The Koala of Death

by Betty Webb

  “Crack?” That was a new one to me. Did he mean hit?

  He rolled his eyes. “Put the moves on, ya dumb sheila! Anyways, instead of waitin’ around anymore, I biked down to the harbor intendin’ to beg her to take me back—yes, beg the bitch—but when I got there, it’s like I said, she was prancin’ around on that damned Gutterball, and I never saw her again. Yer satisfied now?”

  The idea that Bill would beg anyone for anything—especially for a woman to take him back—rattled me. “You told me you were the one who’d dumped Kate.”

  His shoulders slumped enough that Wanchu had to scramble to keep her hold. “Was the other way around, Teddy. Kate musta tired of me Aussie charms ’cause she was movin’ on, most likely to that pretty-boy park ranger, Lex what’s-his-face.”

  “Lex Yarnell?”

  “Yeh. Him.”

  This surprised me, because Lex had always appeared more interested in Myra Sebrowski than in Kate. “When did she tell you this?”

  “Couple weeks before she died. Without a by-your-leave she turned up at the Amiable Avocado when I was slaggin’ ’round behind the bar and told me it was over, that she had other fish to fry.”

  “Those were the words she used, ‘other fish to fry’?”

  “Yeh.”

  “Did she actually use Lex’s name?”

  “Nah.”

  “What else did she say?”

  “Nothin’. That was it. And I was at work, right? I couldn’t hang around grassin’ with her, so I went off to deliver some idiot’s mojito.”

  There had to have been more to the conversation, because a woman doesn’t normally walk into a bar and deliver a Dear John without any explanation. “Didn’t you ask Kate to explain what she meant by that ‘other fish to fry’ remark? Maybe she wasn’t talking about leaving you for another man. Maybe it was something else.”

  He gave me an incredulous look. “Are yez daft, Teddy? Damn bar was swarmin’ with blokes orderin’ fancy drinks with fruit and such like. Think I’m gonna start mewlin’ and whinin’, tryin’ to get me woman back front of ’em? Hell, after she hit me with the bad news, I kept meself down at the other end of the bar ’til she took off, like any self-respecting Aussie would do.”

  In other words, he’d hidden his hurt feelings under a steaming heap of, well, false pride. What idiots men could be. But considering everything Bill had undergone the past two weeks, I kept the observation to myself. After making a few sympathetic comments, I left him to Wanchu’s less judgmental company.

  ***

  As I pulled into the parking lot at Lucky Lanes, I was startled to find it already three-quarters full even though the doors wouldn’t open for another thirty minutes. Anticipating the rush, Zorah had sent her executive assistant over to take care of last-minute sales, which was a good thing because the line of eager ticket-buyers snaked halfway around the building. Helen, Zorah’s assistant, sat at a canopied table in front of the entrance, dressed for the occasion in a leopard-print blouse, matching leopard-print hat, and a zebra-striped pair of leggings that added twenty-pounds to her already robust figure. She was having the time of her life.

  Seeing me approach with my arms full of Bowling for Rhinos registration materials, Sam Grimaldi unlocked the double doors and let me in. The only other time I had visited Lucky Lanes, which was to finalize the Bowling for Rhinos arrangements, I’d heard balls striking pins, cheers of triumph, and a sound system playing a combination of rap hits and golden oldies. The place seemed eerily quiet now, but from the scent of hot cooking oil that wafted to me over the smell of rosin and polished hardwood, the chefs were already busy deep-frying the vitamins out of potatoes and zucchini.

  Locking the doors behind me, Sam led me past a shoulder-high inflated rhino—it had a lei hanging around its neck—to the sign-in table. He then disappeared into the office. Before he closed the door, I saw a flashy young blonde sitting on the office sofa with her skirt hiked up to the eequator.

  What gall, flouting his playmate more or less under Doris’ nose! I fumed for a bit, then something Sam had said—or almost said—flashed through my mind. Right after Kate had been murdered, I’d talked to him and his wife on board the Gutterball. He had said something about Kate being “sweet,” then added, “Every time I…” At that point, Doris had cut him off. Had Sam been involved with Kate? If so, how much had Doris minded? She was a big, strong-looking woman, and…

  Buster’s voice interrupted my dark musings.

  “Welcome to Bowling for Rhinos, ma’am,” he cracked, taking the cartons and putting them down on a table next to a WIN AN AFRICAN SAFARI! poster. His lumpy face was alight with smiles. Of all the zoo’s many fund-raisers, this one was closest to the rhino keeper’s heart.

  “My, my, aren’t you the early bird,” I said.

  Crooked teeth flashed. “The girls were more than happy to go into their night house. ’Course, that might have had something to do with the new shipment of alfalfa hay the suppliers brought in this afternoon. Usually I have to coax them to leave their enclosure, but Notch and Half-Ear both love alfalfa, and when I put several flakes in their mangers, they almost knocked each other over in their hurry to go in. I was out of the zoo by six and drove straight here. Don’t worry, I showered first!”

  We spent the next half-hour arranging various door prizes and raffle gifts on the long tables: a necklace with tiny rhinos a-dangle; a bright watercolor executed by Indu, our painting elephant; a glass snow globe with two rhinos inside; a pink plush rhino; a ceramic tiger; an autographed copy of Jack Hanna’s Monkeys on the Interstate; a plethora of gift certificates from local businesses; and a year’s pass for four to the Gunn Zoo. After these prizes were awarded, the winning tickets would be put back in the raffle hopper so that everyone would have the chance at the African safari.

  “Ticket sales will continue until half an hour before the drawing, won’t they?” Buster asked.

  “They’d better, or there’ll be a riot. You should see the crowd outside.”

  Buster looked around at the jammed prize tables, then rearranged them so that the evening’s trophies were more visible. The design for Best Male Bowler, Best Female Bowler, and Best Bowling Team had been Buster’s creation: bronze-covered rhino turds the size and shape of a softball, elegantly mounted on teakwood stands.

  “Beautiful,” I sighed, knowing that with my poor bowling skills, this was as close as I’d ever come to one.

  A clamor at the front of the alley made me look up. Sam Grimaldi had just opened the doors and people were thronging in, led by eager members of the zoo staff.

  “Let the games begin,” Buster said.

  The first to arrive was Bill, his arm around a smug Myra Sebrowski. Next came Monkey Mania volunteer and part-time television aide Bernice Unser. Following close behind were our married zookeepers: Haylie Hewitt, desert tortoises; and her husband Mark, black-footed ferrets. Behind them came Robin Chase, nose splint, black eyes and all.

  “You bowl?” I asked Robin, as she signed in.

  “More or less. And more less than more, if you understand what I mean.” She bought ten extra raffle tickets, explaining, “Considering how little I make, winning the raffle is the only way I’ll ever make it to Africa to see cheetahs in the wild.”

  I wished her luck.

  For the better part of an hour, as Lucky Lanes came alive with the sound of crashing bowling pins, curses, and cheers, I manned the registration table. After paying the $35 registration fee, each Bowling for Rhinos participant received a canvas tote bag filled with coupons, pens, one free raffle ticket, and a gold tee shirt showing a rhino knocking down bowling pins, with the legend, BOWL LIKE A MUTHA FOR DA RHINO!

  Midway through registration Aster Edwina arrived with Caleb, her chauffeur, a stoop-backed man who didn’t look much younger than she. Having donated the evening’s big prize, she would choose the winning ticket. She grandly paid her registration fee and demanded three extra totes for Caleb’s grandchildren. Knowing which side th
e zoo’s bread was buttered on, I handed them over without argument.

  “How is Caro doing after last night’s fiasco, Theodora?” she asked, passing the totes to the chauffeur.

  “She’ll survive.”

  “It was a shame about that table, especially since I hear it belonged to one of the Romanovs.” The malicious smile on her face revealed that she didn’t think it was a shame.

  “I’m having it fixed. At my own expense.”

  The smile disappeared. “That will cost you a pretty penny. Can you afford it without dipping into that hush-hush offshore account your father set up?”

  “You know I don’t use that money, Aster Edwina.” To keep her from needling me some more, I added, “We all appreciate everything you’ve done for Bowling for Rhinos, but please move along. You’re holding up the line.”

  Gratified at having annoyed me, she patted my cheek and moved off. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Caleb settle her into a reserved booth near the drinks window so that she could sip cheap wine from a plastic glass while missing none of the action.

  The registration continued with no more unpleasantness. Most of my harbor friends showed up: Linda Cushing, looking a little less grief-stricken than she had at Caro’s party; firefighter Walt MacAdams, with his latest girlfriend; harbormaster MaryBeth O’Reilly, who bought several extra raffle tickets; and Texas Hold ’Em’s owner, Larry DuFries, who slipped his tee over his shirt even before he stepped away from the registration table.

  Also present were Mayor George Baffin, followed by Senator Harrison Hedley Grainger, attempting to curry popular support before the Ethics Committee began its public castration process. Mrs. Wexford-Smythe even showed, and purchased one hundred extra raffle tickets.

  “I’ve always wanted to see Africa, and winning would certainly be a cheap way to do it,” she explained.

  Just before the registration closed, Josie/Speaks-to-Souls and her daughter Alyse walked in. Alarmed, I gave a quick glance at the drinks booths, and was somewhat comforted to see Aster Edwina deep in conversation with Sam Grimaldi. To give Josie fair warning, and to keep her from wasting her registration fee, I whispered, “Aster Edwina is here!”

  “Here’s a twenty for extra raffle tickets,” Josie said. She looked serene, as if the thought of publicly confronting the mother who’d given her away at birth didn’t disturb her. Being raised in New York inured one to shock, I guess.

  On the off-chance that she hadn’t heard me, I delivered my warning again, this time in a normal voice. “Aster Edwina is sitting right over there by the drinks window.”

  This time there was no doubt that she heard me. “Isn’t it nice to run into family? Thank you for letting me know where the drinks are.” She turned to her daughter. “I’m dying for a Budweiser. How about you?”

  “Parched.” Alyse’s eyes danced with mischief.

  At my disapproving frown, Josie added, “Like myself, Alyse is older than she looks. Twenty-two, as a matter of fact. Come, dear.” Hooking her arm around her daughter’s, Josie headed straight for the drinks window.

  When they neared Aster Edwina’s table, I held my breath. At first it looked as if the two might pass by without her noticing, because Sam Grimaldi was still talking to her. Unfortunately, he moved off just as Josie and Alyse arrived alongside the table.

  Aster Edwina gave the two an idle glance and began to say something to her chauffeur. Then she stopped, her mouth open.

  The color drained from her face.

  Josie smiled and leaned over the table. I’m no lip-reader, but I’d swear she said, “Hello, Mother.”

  The plastic wine glass Aster Edwina had been holding dropped from her hand and rolled across the carpet. When Caleb leaned over to pick it up, she grabbed him by the shoulder and whispered into his ear. Nodding, he helped her out of the booth, and with a spindly yet protective arm around her waist, ushered her out the door.

  She never looked back.

  Registration closed at eight, just after Zorah came in from the parking lot, staggering under the weight of the hopper that held the bulk of the raffle tickets. I added my collection, then helped her carry the hopper over to the proper table. Official duties done for the evening, I walked over to the lanes to find out whom I would be bowling with. To my chagrin, I’d been paired at lane thirty-nine with Myra Zebrowski, who had never apologized for her behavior at Caro’s party.

  “Hope you can bowl better than the loser I was paired with last year,” she said.

  “Which loser was that?” I asked, choosing a bright orange bowling ball that matched the color of my hair.

  “Robin.”

  I resisted the temptation to drop my bowling ball on her head. “Then you’re out of luck. I’ve only bowled once in my life, and that was one game when I was fourteen. If I remember correctly, my score was somewhere in the low fifties.”

  “Then that’s two years in a row I have a snowball’s chance in hell to get the Best Team trophy. Why couldn’t you have done everyone a favor and stayed home?”

  Women like Myra irk me to no end. In front of men they act all sweetness and light, but with women—who exist for them as nothing more than competitors—they set free their Inner Bitch.

  I refused to rise to the bait. “You go first. Maybe I’ll learn something.”

  “As if.” With a sneer, she hefted her personal bowling ball and approached the lane. With a fluid motion, she sent the ball rolling straight down the alley. As it neared the pins, it hooked slightly to the left. Pins went flying until only one remained.

  “Rats,” she grumped.

  I rose to take my turn but she ordered me to sit back down. “Oh, for Pete’s sake. Don’t you know anything? I get another chance.”

  “Sorry.”

  She picked off the last pin with ease. “Now it’s your turn.”

  I did my best, but my pretty orange ball went straight into the gutter. The same thing happened on my second attempt.

  “Jesus,” Myra moaned.

  “Sorry again.”

  The rest of the evening’s four games—or were they called sets, as in tennis?—pretty much went the same. Myra knocked pins down, I left them standing. During the second game I saw Josie and her daughter take up position in the lane next to ours. I waved, but Josie appeared too distracted to notice. Her daughter waved back. From the number of pins they proceeded to knock down, I figured they were no strangers to bowling alleys.

  Two lanes away, Bill bowled expertly with Buster. Further along, Jack Spence bowled with Robin Chase. They both looked like relative beginners, although neither approached my level of ineptness.

  The event grew even more interesting during the third game, when Aster Edwina’s chauffeur walked back into the bowling alley, handed a note to Josie, then left again. After a brief glance, Josie put it in her pocket, and resumed bowling. Her expression was so blank I couldn’t guess at the note’s content. A plea for forgiveness? A bribe? A demand to leave town? Deciding to mind my own business for a change, I resumed bowling.

  “Last chance,” Myra finally said, signaling that the night’s humiliation was at end. “Try not to screw up again.”

  By then, my aim had shown improvement, and the orange ball knocked over two pins.

  “My, my. Only eight to go,” Myra sniped.

  When the orange ball knocked down four more, I gave a loud cheer. Josie and Alyse applauded for me, as did Buster.

  “Beer frame!” Buster shouted, and told the waitress to bring me a brew.

  Myra was less enthusiastic. “Oh, wow. That brings your game score to forty-three.”

  Once I stopped jumping up and down in triumph, I asked, “What’s yours?”

  “Two sixty-five.”

  “That’s good, isn’t it?”

  She stared at me in disbelief.

  A few minutes later, the last ball had been bowled and Zorah, through a microphone, announced it was time to award the prizes.

  You know how these things go. The smaller prizes w
ere handed out first, starting with the Snuggie, which went to a delighted zoo volunteer. Park ranger Lex Yarnell won a year’s free bowling at Lucky Lanes. After that came more gift certificates, the elephant’s painting, various pieces of animal jewelry and statuary, and other animalesque odds and ends. As each prize was collected, the winner’s ticket was put back into the raffle hopper. Then came time for the bowling awards.

  “Best Male Bowler, with the high game score of two eighty-seven, goes to Outback Bill!” Zorah announced to cheers. “Step forward, Bill, and collect your very own rhino dung trophy!”

  With a swagger, he did, but he made certain Zorah returned his ticket to the hopper.

  “The next trophy, for Best Female Bowler, goes to Myra Sebrowski, with a high game score of two sixty-five!”

  The cheers for Myra were nowhere as loud as those for Bill as she simpered up to claim her prize.

  “The trophy for Best Bowling Team, with a combined high game score of five hundred and thirty, goes to the mother/daughter duo of, um, do I have this right? Ms. Josie Speaks-to-Souls and Ms. Alysa Speaks-to-Souls?”

  “That’s us!” Alysa whooped. “Gimme the dung!”

  To a chorus of laugher, Alysa ran forward and clutched the rhino dung to her chest as if it were solid gold. When she returned to her mother, she received another award: a maternal kiss on the cheek.

  While I was thinking about mothers and grandmothers, the microphone squawked. Zorah silenced it with a shake, then said, “That’s not the end of the awards, folks! Tonight we’re going to initiate two new trophies. The award for Most Successful Money-Grubber goes to Teddy Bentley, who—boasting several millionaires among her many acquaintances—raised in excess of $34,000 for Bowling for Rhinos! Teddy is the person who talked Aster Edwina into donating that wonderful African safari for two that we’re all so excited about, a trip that accounted for raffle ticket sales throughout our great state of California. Because of Teddy’s shameless money-grubbing, the Gunn Zoo will now be contributing more than $67,000 to the Lewa Wildlife Conservancy in Kenya. Let’s hear it for Teddy!”