Monkey Business

by Lois Schmitt

  I awakened to a ringing telephone.

  “Abby,” I muttered, glancing at the caller ID and fumbling across Archie for the phone. Matt had left the house at dawn for a golf game, and the dog now rested his head on my pillow.

  “I’ve news,” my daughter announced.

  “Just what I need at six in the morning. This couldn’t have waited until ten?”

  “I’ve the day off. I wanted to call before I left for the beach. Remember when you told me about Ginger Hart’s former lover, Jerry Rudolph?”

  “Of course. We talked yesterday, before I left for Manhattan. I almost missed my train.”

  “Well, Jason came over last night after his bar review class. We did some Internet research and found a newspaper article about the car accident.”

  Now I was wide awake.

  “The accident occurred less than two years ago in upstate New York where Jerry Rudolph was checking out property for a new mall,” Abby said. “His Jaguar careened into a ravine off Route 17. The local newspaper billed it as a hit and run. Rudolph miraculously survived long enough to utter the words ‘black SUV’ and ‘I had to swerve’ to the police. The case was never solved.”

  I rubbed my forehead. A black SUV. Could it be the Escalade that had harassed me?

  I realized any suspicions involving Ginger’s role in Jerry Rudolph’s accident might force the police to look more closely into Ginger as a suspect in the zoo murders. But I needed more information.

  I searched the Internet and found that Jerry Rudolph’s widow was still alive and living less than ten miles from my home.

  I decided to pay her a visit. I considered phoning first, but thought she would be less likely to refuse to see me if I just showed up at her doorstep.

  Madalyn Rudolph lived in a large colonial house in an upscale neighborhood near the water on Long Island’s south shore.

  “My name is Kristy Farrell,” I said when she came to the door. She was a tall, athletic-looking woman of about fifty. I had read that in her youth she had been a tennis pro. “I’d like to talk to you about your husband’s accident.”

  “My husband died two years ago. Why are you interested now?”

  With what I had to say, Mrs. Rudolph would either invite me into her house or kick me off her stoop. I took a deep breath. “Your husband died after breaking off a relationship with Ginger Hart. Arlen McKenzie, director of the Rocky Cove Zoo, was Ginger’s most recent lover. He was killed only a few days after he and Ginger had a major fight. I’m a person who doesn’t believe in coincidences.”

  “You’re not with the police. Who are you?”

  “My brother is a suspect in the McKenzie murder. I know he didn’t do it. I’m checking other possibilities.”

  She hesitated, then stepped aside. “Come in,” she said, ushering me into a large living room overlooking the Great South Bay. “Do you think Ginger may be responsible? Do you think she might have murdered my husband, too?”

  “Right now I’m just gathering information. Did the police question Ginger when your husband died?”

  “No. As far as I know they didn’t question anyone from down here. They chalked it up to road rage or even a drunk driver. That section of Route 17 is a pretty isolated area, so there were no witnesses. The police searched for the SUV but never found it.”

  Mrs. Rudolph turned and appeared to stare at a wedding photo on the mantelpiece. “I never thought Jerry’s death was the result of someone setting out to kill him. I believed it was an accident. I was so distraught, I wasn’t thinking straight. Jerry and I were separated for more than a year, but we had just gotten back together a few days before this all happened.”

  “Did you know Ginger?”

  “She was the reason we separated. I never had the displeasure of meeting her, but I had friends who kept me informed. One of those friends was my husband’s business partner. He said that Ginger had called in sick the day Jerry was killed. I didn’t think anything of it at the time, but maybe she was upstate.”

  “It’s possible. Did your friends tell you how Ginger reacted when your husband broke off the relationship?”

  “Ginger didn’t react well at all. She told everyone that she had wasted the best years of her life. I wonder . . .”

  “What is it?” I said.

  “Ginger had also said she’d make Jerry pay for what he did to her.”

  I phoned the police and asked for Detective Fox. Detective Wolfe picked up. I told him about my meeting with Jerry Rudolph’s widow.

  “You want me to investigate Ginger Hart because she knows two people who died? You think that makes her a serial killer?”

  “She fought with both victims before their deaths. And neither died of natural causes. I say that’s suspicious.”

  “I don’t know about the accident upstate. It’s out of my jurisdiction. But Ginger Hart had an alibi for McKenzie’s murder.”

  “But it wouldn’t hurt—”

  “I don’t have the time for your harebrained theories. I’m satisfied that my investigation is leading me toward the guilty party. I have a few more loose ends to tie up and then I’ll go for an indictment. In the meantime, don’t call unless you come up with solid evidence.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Tim had arranged for me to take some photographs in the reptile nursery on Monday. Once I had finished snapping photos of a baby boa who measured more than two feet long, I headed toward the exit. On my way, I ran into Linda Sancho.

  “I don’t know if you remember me, Linda,” I said. “My brother Tim introduced us in his office. I’d like to talk if you have a minute.”

  “Sure.” She smiled. “What is it?”

  “My husband’s office assistant is the woman whose car you hit at Ridge River University. You told the police you attended the animal behavior conference until ten o’clock.”

  Linda’s smile faded. “I was gone for less than an hour. I had picked up my mother’s prescription from a pharmacy earlier, but I hadn’t dropped it off. The conference schedule called for a video presentation at eight, and since I wasn’t particularly interested in the topic, that’s when I took the medicine to my mom’s place. She only lives twenty minutes from the university, so I knew I’d be back in plenty of time for the panel discussion at nine.”

  “But you didn’t tell this to the police?”

  “I have enough problems in my life right now. The last thing I need is to be considered a murder suspect.” Linda nibbled the nail on her right thumb. “I should have told the police, but I took the risk that no one would find out.”

  “I suppose your mother will verify you were at her house.”

  “She was asleep. I put the medication on the kitchen counter and returned to the conference.”

  “I told my brother about the flaw in your alibi, and he’s contacting his attorney.”

  “I’ll inform the police that I left the university. I’ll call this afternoon.” Linda started to walk away, but I wasn’t ready to let her go.

  “Your alibi’s not the only thing we need to discuss,” I said. “I spotted you at Booker’s Amazing Pet Emporium. That place has been cited for dealing in wildlife smuggling. Its conditions are horrid. Why would you go there?”

  Linda stopped and spun around, a determination appearing in her eyes that I had not seen before. “The horrid conditions are the reason. I’m an active member of the SANAN Society.”

  “Sanan?” It sounded familiar but I couldn’t place it.

  “Yes. It stands for Stop Animal Neglect and Abuse Now. We’re compiling a list of places that sell puppy mill dogs so we can mount a big publicity campaign. I checked the store out as part of our investigation.”

  “You were at the store more than once,” I accused.

  “I returned a second time to ask more questions, to get my facts straight. I had the name of a man who purchased a German shepherd puppy with serious medical problems. I wanted to find out what the store owners would do. Would they take the dog back? If so,
what would happen to him?” Linda’s hands tightened into fists. “As expected, they don’t stand behind their dogs.”

  “You can prove this?”

  “I’ll give you the address and phone number of SANAN. You can verify my story.”

  “I intend to do just that.”

  “I would appreciate it if you didn’t mention this to anyone around here,” Linda said as we parted. “I try to keep my personal life private.”

  My next stop was the SANAN Society headquarters, located in Brooklyn. I spent ten minutes searching for a parking space, finally securing one three blocks away.

  SANAN occupied the bottom floor of a three-story building. The door was ajar so I went inside. The large room was furnished with folding chairs, a long table, old wooden file cabinets, a metal desk, and a computer that looked similar to one I’d discarded ten years ago. I spotted a small fan in the corner, but it didn’t appear to be doing much good. The temperature felt hotter in here than outside.

  A man with long hair beginning to gray slouched in a chair behind the desk. The nameplate on his desk read: “Alan Dysart, Executive Director.” He was arguing with a woman dressed in black who was sitting across from him. The woman looked no older than thirty and wore a button that read: “Free the Animals.”

  “You’re ridiculous,” the man said. “Your plan will lose us financial support.” Beads of perspiration dotted his forehead.

  “You pander to everyone.” The woman moved to the edge of her seat. “This is war. When will you learn that in a war not everyone will be on your side.”

  “Excuse me. I’m Kristy Farrell, and I’m a writer for—”

  “I know who you are,” the man said. “Linda Sancho called thirty minutes ago and told me you’d be checking on her.”

  “Is she a volunteer here?”

  “She’s an active member. Linda has inspected more than a dozen pet shops for our puppy mill project, including Booker’s Amazing Pet Emporium. Is there anything else you want?”

  “Since you’ve asked, I’m curious about your organization. What exactly do you do?”

  The woman in black sneered. “What we should do and what we actually do are completely different.”

  Alan Dysart shot her a look, then turned back to me. “We promote the welfare of animals by advocating against various abuses. Right now, our major cause is the sale of puppy mill dogs.”

  “Linda is involved with this?” I asked.

  “Of course she is,” said the woman in black. “This project won’t offend any of Linda’s associates. This group never tackles controversial issues anymore. But what can you expect with volunteers like Linda who have careers at zoos.”

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  “Zoos are part of the problem. Animals should be free—”

  “That’s not our policy,” Alan interrupted. “Of course, we’re opposed to the roadside zoo where animals are packed into cages, but we’re not against the modern zoological parks with natural habitat like Rocky Cove.”

  “This organization is nothing more than a bandage on an artery.” The woman pointed a finger with puce nail polish in his face.

  “Not true. We’ve always been involved with issues of animal abuse. We work through legislation, education, and public information.”

  “As if that’s going to accomplish anything. We need to take militant action.”

  “It’s taken us half a decade to rebuild ourselves since that militant action you’re talking about.”

  Now it came back. Five years ago SANAN found itself in the headlines when a handful of renegade members raided pet stores, setting animals free without thought to the consequences of releasing the poor creatures on city streets. Although I didn’t recall the specifics, I was sure a criminal investigation ensued.

  “How long has Linda been involved with your group?” I asked.

  “About six years.”

  What if Linda was part of the extremist faction? I wondered. What if Arlen McKenzie knew about it? He could ruin Linda’s good name and career, not only at Rocky Cove but within the entire mainstream zoological community.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  “Olivia wants to see you immediately,” Clara said as I stepped through the office doorway.

  “What about?”

  “I have no idea, but she’s not in a great mood. By the way, she approved your travel request to attend the animal auction.”

  “Well maybe that’s why she wants—”

  “I don’t think that’s why she wants to see you. She received a phone call earlier, and since then, she’s been pacing around here like a caged animal. She’s back in her office now.”

  Experiencing that sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach, I knocked on the door to Olivia Johnson’s private office. I entered and faced the editor, who was standing behind her desk.

  “Don’t sit down,” she said. “This will only take a minute.”

  At nearly six feet in height with broad shoulders, Olivia was an imposing figure. With skin the color of deep French roast coffee and silver hair fashioned in a short, no-nonsense style, she favored dark-colored, conservatively tailored suits, like the navy blue pinstripe she wore today. She looked to be in her late fifties, but rumor said she was seventy.

  “I want to thank you for approving my travel request to attend Malur’s Animal Auction,” I said. “Clara told me that you gave the okay and—”

  “Your articles aren’t finished?”

  “Not yet, but they’re not due for—”

  “I suggest you stick to your work and leave homicide to the police.” Olivia’s eyes now focused on me like a lioness sizing up a wounded zebra.

  “I received a call from Ginger Hart,” Olivia continued. “A waiter at the Treasures of Zeus had overheard you talking about Ms. Hart’s alibi for the night of Arlen McKenzie’s murder. I’ve heard the rumors about your brother, and I can understand your interest in the case, but this is unprofessional.”

  Olivia stepped slowly around to the front of the desk. “We can’t afford to alienate the public relations staff at Rocky Cove unless there’s a good reason. We’re an animal magazine, not a crime publication. Murder has nothing to do with us.”

  “What if it does?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I believe the murders of Arlen McKenzie and Mei Lau are related to a scandal at the Rocky Cove Zoo.”

  “What type of scandal?”

  “I don’t know yet.” I explained what I knew of Mei’s worries, including her fear that the malfunctioning of the crocodile gate was caused by sabotage.

  Olivia wandered to the other end of the office, standing silently for a moment. “This puts the situation in a different light. Okay. Look into it. But be careful.”

  “I will.”

  “One more thing. The zoological community networks. If you’re wrong, everyone will know. Your ability to work with professionals in the animal world will be compromised. That will affect my decision as to the person I hire permanently as feature writer.”

  Leaving Olivia’s office, I scooted down the corridor, passing Clara who was chatting with a FedEx deliveryman. I didn’t feel like talking to anyone. I slumped in my chair and for several moments sat unmoving. But I realized I wouldn’t accomplish anything unless I set to work.

  First, I needed to find out more about the SANAN Society.

  Abby knew all about animal rights and humane groups. I phoned my daughter at the veterinary hospital. In between patients, she was able to take my call.

  “The SANAN Society started off about ten years ago as a protest group patterned after the student movement of the sixties and seventies,” Abby said. “SANAN quickly became more radical before turning into the mainstream organization they are today. Their sit-ins had become pretty nasty. They blocked entrances to pet stores, circuses, petting zoos, any place dealing with animals. They refused to allow customers to go inside, sometimes using physical force.”

  “Didn’t their actions bec
ome even more violent?”

  “Yes. Finally, they broke into labs and stole research animals. I don’t know what they did with them. But when they raided pet stores, releasing puppies and kittens on city streets, that’s when the real trouble started and two factions developed.”

  “I remember that,” I said.

  “The first store they smashed was on Queens Boulevard. You know what traffic is like there. It’s as bad as Manhattan. Some animals were rescued, but most were killed running out into the road.”

  “That’s horrible. It’s also a pretty stupid action for animal lovers.”

  “The president of the organization would agree with you. But the spokesperson for the extremists claimed the animals were martyrs for the cause.”

  “Whether they wanted to be or not,” I said.

  “A week later, they hit another pet store. This one was in Brooklyn. After releasing the animals, they set fire to the shop. Two firefighters sustained injury, one so severe he left the department on disability.”

  “What happened to those responsible?”

  “The president of SANAN swore he’d expel any member engaging in illegal activities. He also promised to fully cooperate with the police in uncovering those responsible for the break-ins.”

  I twirled a strand of hair around my finger. “Did they catch who did it?”

  “No. The group’s board of directors threw out the more vocal of the radical element, but I hear a few still remain.”

  “Why? If the organization is now mainstream, why would extremist members stay?”

  “According to rumors, they use the group’s resources, including files and data banks.”

  “Have the illegal activities stopped?”

  “That’s hard to say. There’ve been a few incidents, but no one can prove members of the group are responsible. A fur salon was broken into a few months ago, the place trashed, and furs sprayed with red paint. There’s talk that this involved members of SANAN, but no one was caught.”