by Dixie Lyle
He waggled the asparagus at me and scowled. “Don’t make this about you. I’m the one paddling this boat down the river of denial, and don’t you forget it. You don’t even get an oar.”
I held up my hands and took a step backward. “How about an and? Or a but?”
He glared at me suspiciously. “I hear one word that sounds even vaguely supernatural, I’m going to stick these in my ears and start singing LA LA LA I CAN’T HEAR YOU. Got it?”
“More or less.”
“Okay, then.” He put asparagus down on a cutting board and raised his knife.
“Two animal gods are about to go to war and you’re going to have to stop them.”
He froze with the knife in midair and slowly turned his head to glare at me. “What? That’s not funny.”
“No, it’s not. Terrifying? Yes. Ludicrous? Maybe. Actually-for-real happening? Yes again.”
“Is it too late to stick these in my ears?”
“Pretty much. But go ahead if it makes you feel better.”
He groaned and put the knife down. “Animal gods. Well, I guess I should have seen that coming. Is it too much to hope these are like goldfish and gecko gods?”
“Lions and tigers,” I admitted. “Both are claiming custodianship of Augustus’s soul.”
Ben shook his head. “Of course they are. And I come into this how?”
“You’re a Thunderbird. Thunderbirds, apparently, are the traditional messengers of the gods.”
His scowl lifted a little. “Oh. Right. I remember reading something about that. I thought it was just … a metaphor, I guess. Not literally true.”
“Metaphors are taking a real beating today. I’d stick to alliteration, if I were you—you’re off to a good start.”
“Great. I’m the go-to guy for gods getting…”
[Garrulous?] Whiskey offered.
“More like grabby,” I said. “Here’s what went down after you left.” I gave him a quick synopsis of the face-off between Apedemek and Waghai Devi, downplaying the cosmic aspect as much as I could. I told him what Eli thought would happen next, and what Ben was expected to do.
When I was done, Ben looked at me blankly. “That’s all, huh?”
“Look at the bright side. If Augustus chooses one side or the other, you don’t have to do a thing.”
“You can’t be serious. The worst thing that could happen would be Augustus picking a side. The loser will immediately accuse the winner of cheating and use it as an excuse to attack.”
“You really think so?”
“I do. This is all about ego, and ego is all about not losing. I’ve seen it happen with chefs—they get so wrapped up in not being second-best they completely lose sight of whatever it is they’re competing for. And as stubborn and proud as chefs are, I’m guessing that’s nothing compared with two cat gods going at it.”
[It’s a shame they weren’t canine deities. My kind would handle this in a much more civilized manner.]
Ben was following this conversation by studying each of them in turn, his eyebrows raised. “Are they always like this?”
“Oh, no. Sometimes they get snarky.”
[Canines are inherently diplomatic. We seek solutions, not conflict.]
Tango rolled her eyes. I’m not sure I’d ever seen a cat do that, but on her it looked perfectly natural.
Whiskey growled, ever so slightly. [I don’t expect a feline to understand the complexities of pack relationships. All canines are descended from animals that ran in groups, but some of us are loners. My power to take on the form of any dog involves more than just appearance; I assume all the traits and abilities of that particular animal. Which means I have known both the fierce family loyalty of a wolf and the self-assured independence of a coyote. You, on the other paw, haven’t even worked out what a laser pointer is yet.]
[Yes, of course it does. Tell me, have you caught it yet?]
Tango’s eyes narrowed. Her tail twitched.
Ben gave me a despairing look. “Right. So domestic cats have a whole belief system built around a cat toy? Okay, that’s useful. I’m sure that’ll come in real handy when dealing with ancient lion and tiger gods. I’ll just run down to the pet store and grab a few windup mice and balls with little bells inside for when the negotiations break down.”
“Look, I’ll help you. And so will Eli—he can’t go there personally, but I’m sure he knows lots of useful—”
“Wait. Go where?”
“Um. To Lion Heaven and Tiger Paradise, I guess. At least initially.”
“Oh, I see. I’m not just a mediator, I’m an envoy. Tell me, is there a human embassy I can stay at in these places, or am I going to have find a Holiday Inn?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “But I’ll find out.”
“I don’t know, Foxtrot. I just don’t know.”
Well, I guessed I don’t know was better than just no. “Give it some thought, all right? Remember, all you’re being asked to do is relay messages. Mostly.”
“Uh-huh.” He looked down and picked up the knife again. “I’ve got to get back to work. It’s almost time for lunch.”
“Sure,” I said. “We’ll talk later. C’mon, guys.”
* * *
My phone rang as I left the kitchen. It was Shondra, telling me that Abazu had left his room and appeared to be going to the menagerie. I thanked her, hung up, and headed for his room. “Whiskey, you’re with me. Tango, go back to the Crossroads and keep an eye on the situation there.”
I used my master key to unlock the door and stepped inside, Whiskey at my heels. “Tell me if your nose detects anything odd.”
[I shall.]
I’m not crazy about snooping through other people’s belongings, but Abazu didn’t have much to snoop through. It looked like about all he’d brought with him was a change of clothing, some cheap toiletries, and a Bible.
But he’d definitely acquired some new items since he arrived: There was a crumpled grocery bag in the wastepaper basket, and an assortment of chocolate bars, soft drinks, and bags of potato chips on the writing desk, along with two large bottles of pop.
I pulled the bag from the basket and uncrumpled it. The receipt was inside; the only things on it were what I saw in front of me. “Man has a taste for American junk food,” I murmured. “You getting anything?”
[Other than the distinctive odors of monosodium glutamate, high-fructose corn syrup, and hydrogenated fats? No.]
I did a thorough search of the room anyway—antifreeze, at least in its pure form, was odorless. I didn’t find anything.
“Strike one,” I sighed, and ushered Whiskey back into the hallway, locking the door behind me. “If Abazu is our killer, he’s smart enough to cover his tracks.”
My next stop was ZZ’s study. ZZ was there, tapping away furiously at her computer; she told me she’d been online all morning, letting people know about Augustus’s death and dealing with the response. Several organizations were calling for an investigation.
“I just talked to Caroline,” said ZZ. She leaned back in her chair, looking exhausted. “She’s finished the necropsy and is documenting all her findings. She’s confirmed that Augustus died from antifreeze poisoning, but I haven’t offi
cially announced that yet.”
I told her I hadn’t found anything conclusive about who’d planted the poison. She told me to keep looking—but right now, it was time for lunch.
Lunch at the Zoransky house was not the formal affair dinner was. Many guests ate at different times, sometimes out at the pool, and we often had Ben prepare picnic baskets for anyone who wanted to enjoy a meal on the estate’s grounds such as the gardens or the grassy lawn. Some guests liked to dine with the animals in the menagerie, while others preferred the quiet of the pet cemetery next door—the ones who couldn’t see all the ghosts, that is.
Today attendance was sparse. Besides ZZ and myself, only Luis Navarro and Zhen Yao showed up; Zhen picked at a salad for a few minutes, then abruptly stood up and left, shooting a hostile glance at Navarro on her way out. Navarro smiled back at her pleasantly.
“I’m surprised nobody else is here,” Navarro said. “Maybe they’re waiting for the buffet spread at the wake.”
“That’s in poor taste,” ZZ said evenly. “Even for you.”
“My apologies. I find levity a healthy antidote for grief.”
“I wasn’t aware you were grieving,” I said.
Navarro took a sip of soup before replying. “I’m not. Just trying to help those who are.”
“Your assistance,” said ZZ, staring at him, “has been noted.”
He ignored the ice in her tone. “I’ve talked to my employer, and he’s prepared to offer you half what he originally proposed. It’s more than generous.”
ZZ shook her head. “I can’t make that decision yet.”
“Why not? Who else wants a dead liger?”
I shot her a warning look, but she missed it. “You don’t have the playing field all to yourself, Mr. Navarro,” said ZZ.
“Oh? And exactly who am I still competing with?”
I saw ZZ realize her mistake. “That’s confidential.”
“If you won’t tell me, I’ll be forced to speculate. Let’s see … Zhen’s still here, so she must be in the running. Karst would probably love to mount a stuffed liger in his jungle lodge, and too opportunistic not to try. Rajiv answers to moneymen, and they’ll be looking to cut their losses with the same thing.” He smiled. “Which leaves Abazu. I’m guessing he’s still around for some kind of spiritual reason, even though he can’t scrape two dimes together. Am I wrong?”
ZZ glowered at him but said nothing.
“So really, we’re right back where we started,” he said. “Except for one thing.”
“Which is?” I asked.
He spread his hands out, indicating the whole table. “I’m the only one who stuck around for lunch…”
I couldn’t argue with that. The question was, were people staying away out of respect, fear … or guilt?
* * *
After lunch I went looking for Zhen Yao. I was hoping to find out where she’d gone when she’d left last night; having struck out on finding a smoking gun in Abazu’s room, maybe I could at least eliminate one of the other suspects.
I found her in the exercise room, furiously pedaling away on a stationary bike. ZZ had a big screen set up in front of it, with a program linked to Google’s Street View so that you could pedal your way down just about any road in the world. It looked like Zhen was currently pumping up a hill somewhere in China.
“Hi,” I said. “Hate to interrupt your workout, but I thought I owed you another apology. It didn’t look like you enjoyed your lunch very much.”
She kept her eyes focused on the road. “The food was fine.”
“But not the company?”
Her eyes flickered ever so briefly to me. “I would prefer not to eat with a criminal.”
“Understandable. The offer to put you up in a hotel is still good.”
She shook her head. “That is not necessary. I am fine here.”
“I see you’re enjoying our workout facilities. You know, if you’d prefer the real thing, we have bikes available, too.”
She stopped pedaling and coasted to a virtual stop, the imagery on screen stopping its relentless-yet-motionless flow. I’ve used the biking program a few times, but I find it kind of eerie; it feels like I’m moving so fast that everyone else is frozen in place, or maybe that I’m traveling through some kind of landscape full of life-like wax dummies.
“That would be preferable, thank you,” she said. She was a little out of breath, but not much; I could see that she was in pretty good shape. “I tried to rent a bicycle in town last night, but was unsuccessful.”
Ah, so that’s where she’d gone. “Yeah, businesses don’t stay open too late on weekdays. I’m sorry you were disappointed.”
“It’s all right. I went for a walk instead. Not as strenuous, but still good.” She got off the bike, grabbed a water bottle, and took a long drink. “I found a nice park. There were ducks.”
“Bikes are in the garage. Victor keeps them tuned up and ready; just let me know when you’d like to go for a ride and I’ll have one brought around.”
“Thank you.”
After I left, I thought about what she’d said. Maybe she’d just gone for a walk like she’d said—or maybe she’d done a little shopping, too. There was no way to tell. So much for eliminating her as a suspect.
Then I went back to the graveyard. Part of me was wondering if it would still be there.
As soon as Whiskey and I stepped through the gate, I heard Tango’s voice in my head.
Uh-oh. What happened?
Which is when I saw the Chihuahuas.
There were about twenty of them, and they looked terrified. They came tearing over a hill, yapping at the top of their little ectoplasmic lungs, and right behind them came a liger.
He wasn’t behind them for long, though. Two quick bounds and he was in front of them, causing them all to come to an abrupt, skidding, yelping halt. One of them couldn’t quite stop in time; he slid right up to Augustus, who promptly swatted him with a paw the size of a handball racket. The Chihuhua found himself flying back over the hill around three feet off the ground, giving off a high-pitched yipe the entire way.
Tango trotted up as the pack of Chihuahuas tore off in another direction. Augustus sat down and licked his paw as if it had gotten some dog stuck to it, then suddenly tore off after them.
“What’s going on?” I said. “I thought animals weren’t supposed to behave this way in the Crossroads.”
“Why? What’s gotten into him?”
Tango gave out a sigh that sounded a little envious.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“Catnip?” I said. “Are you telling me Augustus is—”
[Well, I suppose that as far as incentives go—]
“Okay, okay, I get it.” But I didn’t, not really. I mean, I guess I’d heard the phrase Nectar of the Gods, but that was about wine and Greeks. This was about dead cats and tiger gods and kitty drugs.
“Oh, good,” I said wearily. “My weirdness quotient was looking sort of low today. This should bump it right up.”
[Perhaps we should intercede,] Whiskey suggested. I could still hear the frenzied yipping of small dogs being abused in the distance.
I took off in that direction, Whiskey and Tango right behind me. “Are those dogs in danger? I mean, they’re already dead, right?”
[They can be harmed by another, more powerful spirit. But I suspect it is only their dignity that will suffer in this case.]
We sprinted over the rise. Below, Augustus had apparently lost interest in the chase and was rolling around on his back on a freshly turned grave. I stopped, unsure what to do. “Okay, Tango. Who gave him the stuff?”
“It isn’t?”
“Great. How long is it going to last?”
[You’re drooling on a headstone.]
“Where’s Waghai Devi now? Maybe we can go ask her.”
Of course she did. Leaving an extremely stoned liger ghost to frolic in the Crossroads. No doubt she was hoping he’d get into some sort of trouble, letting her step in and be all understanding and supportive—not to mention offering him some more heavenly catnip. This was starting to feel like a nasty divorce, with both parents trying to turn the kid against the other.
“Then I guess we’ll have to keep him busy,” I said. “Tango, I want you to talk to him.”
“Then talk to him about cake. Delicious, yummy, mouse-flavored cake that scurries under the furniture when you try to eat it.”
Whiskey grunted. [If I may make a suggestion?]
[Exactly my point. Inebriation is usually a shared endeavor. And often, if two people have no other common ground to stand on, they can at least discuss the experience they’re currently sharing.]
