by Erin Johnson
"We may have asked you questions before, but you didn't give us many answers." Peter’s tone was serious but kind. "If you'd like this to be over, you're going to need to cooperate with us. So for starters, how did you break in?"
Libbie scoffed. "I didn't break in. I'm the head zookeeper, like I said, and this animal needs medical attention. I was just getting her to a vet—"
Daisy, still getting rubs from the tall officer, cut her off with a growl. Lies.
I shot Daisy a flat look as she plunked her haunches onto the grassy ground and her leg twitched as if wanting to scratch the same spot the cop was. I rolled my eyes. So intimidating.
Peter's tone grew harder. "As I mentioned when we caught you, my canine partner, Daisy, can smell lies."
I raised my eyebrows. "And she just called you out."
It was hard to tell in the dim light—the cop leaning against the wall had lit his wand for us to see by—but I thought some color rose to Libbie’s cheeks. She let out a sigh. "Fine. I don't work here anymore, but I did up until a week ago. I still have a key—so I didn’t technically break in.”
I nodded. “And this, technically, isn’t your wombat.”
The cop who’d be leaning against the wall stomped forward and held his palm out. Libbie rolled her eyes but dug around in her jeans pocket, then slapped her hand into the cop’s, leaving behind a small gold key.
I frowned. "Why did you break in and steal a wombat, of all things?”
Libby's expression darkened, and she stomped her foot. "I didn't steal her! She's mine!"
Daisy whined, her leg still twitching as the cop worked that spot behind her ear. True.
Libbie frowned at Daisy, then looked hopefully up at Peter. "What did that mean?"
I smirked. “That you're telling the truth."
Peter cocked a brow. "At least, that you believe it's true." He eyed her thoughtfully. "Why do you think the wombat is yours?"
Libby splayed her palms. "I used to have my own private zoo. Malorie and Quincy shut me down."
I scoffed; I couldn't help myself. "And then you went to work for them? That didn’t bother you?”
"No!" It was Libbie’s turn to scoff. “Malorie educated me on how what I was doing was hurting the animals—keeping them isolated and putting them on exhibit for the public."
I glanced behind me toward the enclosures and couldn't help but feel the sting of irony. It wasn’t a zoo, but the sanctuary still gave tours to the public. If that was hurting the animals, then Malorie’s place hadn't been any better than Libbie’s. At least in that regard.
"Once I realized what I was doing was bad for the animals, I didn't want to keep my zoo going anyway. By joining the sanctuary, I got to help animals and keep working with them."
Peter, both cops, and I dropped our gazes to Daisy, who whined. True.
Libbie raised her chin, as if to say, see. "Besides, I was grateful. I'm in the business to be close to the animals, but before, when I had the private zoo of my own, I was spending all my time behind a desk."
I crossed my arms and leveled Libbie with a “get real” look. "It wasn't weird working for the woman who put you out of business?"
Libby shook her head, her curls bouncing over her shoulders. "No way."
Daisy whined again. Truth.
I scoffed. "You’ve got to be kidding me." I looked up at Peter. "You think her sniffer is misfiring again?"
Peter shot his dog a doubtful look, then turned back to Libbie. "Okay. So if you were happy working for Malorie and Quincy at the sanctuary for the last…?”
Libbie rocked on her heels. "Five years."
Peter nodded. "Okay, five years. Then what happened for you to suddenly leave a week ago? And why didn't Malorie just allow you to take the wombat with you, if it rightfully belongs to you?"
I thumbed at Peter. "What he said. Because we have a couple of witnesses who seem to think you left on bad terms."
Libbie sucked on her full lips and darted a glance at Daisy. "Look, Malorie and I had our differences, yes, and at times it could get a little heated."
Daisy growled. Partial truth.
"So what got you two so heated last week that Malorie fired you?"
A hint of color flushed her cheeks. "Oh, well…." Libbie shifted on her feet. "I wanted a raise, and Malorie disagreed. I laid out my arguments and… eventually we agreed to part ways with a generous severance payment." She shot me a pointed look. "She did not fire me."
I pressed my lips tight together and returned the look. I’d bet there was a lot more to it than that.
Libbie stepped a little closer and held her palms up. "I know they're in the middle of their hoity-toity party, but just go get Malorie and ask her. I'm sure she'll say it's fine if I take Cassie.”
Right. So fine that Libbie decided to just go ahead and take the wombat in the middle of the night, dressed all in black, and leave by hopping the wall. I frowned as the other thing she’d said sunk in.
Peter frowned and asked the question on the tip of my tongue. "Wait. Go ask Malorie?” He glanced at the other officers, then back at Libbie. "Do you not know?"
Libbie grew still, brows pinched in doubt. "Know what?"
Peter licked his lips and softened his tone. “Malorie Rutherford is dead.”
14
Libbie
“You weren’t aware of that?”
"What?" Libbie gasped and searched Peter's face. "No!"
Daisy wagged her tail and whined. Truth.
Libbie yanked her hands out of her pockets and dragged them down her face. "What? How?"
Peter and I exchanged looks. She clearly didn't kill Malorie, unless she’d managed to do it without knowing she’d done it. And that didn't seem likely, given the one victim was hit over the head and shot with a poisoned dart, and the other had been stabbed in the chest with a snakin’ necklace.
Peter narrowed his eyes. "Did you see Malorie or anyone else when you snuck in to get the wombat?"
Libbie’s chest heaved, and it took her a few moments to gather herself. "I figured with the party going on, nobody would be in the back… but I saw Malorie talking with her stepdaughter, Rebecca. It was through several enclosures, so I couldn't hear what they were saying, but Rebecca seemed really upset—her face was all red and blotchy."
Peter and I exchanged significant looks.
“Did Rebecca look mad enough to kill?"
Libbie shrugged.
I lifted a palm. “Can you think of a reason Rebecca would've wanted to kill Malorie?”
Libbie let out a humorless laugh. "Aside from the fact that she hated her? The woman stole her dad away from her mom and broke up their family—she never got over it."
Peter nodded at me. That jived with what the others had told us. Rebecca Rutherford was seeming more and more like our prime suspect.
That thinking crease appeared between Peter’s brows. "Aside from Rebecca, can you think of anyone who would have wanted to harm Malorie?”
Libbie snickered. "Before tonight, I would've said most people should be afraid of Malorie harming them."
Peter shot her a perplexed look.
I leaned into one hip. "Are you referring to the rumors that she murdered her first husband?"
Libbie nodded. "Yep."
Peter glanced at Daisy, who indicated she was telling the truth. He turned back to Libbie. "You believe she did it?”
"Oh, yeah." Libbie rolled a wrist. "If you ask me, she got what was coming to her."
Wow. This gal wasn’t mincing words. Peter's eyes grew round, as I'm sure mine did.
Libbie startled and waved her hands. "Not that I did it! But to answer your question, you might look into WWAAC, the animal rights organization. They sent this guy, Zane Perez, to be a mole. He tried to get me to turn on the sanctuary, to say they were mistreating animals and stuff."
I arched a brow. “Were they?”
She snorted. “Not that I saw. I told Malorie about Zane, and they had a huge fight—she practica
lly threw him out of the sanctuary and threatened that if he or anyone from WWAAC ever tried to get in again, she’d sue them for everything they're worth."
I frowned. "Sue? That's it? She didn’t threaten to disembowel them or anything?”
Libbie shrugged. "Nah. Malorie was pretty even keeled most of the time."
I gave her a doubtful look. “Except for when she was murdering her husband?”
She gave me a sheepish look. “Yeah, except for then.”
Peter frowned at her. “Any idea why we found a certain photo of the last Night of the Phoenix party in the office safe? Quincy indicated you’d found it and showed it to Malorie.”
She glanced at Daisy, then smirked. “Yeah, I think it reminded Malorie of her ex-husband and she felt guilty and wanted to lock it away.”
We looked at Daisy. She whined. Truth.
Libbie’s shoulders slumped and she clasped her hands together beseechingly, looking from Peter to me. "Look—Cassie was one of my original animals. I raised her since she was a baby, bottle-fed her even. Can I please take Cassie with me?"
I pressed my lips together and looked up at Peter, waiting for his decision. He pinched the bridge of his nose. "It's pretty clear, per the law, that this wombat belongs to the sanctuary." He let out a heavy sigh. "At the same time, the sanctuary is now understaffed, a dangerous firebird is on the loose, and I'm not sure how safe the place is, given we’re dealing with a double homicide."
Libbie’s eyes grew round. "Double?"
Peter ignored her question and turned to me. "If you're game, Jolene, maybe you could read the wombat’s mind and see who she'd rather live with?" He raised his brows, and I grinned and nodded.
"Sure. Why not?" I tromped through the grasses, lifted the surprisingly heavy leather backpack, and half carried, half dragged the grunting wombat a little way away from everyone else. Despite the whistling of the wind and the odd animal shriek here and there, it was pretty quiet out, and I didn't want to be overheard by those who didn't know about my special abilities.
I crouched down in front of the backpack, then glanced up at Libbie. “Do wombats bite?" Come to think of it, what was a wombat even? I didn’t think I’d ever seen one in person.
Libbie smiled and called back, "No way. Not my Cassie. She's a sweetheart."
That didn’t exactly answer my question, so with some misgivings I slowly unzipped the top of the pack. A brown furry head as large as mine popped out of the pack. The thing looked like a mix between a koala and a giant hamster. Its little round ears twitched, as did its whiskers, as its dark nose sniffed the air.
I took a deep breath, and never having spoken wombat before, hesitantly opened my mouth, unsure of the noises that were about to come out. As quietly as I could, I let out a series of grunts, clicks, and finished it all off with one hoarse cough. Lovely.
Heya, Cassie, my name’s Jolene. Can I ask you a few questions?
The wombat blinked her dark round eyes at me. She let out a piercing shriek that sounded like a pig squeal. I jerked back, shocked.
Hi, there! I'm Cassie! Nice to meet you! She lifted her nose in the air and took a deep breath followed by a heavy huff. She let out another shriek. Ah, the sweet, sweet taste of freedom.
I frowned, unsure if she was talking about freedom after her time in the sanctuary or her time the backpack. I let out a few more grunts and groans. Do you know this woman over here?
The backpack tipped and rocked as Cassie pulled her mouse-like paws out and gripped the open edge of the pack. She rotated around until she could see Libbie, then bounced like a dog happy to see its owner. She let out a few more shrieks. This time I caught sight of her long, rat-like front teeth. Oh, good. So she was basically an enormous rodent.
Oh, yeah! She's my girl! I love this lady. She raised me by hand.
Okay. That was a good sign for Libbie, but it didn't necessarily mean Cassie wanted to go with her. I took a deep breath and let out a few more grunts and clicks. Cassie, Libbie is leaving the sanctuary for good. She wants to take you with her. Do you want to go with Libbie, or would you rather stay behind at the sanctuary?
Cassie bounced on her back legs and let out some low grunts. I want to go with Libbie! I want to go with Libbie!
I raised my brows. Well, that was pretty definitive. But I tried again, grunting and growling. You sure? You don't want to stay behind with your other wombat friends?
Cassie’s eyes narrowed, and she let out a low growl. No way. There's only one other wombat, anyway. That guy is—she cocked her head, thinking—that guy is weird.
I frowned. Weird, how?
She grunted. Hard to talk to. Gives me the heebie-jeebies. She threw her head back and jumped again. I want to go with Libbie! Libbie, Libbie, Libbie!
All right, that settled it for me, at least. I dusted off the black slacks I'd borrowed and stood, dragging the pack back to the little group.
Libbie watched intently, her hands clasped together. "Well?"
I looked at Peter and shrugged. "Cassie said she wanted to go with Libbie.”
The former zookeeper let out a happy shriek and dashed over to the pack, scooping the wombat and the bag up together and holding them tight to her. She squeezed her eyes shut, still squealing and rocked back and forth.
While I knew we weren't technically following the letter of the law, I couldn't help but smile up at Peter. He’d done a good thing, reuniting a wombat with her adopted mother. I squeezed his arm. "Nice work Officer Flint. You’ve made that lady and that wombat very happy.”
Peter nodded, his lips pressed tight together. I suspected he wasn't entirely comfortable with this decision, but I felt it was the right one, morally. Most of the time, people had to guess at animals’ wishes and make the best decisions they could. But in this case, Cassie had let us know exactly what she wanted for herself, and I thought it right to honor that. Plus, the two of them were pretty cute together.
Peter cleared his throat. "Miss Brown?"
Libbie and the wombat, still embracing each other, looked our way.
Peter’s tone grew serious. "Don't leave the island—you’re still a suspect in an active investigation."
Libbie nodded and went back to squealing and hugging Cassie. Peter glanced down at me, his expression soft, and winked.
15
Rebecca
Peter, Daisy, and I left Libbie to celebrate with her wombat and headed back toward the big stone mansion.
"I think we need to go speak to this Rebecca Rutherford person, Malorie’s stepdaughter." Peter's warm hand wrapped around mine.
"Agreed." I ticked the facts off on my free hand. "We have multiple witnesses who all say Rebecca hated Malorie, she crashed the party tonight, and Libbie saw the two of them arguing in the sanctuary. Quincy probably left the office unlocked, giving Rebecca access to the poisoned dart. She's got means, motive, and opportunity."
Peter grinned down at me.
"What?" I pursed my lips and opened my eyes wide.
He shook his head, smiling. "Nothing, just… you sound like a cop again."
I grinned, pleased. "Or a good lawyer."
After some asking around, we discovered that Rebecca was no longer at the party. I raised my brows at that. "Fleeing the scene of a crime? Sounds like something a murderer would do."
Peter called up to Edna at the station using his magical communication device and got Rebecca Rutherford's address.
Peter, his canine partner, and I trekked through the blustery fall night, my hands shoved in my pockets, until we reached the lower tier of the island, just a couple of levels above my own home in the dingy Darkmoon Nightmarket district.
A bell rang as we stepped into the building's lobby. Scratched brass mailboxes lined the left-hand wall, while a flickering chandelier cast the only light in the mildewed space. We made our way across a rug that looked like it was more dust than fabric and climbed the rickety, groaning staircase to the third floor.
I raised a brow. "This is where Re
becca lives? I thought the Rutherfords were well-off."
Peter glanced back at me. "Quincy told us that Malorie’s first husband left everything to her, remember?” He frowned as he took in the peeling wallpaper and the sparking enchanted oil lantern on the wall. "Guess he meant everything."
Something heavy thumped against the hallway wall to our right, and shouts sounded behind the next door. Peter hesitated, clearly wanting to intervene, but I placed my hands on his shoulders and pushed him forward.
"One case at a time, Officer Flint."
Peter rapped on the door with a brass number three nailed crookedly into it. Light footsteps sounded, followed by the click of several locks, and then the door opened a crack. A pale eye peered out at us.
"What do you want?"
Hospitality at its finest.
Peter cleared his throat. "I'm Officer Flint, and this is my partner, Daisy." He turned to look at me, and his lips twitched toward a smile. "And this is police consultant Jolene Hartgrave. We're looking for Rebecca Rutherford?"
The woman’s eye, barely visible through the dark crack in the door, grew wider, then her lid fluttered and she stumbled back. "I— Now is not a good time. Come back later."
I pressed my lips together and raised my brows at Peter. That was exactly what a guilty party would do.
"I'm sorry, ma'am, but this can't wait. Are you Rebecca Rutherford?"
The woman let out a choked sob, then dragged herself to the door. She slid the chain off then opened it wider. She stood to the side, her head hanging, and gestured for us to enter. "Yes, I'm Rebecca Rutherford. Come in." She said it like she already knew she was done for.
I followed Peter and Daisy inside and looked around. She hadn’t been kidding about it being a bad time. Unless her apartment looked like this all the time? I shuddered.
Shouts and thumps still sounded from the neighbors through the thin walls. A dead plant sat in front of the window, which had been propped slightly open and let in sounds from the street—shattering glass and angry shouts. I raised my eyebrows and nodded as I looked around. Felt like home. It was extremely odd for an heiress to be living in the kind of squalor I was used to.
