeared into your bedroom as soon as you let us in; he's terribly curious. But he'll be back once he's finished rooting about—ah, here he is. Doc, say hello to Mr. Cooper.”

Theodora's eyes seemed to be fixed on a spot to the right of the couch; Cooper looked in the same general direction, leaned forward, and said, “Hiya, Doc.”

Whiskey whined and looked anxious. [But there's nothing there!]

Take it easy. Obviously Cooper's a fan of her work, too. He's just being polite.

But I wasn't so sure. Knowing Cooper, he probably believed in the existence of Theodora's imaginary friends in some metaphysical way. And who was I to say he was wrong? Just because I could see ghosts didn't mean I could see
everything,
after all. In my experience, the world always turned out to be much weirder than I thought it was—and I lived in a pretty weird world.

“Doc says
Hiya
right back,” said Theodora. “And Very says,
How do you do
?”

“I do just fine,” said Cooper. “Welcome to my place. Make yourself at home, but be careful of the snake.”

“Snake?” I said. “You have a snake?” I glanced around nervously. Most animals I'm fine around, but a six-foot-long python was another matter.

“I'm not rightly sure,” Cooper replied. “Guess I should explain. See, I came into the living room last night, and I heard this strange sorta noise. Like a
ssshh-clack, sssshh-clack, ssshh-clack.
Then I looked over at the bookcase, and there was this enormous tube on top of it. Thick as a telephone pole. And it was moving, sliding down the side of the bookcase. The noise was the sound it was making as its belly rubbed against that little edge there, where the veneer is loose? That little strip was getting pulled back and then snapping forward again.”

“Wait. You
found
a snake in your living room?” I asked. “One as big around as a telephone pole?”

“Pretty much. First thing I thought was
Wow, I wonder how long it is?
So I started to follow it, you know, with my eyes. It went down the bookcase, and around the coffee table, then into the kitchen and out to the garage, over the fire truck—”

“Cooper. You don't have a garage. Or a fire truck.”

He gave me a long-suffering look. “Well, of course not, Foxtrot. But you know how dreams are.”

“This was a dream?” I asked.

Cooper nodded. “Didn't I mention that part? But it wasn't just
any
dream. I could tell.”

“How so?” Theodora asked.

“Well, I'd taken some peyote before I went to bed. Peyote dreams are always something special.”

[Indeed. I can't wait for the appearance of the flaming dwarf dressed as his mother.]

“I understand your concern now,” Theodora said with a firm nod of her head. “This creature in your dreaming vision was not of this realm but another. Perhaps even the one that both Doc and Very inhabit.”

Cooper gave her a nod of acknowledgment. I kept my mouth shut.

“A valid concern,” Theodora said. “In fact, Doc, Very and I had an encounter with a group of ghostly cats this very morning, which they could perceive and I could not. Which brings us to the reason for our visit.”

Theodora told Cooper the same story she told me. “And so you see why we've come to you. Can you perhaps shed any light on these events?”

Cooper leaned back, sipped his coffee, and considered the question. “Well, now. People leave all sorts of things on the graves here other than flowers: chew toys, leashes, blankets, hamster wheels. But usually people just come to visit one grave and leave something personal. I've noticed those marbles myself; they've been appearing over the past year or so, but I've never seen the person leaving them. At first I thought it might be a kid who left a few here and there while his parents were paying their respects to a family pet, but I wasn't sure, so I left 'em where they were. Then, when more and more showed up, I thought maybe it was a crow or something leaving them. Always on cat graves, too.”

“Ah, so now we have a time line,” said Theodora. “The past year. But who? And why?”

“Too bad we can't just ask the ghosts,” said Cooper.

[Consider yourself lucky you can't. Talking to cats is always an option of last resort.]

“Very wants to know about the snake,” Theodora said. “He's a little worried.”

“Well, it just kept on going forever, near as I could tell. I followed the thing out into some kind of desert, and it just never ended. Seemed like I'd been walking the length of it for hours when I finally woke up. It was beautiful, too.”

“Beautiful?” Theodora said.

“Yeah. It was all these different colors, each one of 'em really brilliant. Like a living rainbow.”

That got my attention. Cooper's dreams have proven prophetic before, and ghost animals all have that vivid, brightly colored appearance—even the ones that are black or brown. Maybe this “living rainbow” was more like an unliving one. “And that was it?” I prompted. “Nothing else happened?”

Cooper scratched his chin and thought about it. “Nope. But it felt important.”

Theodora frowned. “Well, this is most interesting. Marbles, of course, come in many colors, too—as do, I suppose, cats. There's a mystery here, of that I'm sure. I should have known this would happen.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“I'm in the research phase for my next Meddler novel. It seems as if every time that happens, a mystery pops up and demands to be solved.”

She saw the look on my face and hastily said, “Of course, there's also the much more serious crime that occurred at the mansion—but I try to leave those to the police. I'm not Miss Marple, after all.”

“A new Meddler book?” said Cooper. “That's good news. What's it about?”

“I'm not entirely sure yet. A murder, of course. Possibly something having to do with animals, though I'm leaning more toward birds than snakes.”

That got my attention, though I tried to hide my reaction. Even though Theodora didn't know it, a bird had already died—a Thunderbird. Or maybe she knew more than she was letting on …

“Mr. Cooper,” said Theodora, “would you mind terribly if I called upon your expertise in this matter of the marbles? I find that a little amateur sleuthing is just the thing to get me in the right frame of mind for fictional crimes.”

“I'll do whatever I can to help, ma'am.”

“Excellent. I believe the first matter at hand is to document the graves themselves, and their occupants. That I can do on my own—yes, Doc, you and Very can help—and once I'm done we'll put our heads together and try to make sense of this thing.”

Cooper grinned. “Sounds like a good time to me.”

I got to my feet, and Whiskey sprang up beside me. “Well, then—I'll leave you to your investigation. If you need anything to help you along, just let me know.”

“Thank you, Foxtrot,” said Theodora, rising as well. “And you, Mr. Cooper. We'll talk again soon.”

“Looking forward to it,” said Cooper. “I'll show you out.”

When Cooper had closed the door behind us, Theodora and I parted ways, her back to examine grave sites, me and Whiskey back to the house. I wished her—and her two compatriots—good luck.

When she was out of sight, I turned to Whiskey and said, “Rainbow snakes and dead cats? What do you think?”

[It's tempting to dismiss them as the offspring of chemical imbalances. But the ghost cats were real enough, and Cooper's description of the snake was suggestive of an animal spirit. The overlappings of certain realms are well documented—dreams, insanity, and the afterlife are not that far apart in certain ways.]

“Ways you can't talk about, right?”

[Not in any detail, I'm afraid. But remember, the Great Crossroads acts as a psychic amplifier; naturally sensitive people will find their perceptions heightened while here. For someone like Cooper, who actually lives on the grounds, it may even be a cumulative effect.]

“And Miss Bonkle?”

[It could be amplifying certain mental effects in her, as well. Not all of them positive.]

Terrific. That's all I needed, one of ZZ's guests having a full mental breakdown. Well, I'd dealt with that sort of thing before—not here, but at other points in my varied and hectic career.

I used to work for this guy named Damon Inferno. Lead singer of a death-metal band called Slotterhaus that had a number one single in the UK a gazillion years ago, followed by several increasingly forgettable albums and a steady decline in album sales. Unlike some groups that would have imploded beneath the morale-crushing reality of dwindling paychecks and venues, the Slotterhaus gang refused to let their fifteen minutes of fame come to an end, keeping that minute hand at fourteen-and-a-half through sheer, bloody-minded determination and grim tunnel-vision. They lived on the road and played every hole-in-the-wall bar, club, or hall that would have them. They were like zombie dinosaurs: mindless, dead, nothing left but old bones … but still shambling through the night, hungry for the flesh of the living. Lacking any real brain themselves, they decided to hire one. They picked me.

Working for Slotterhaus was my first real job. I guess I'll always owe them for that, but I think me being young, cute, and willing to work for cheap had more to do with them hiring me than any actual qualifications. That, and the fact that I had two unbreakable conditions to working for them: first, that they had to pay me; and second, that I wouldn't sleep with any of them. They didn't have a lot of respect for women—or authority, or common sense, or themselves, for that matter—but they'd give it to you if you insisted firmly enough. I did.

Damon may not have ever attained the status of a true star—more like a piece of space junk falling out of orbit in a brief blaze of light—but he was still something of a legend in certain circles. Okay, so one of those circles was his own bandmates and the other was mostly people who were dead or in rehab, but there was still a community who spoke of Damon's exploits in tones of hushed awe. And by
hushed awe
I mean whoops of stoned, drunken laughter.