by Betty Webb
Hands through the hair again. “Have you ever heard of ‘magical thinking’? Just because you think someone’s innocent doesn’t mean he is. Mr. McQueen’s phone records indicate…Well, I can’t discuss those, Teddy, but believe me, he had M.O.M.”
The seeming non sequitur set me back. It had never occurred to me that after Joe’s father died so many years earlier, his mother would finally embark on a new love life, and with a much younger man. An Australian, at that. “You mean to tell me that Bill and your mother…?”
This scowl out-scowled all the previous ones. “Get your head out of the gutter, Teddy. M.O.M. is an acronym for means, opportunity, and method. Bill had them all.”
“A woman having a love life is ‘gutter’ material? If that’s so, what about you and me?” Now I was really mad.
“I didn’t mean…”
“Yes, you did.”
The waitress, a pretty blonde, interrupted our glaring contest by asking if we wanted a refill. I said no. Joe held out his cup. “To the brim.”
She smiled at him. Much too warmly, I thought. “For you, Sheriff, anything.”
My frosty stare didn’t scare her away, so holding out my own cup, I snapped, “I changed my mind. More for me, too.”
Unsmiling, she dribbled a few more drops in my cup, which didn’t even bring it to the halfway mark, then with a flick of her hips, sashayed away.
Joe’s voice roused me from my jealous funk. “No arguments, Teddy. Back away from the Nido investigation before you get hurt.”
Furious, I put my cup down and crossed my arms across my chest. “Let’s see. The zoo trusts me to take care of the wolves, the tigers, and even help out with the rhinos from time to time, but you don’t think I’m up to conversing with a human being.”
“Not the murderus humanus subspecies, I don’t, no.”
“Bill’s not a murderer,” I snapped. “A cad, but not a murderer.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Then why aren’t I smiling?”
“Teddy, if you don’t stop messing around in this case, I’ll…”
“You’ll what?”
“I’ll…I’ll…” He stopped, baffled.
There’s nothing sweeter than a baffled cop, so I blew him a kiss. “I thought so. You’ll do nothing, because as long as I don’t break the law, there’s nothing you can do. And I don’t break the law, do I?” I decided to keep quiet about my evidence tampering on Kate’s boat.
Joe stared at me for a moment, an unreadable expression on his face. Then he leaned across the table, took my hand, and kissed it. “I’m doomed.”
I blinked. “What does that mean?”
“It means you’re impossible and I love you anyway.”
The next time the waitress came by, he demanded she fill my cup to the brim.
Earlier, after a much friendlier squabble, we’d decided to take his children to the zoo for the afternoon. At first he’d hung back, saying that for me, it would be too much like work, so why not take them to the Monterey Bay Aquarium instead. I’d stuck to my guns and by one o’clock, we were all munching cotton candy from the zoo’s Gumdrop Gorilla’s Candy Emporium. Eight-year-old Antonio, who looked just like his blue-eyed, black-haired father, handled his cloud of blue fluff well, but three-year-old Bridget, who bore a heart-rending resemblance to her deceased mother, got more cotton candy on her face than in her mouth.
I fared little better. To the children’s glee, my frizzy red hair kept springing forward and draping itself across my own blue goo, so much so that I gave up and tossed the remainder into a trash receptacle.
After the children had glutted themselves on empty calories and we’d wiped them down, we braved the crowd at Friendly Farm, where Antonio rode a docile pony around in a circle and Bridget fed a chicken. We had our pictures taken by a zoo photographer while we sat astride various mounts on the Endangered Species Carousel. Joe chose a dragon (very endangered); me, a snow leopard; Bridget, a roly-poly panda; and Antonio, the South China tiger, which he advised us, was already extinct in the wild.
“How did you know that?” I asked, shocked. Most adults couldn’t tell a South China tiger from a Sumatran, let alone an eight-year-old.
As we rode round and round to the music of the calliope, he answered, “Dad bought us a book about endan…endan…”
“Endangered,” Joe said softly.
“Endangered animals,” Antonio finished up.
I gave the boy a kiss on the cheek, then leaned over from my snow leopard and gave Joe a one-armed hug. “A gold star for you.”
Joe grinned. “If I’d known you’re react that way, I’d have fessed up earlier. Can I have another hug if I admit that last week I contributed twenty dollars to Bowling for Rhinos?”
“But did you?”
“Call me George Washington, because I cannot tell a lie.”
He got his extra hug.
“You’ll get better than that if you pledge a matching twenty during the marathon for the No-Kill Animal Shelter.”
A wink. “Oh, I might be able to arrange that.”
Now aware that our little group included a budding zoologist, I led them to the giant anteater’s enclosure. By the time we arrived, three-year-old Bridget had already fallen asleep in the wagon Joe had rented, but Antonio was delighted when Baby Boy Anteater climbed off Lucy’s back and scampered across the compound. When Lucy caught up with him, they both flopped down on their sides and scrabbled at each other with their feet in Lucy’s favorite game, “Let’s Box And I’ll Let You Win.”
“Cool,” Antonio said.
When the boy moved further along the fence to get a better look, I glanced down at sleeping Bridget. So peaceful, so innocent. So like her mother.
“Have any leads turned up yet on Sonia’s killer?” I asked Joe. Only three months after Bridget’s birth, Joe’s wife—an assistant prosecuting attorney—had been found shot to death in her car near the I-5 off ramp. Her killer had never been identified.
Joe shook his head. “Not a thing.”
“How are you…?”
“I’m handling it, Teddy. I…” His face changed. “Antonio’s coming back. Say something happy.”
I’d led enough school tours through the zoo to know what would sound happy to an eight-year-old boy, so I said, “Hey, Antonio, did you know that a giant anteater is the only animal in the Amazon rainforest who can bring down a jaguar? The anteater rises up on its hind legs, and when the jag attacks, the anteater rips its belly open with its four-inch talons and scatters jag guts all over the place.”
While Joe stared at me aghast, Antonio clapped his hands and said, “Waaaay cooooool!”
I had just started to tell him more fascinating facts about anteaters when Joe’s cell phone rang. After glancing at the caller ID, Joe stepped off the pathway and into the brush, but I could hear him using his official voice. “Yes, Deputy.” Silence for a moment, then, “Give me the details.” A longer silence, ending when he said, “Oh, hell. Yeah. Yeah. Right. I’ll meet you there in twenty minutes. For now, keep them in separate rooms.”
When he came back he apologized, then hustled us toward the zoo’s exit. “So much for my day off. Ordinarily I’d take you back to the Merilee, but there’s an emergency, and I need to meet two deputies at a crime scene. It’s a domestic turned ugly.”
“They’re calling you out on a domestic?”
“It’s…complicated.”
Knowing he wouldn’t say anything else, I let the matter drop.
As we walked along, he said, “I have to get the kids back home, but what about you? I can either deposit you at the jail—I know how much you like to hang around there—or you can visit Mom until I’m done, which might take up to an hour. Maybe two.”
Colleen and I had always gotten along well, so I almost agreed, but I knew what a cop’s life was like. What at first looked like a one-hour call might turn into eight, which would leave me stranded in San Sebastian, fifteen miles from the harbor and my own b
abies. Checking my watch, I saw it was two-fifteen.
“Slow down a sec,” I said, digging my cell out of my handbag. “Give me enough time to make a call.”
After my brief phone conversation, a bemused Joe left me sitting on a bench at the zoo’s entrance while he shepherded the kids across the parking lot. Feeling a bit bemused myself, I sat back and waited for Caro.
Fifteen minutes later, when I climbed into the silver Mercedes next to Mr. Trifle, the first thing Caro said was, “What’s wrong with your ear?”
I was getting tired of hearing about my ear. “It’s just a scratch.”
“But…”
“Drop it, Mother.”
“Caro.”
“Drop it, Caro.” But I smiled to take out the sting, because the only thing worse than an over-protective mother was a mother who wasn’t protective enough.
Borders established, we drove along comfortably enough for a while with Mr. Trifle sitting in my lap. When she’d called and told me about today’s appointment in San Sebastian, I’d had a good laugh. But now, with the Chihuahua dressed like my mother in a silk Chloe jacket and matching beret, I didn’t find it so funny. Something needed to be done about the poor dog, and quickly. But was taking him to see a dog psychic the solution?
As we entered the San Sebastian city limits, I broke the silence. “Caro, are you sure you didn’t know Kate Nido? Not even casually?”
She took her eyes off the road long enough to stare at me like I’d lost my mind.
“How many times do I have to tell you, I didn’t know the woman.”
“You’re sure?”
“Theodora, you’ve become such a nag.”
The idea that I might be turning into my mother silenced me, but I remained uneasy. I might not have known Kate all that well, but she had appeared to have a rigorously logical mind. She must have written Tdy’s mom noz, for a reason, but for now, the meaning of that Post-it note remained a mystery.
The small city of San Sebastian is crowned by San Sebastian Mission, which perches on a hill overlooking the business district. Founded in 1798 by Padre Bautista de Sosa, the Mission has withstood earthquakes, fires, locusts, and other natural disasters. Now it endured yet another invasion: tourists. As Caro maneuvered her silver Mercedes SL along Main Street, she had to contend with rentals from Enterprise and Avis dueling for parking spaces at the bottom of the hill. The narrow road leading up to the Mission had been closed to traffic two decades earlier.
“I hate tourists,” she grumped, as a teal-colored Chevy Cobalt cut her off.
“Our ancestors built the ships that made tourism possible. And our family rich.”
“Wealthy, Teddy. Rich is so vulgar.”
“No kidding.”
She shot me a look. “Are you insinuating that I’m…?”
“Wouldn’t dream of it, Mother.”
“Caro!” she barked.
“Whatever.”
As we drove along the street, I spotted a lavender storefront decorated with a mural that featured dogs and cats romping happily together. The sign on the door read, SPEAKS-TO-SOULS, ANIMAL PSYCHIC. The same words were emblazoned on a lavender cargo van parked just down the street.
“There’s a parking spot right in front of the store, Caro.”
“Place of business,” she muttered. “Store is so…”
“I know—vulgar. Better grab that spot before the black Accord does.”
After shooting another dirty look toward her insolent daughter, she successfully beat the Accord to the parking spot and angled the big Mercedes in. Before we exited the car, she straightened the beret on Mr. Trifle’s head, expertly avoiding his snapping teeth. At that moment, I decided that if Speaks-to-Souls couldn’t help him, I would kidnap the poor animal and find him a sane home before Caro lost a finger.
My concern about Speaks-to-Souls intensified when we entered the store. I bear no animosity toward New Thought philosophy, and God knows I’m a fan of the animal kingdom, but the store’s blending of the two jarred what little remained of my artistic sensibilities. Bamboo and copper wind chimes clacked and tinkled over a sound system playing Peruvian flute music, while paintings of dogs wearing angel wings hung on dark purple walls. Kapok-stuffed white tigers crouched next to a bookshelf filled with books on animal chakras, tofu recipes, and vegan candle making. A closer inspection showed the books had all been penned and self-published by Speaks-to-Souls.
More down-to-earth was the swarm of cats and dogs that rushed to greet us. A retriever mix with a battered snout and sweet expression licked my left ankle as an aged tabby with one ear rubbed against my right one. Close behind them were three mongrels of various shapes and sizes, and five alley-type cats. Judging from their scars and grateful natures, all were rescues. Well, good for Speaks-to-Souls. She might be a phony but at least she was a compassionate phony.
When the woman herself swept toward us, her orange-and red-patterned sari fluttering in the kitty litter-and-patchouli-scented air, my doubts about her increased. If she was American Indian, I was a Sumo wrestler. She wasn’t India Indian, either, because she looked Norwegian. At least six feet tall with pale gray eyes and what appeared to be natural blond hair, she was as sturdily built as a lumberjack. There was something familiar about her face, too, but I couldn’t quite pinpoint it. No matter. In deference to her obvious animal-rescue activities, I would sit politely through her spiel, urge Caro to write a fat check, then hustle my mother out the door as soon as possible.
And lay my plans for a dog-napping.
“Caro, how wonderful to meet you and Mr. Trifle in the flesh,” Speaks-to-Souls said, with a voice as deep as a man’s. “It’s so nice that you’ve brought your sister along.”
Accepting this transparent flattery as truth, Caro simpered. “Sweet of you to say so, but Theodora is my daughter.”
I didn’t simper. “Call me Teddy. And in the spirit of full disclosure, I’m an animal keeper at the Gunn Zoo, and therefore I’m a bit leery about all this dog psychic stuff.”
Penetrating gray eyes met mine. “The Gunn Zoo? How interesting. Oh, well. Let’s take Mr. Trifle into the treatment room and get started. Alyse will watch the shop while we work.”
A younger woman who looked enough like Speaks-to-Souls to be her daughter, although dressed in tee shirt and jeans, stepped from behind a unicorn-filled étagère. Her own gray eyes danced with amusement. “Will do, Mom.”
Then she winked at me.
The treatment room, as Speaks-to-Souls had dubbed it, was carpeted and painted a deep, restful blue. The furniture looked like rejects from a La-Z-Boy factory but for a shiny CD player nestled between two white, patchouli-scented candles. On the floor lay several doggie beds in varying sizes, ranging from teacup Chihuahua to great Dane. Scattered around them were a selection of doggie toys, including balls, ropes, and several stuffed animals. Mr. Trifle, still snarling after Caro lifted him from her tote, ignored them all.
“My, what a fierce fellow you are,” said Speaks-to-Souls, bending down to look him in the eye.
Mr. Trifle gave her a worried glance, then went back to snarling at Caro.
With a fluid move, Speaks-to-Souls flicked on the CD player and Peruvian flute music filled the room. She then lit the candles and switched off the overhead light. Settling herself into one of the big loungers, she said, “I believe I already know what the problem is, but I’ll need to go into a trance to check with the spirits. If you could both sit quietly, please?”
Caro and I sat, leaving Mr. Trifle standing at Caro’s feet.
Ignoring my warning, Speaks-to-Souls picked up the Chihuahua and placed him in her lap. For a moment Mr. Trifle seemed to consider biting her, then to my amazement, gazed into her eyes with an adoring expression. That surprised me more than anything I’d seen earlier.
Then, in the candle-lit room, Speaks-to-Souls slumped against the headrest of her La-Z-Boy, rolled her eyes back, and chanted, “Um mah, um mah, um mah! Oh, Great Animal Spirit, visit me now!�
�
I kept a straight face, but it wasn’t easy.
As the minutes ticked by, we were treated to more chants, more eye rolling. And more self-control from me. Caro, however, looked enchanted. So did Mr. Trifle.
“Um mah, um mah, um mah!”
Despite my best intentions, I yawned. The deep blue room, the patchouli air, the Peruvian flute music—I was desperate to go beddie-bye.
Suddenly someone—or some thing—answered in a deep, growly voice. “Um mah zezezzer acupopo zeezix!” Looking more carefully, I saw Speaks-to-Souls’ lips move.
She embarked upon a long conversation with whatever was hiding out in the ether. A sperm whale? Border collie? A vole? Whoever he/she/it was, he/she/it certainly liked to talk.
Stifling yet another yawn, I wondered how much longer this could continue. Would I be trapped in this dark room for eternity with an unseen spirit, a phony dog psychic, my nutty mother, and her just-as-nutty Chihuahua?
Speaks-to-Souls’ eyes suddenly flew open. “That’s it!” she proclaimed. “The Great Animal Spirit has revealed the problem!”
“Wha…What?” Caro asked, her voice unusually hesitant.
Without answering, Speaks-to-Souls began stripping Mr. Trifle of his Caro-clone clothing. Off flew the white jacket and matching beret. I had never seen Mr. Trifle look so relieved.
“His name is not Mr. Trifle,” Speaks-to-Souls declared. “The Great Animal Spirit has informed me that this noble animal is the reincarnation of a great Aztec warrior named Feroz Guerrero. Caro, you must begin calling him by his rightful name. And, my dear, stop dressing him up as if he were nothing more than a fashion accessory. Feroz Guerrero was known for charging into battle naked.”
Caro’s mouth, already open, dropped further.
So did mine, because I had realized that while Speaks-to-Souls was undoubtedly a charlatan, her animal skills—as well as her tact—were the real deal. “Ever think about becoming a zookeeper?” I blurted out.
Turning her head so that Caro couldn’t see, Speaks-to-Souls mirrored her daughter’s earlier wink. “Actually, I did give it some thought at one time. Then I decided I could do more good by channeling the Great Animal Spirit.”
