I stepped inside and shot the deadbolt. My blinds were drawn and my windows locked, but I checked them again. Fanny began to howl when she realized I was back inside. I opened the bathroom door and grabbed her in a hug that set her struggling for freedom.
I went back to bed, despairing of getting enough sleep to work eight hours the next day and sit through the ballet in the evening. Before long, it occurred to me that I had to dispose of the snake’s carcass before some hungry scavenger showed up to finish the buffet. If I threw it out into the barnyard, I’d invite more nocturnal predators. I had no choice but to bring it inside until I figured out how to get rid of it. I got up, pulled on my boots again and poured a glass of wine, which I chugged. I had no rubber gloves, so I dug out my ski mittens. No way was I going to touch that defiled reptile with my bare hands. I found a plastic grocery bag in my kitchen waste basket and pulled a pair of old barbeque tongs from my utensil drawer.
Flipping on the porch light, I edged out the door. Starting with the head, I stuffed the limp snake into the bag inch by inch. When my tongs gripped the snake near the tail, the rattles buzzed, and I panicked. I dropped the tongs and jumped back. The snake slipped out of the bag head first and slithered into my apartment through the open door.
I shut the door behind it and stood on my deck, paralyzed. From inside I heard Fanny growl deep in her throat. She and Bosco were in there with that monster. I scrambled downstairs to the barn, looking for a weapon. Hay hooks? No good. Shovel? Possible. I scanned the tool storage area in the dim light. No shovel. No hatchet. Heart hammering, I opened the enclosure where Jack stored hay. Pitchfork. Not as good as a shovel, but better than nothing.
I ran back up the stairs and tried to look in a window, but of course the shades were all drawn, and the windows were locked. I went to the door and opened it a crack. No sign of the snake. I opened the door a few more inches and slipped inside. Fanny was perched on my kitchen table staring toward the open bathroom door. I followed her sight line and saw the snake curled at the base of the toilet.
Its spade-shaped head was twice the size of the head on Jack’s pet king snake. The markings on its mid-section looked like brown blotches with light-colored edges. The creature’s posterior section was ringed with black and white bands, which gave way to the impressive set of rattles. In a lethargic, undulating movement, it receded behind the toilet toward the back wall.
I closed the bathroom door, pulled a damp towel out of my hamper and stuffed it in the crack below the door. Bosco was in his cage, so I grabbed it, and Fanny, and shut them both in the closet. They immediately set up a ruckus of screeches and howls.
I took a moment to calm down, but I had to get the rattler out of my bathroom pretty soon. I was going to need my toilet. The racket in the closet continued until I opened the door and let the cat out. She wasn’t much in the way of backup, but I’d heard somewhere that snakes and cats are natural enemies. That was good enough for me.
With the pitchfork hoisted in my right hand like a javelin, I opened the bathroom door and flipped on the light. The rattler stirred and tasted the air with its forked tongue. Fanny erupted in a blood-curdling, deep-throated moan. Her back went up and her tail bushed out. The snake slid out from behind the toilet and began to coil itself. My arm trembled with the weight of the pitchfork. My best shot would be to aim at the coils. I had no idea how far the rattler’s striking distance was, but it seemed to me I was well within range. When the rattles began to buzz, I thrust the pitchfork.
Three out of four tines hit their mark. The snake writhed and lashed, but it was fatally pinned. I shut the bathroom door and sat on the edge of my bed trembling while I waited for the miserable creature to finish its death throes. When I finally peeked in the bathroom, there was no sign of life, and I really needed to use the toilet. I stared at the impaled snake while I emptied my bladder. No mistake this time; it was dead. Just the same, I left it pinned to the bathroom floor while I had another glass of wine, and then another. Then I went outside to scrub the deck where the raccoons had drawn rattler blood.
At one o’clock, half-looped and smelling of Pine-Sol, I dropped into bed and drifted toward oblivion with my flashlight in one hand and my little hammer tucked under my pillow.
Wednesday morning came too soon, and with it, the problem of disposing of a rattler carcass. I didn’t have time to bury it, and even if I did, the vultures that patrolled the skies above Coyote Creek would likely catch its scent and dig it up. I decided to put the reptile’s remains in a plastic garbage bag and shove it into the freezer compartment of my fridge until I could tell Hannah about it.
Her father, Jack’s younger son, was an avid fossil hunter who enjoyed bleaching and mounting the skeletons of small animals and reptiles. They were quite artistic and beautiful, and he donated many of them to the Natural History Museum. He never killed a creature just to mount it, so we all checked with him when we came across a carcass, in case he wanted it for his collection.
I had no appetite for breakfast, so I made a quick stop for coffee at Starbucks and managed to reach work on time.
When Maybelline appeared, her orange jacket and matching carrot-colored hair made my bleary eyes ache, but the sight of her reminded me of my lunch with Jared Quinn two days earlier. If my chatty volunteer knew anything about the administrator’s former Parisian wife, odds were I could coax it out of her.
“Morning, Ms. Machado,” Maybelline said. “Do we have any special projects today?”
How to broach the subject of the former Mrs. Quinn? I knew she thought Jared was trouble. As she’d warned me earlier: “He’s a womanizer, you’re a woman.”
“There’s something I’d like to ask you,” I said. “Mr. Quinn did a favor for a friend of mine last night. I’d like to find some way to thank him, but I know so little about him. I thought you might have a suggestion.”
Maybelline’s protruding eyes gleamed with curiosity. “Are you thinking of a gift?”
“Something like that, but I wouldn’t want to make it too personal. He is single, at least that’s what I heard, and I don’t want to give the wrong impression.”
“Oh, he’s single, all right.” Her reply was heavy with innuendo. There’s more, but you’ll have to drag it out of me.
“Then it’s true he’s never been married?”
“Never married? Oh no, that’s not right. Vane says there’s a wife in Mr. Quinn’s past. A sad story.”
“Vane?” She used Beardsley’s first name, but wouldn’t use mine?
“Yes, Dr. Beardsley.” Maybelline blushed. “All of us old timers call him Vane in private. He’s very dear to us.”
“I see. But you said there’s a sad story about Mr. Quinn’s wife.”
“Yes. Very sad. A stunning beauty by all accounts. French, you know. She worked in television in Paris. Talk show. Like Oprah.”
“What’s her name?”
Maybelline frowned. “I don’t think I ever heard, but it doesn’t matter. She’s dead now.”
That news ramped up my curiosity. “How terrible. Was it an illness? She must have been fairly young.”
“A tragic, violent death is what I heard.”
“Did you ever meet her?”
“Heavens, no. It happened before he came to work here. That’s all I know. The way he carries on now, with every kind of woman, seems an insult to her memory.”
“You mentioned before that he dates a lot.”
“I should say. Even that man-eating Bonnie Beardsley a time or two.”
Hold the phone. What was she implying? “Are you saying Jared Quinn was involved with Bonnie Beardsley?”
“Involved? Nothing that official, and it was quite some time ago. Bonnie set her sights on Quinn, but he dropped her after a couple dates. Didn’t take him long to see her for what she was. That’s when she moved on to poor, gullible Vane. She had better luck there.” She laid a hand on my arm. “Mind you, this is all off the record. I don’t believe in spreading gossip.”
<
br /> “Of course not,” I said.
“And don’t worry, dear. I’ll work on that gift thing. You came to the right person.”
Chapter 18
I watched Maybelline fill her book cart and head out on her morning rounds. Supplying reading material to our patients seemed to be the extent of her skills. She ignored any technology more complex than the telephone. She never volunteered for any chores that required complicated thought or attention to detail. The concept of Library of Congress call numbers was foreign to her. She resisted any attempts from me to teach her the combination of alphabet, whole numbers and decimals used to shelve books in their correct order.
I was shelving a few medical texts myself when Arnie Palmer called just before noon to confirm our ballet date. I assured him I would be in the Civic Center lobby by seven thirty that evening. He sounded so innocent and eager I felt a little guilty about suspecting him of murder. As I hung up, I noticed Maybelline had come back from her rounds. The gleam in her eye convinced me she’d been eavesdropping, so I confessed I had a date for the ballet.
“Not with Mr. Quinn, I hope.”
“No. Someone else.”
“Lovely,” she said.
Maybelline’s shift ended at noon. After she left I spent my lunch hour napping on the ratty old chaise lounge crammed into the library’s employee restroom. I hung a PLEASE KNOCK LOUDLY sign on the library door, but not a soul interrupted my snooze.
I woke up feeling refreshed enough to concentrate on a tutorial handout I was creating to help patrons use our new online forensic databases. The subscriptions had cost Dr. Beardsley big bucks, so the least I could do was make sure their use justified their cost. It would also show administration and the medical staff what my job could do to support their work. That kept me busy until quitting time.
At home, I checked messages. Amah had left one saying the usual wonderful time was being had, but the good news was they’d been invited on a once-in-a-lifetime llama packing trip into Washington’s North Cascade Mountains. Instead of heading home, they would be gone several more days, probably out of cellphone range, so not to worry if I didn’t hear from them.
“Don’t forget Fanny’s fur ball medicine,” Amah said. “And Jack says don’t forget to feed the king snake.” That made my day.
Their prolonged absence would buy some sorely needed time. Maybe enough to figure out what had happened to Bonnie Beardsley. I still hoped the mystery would be solved before Amah and Jack returned.
I walked up to the main house and checked on their snake. It was my least favorite task, but even more so since my encounter with the rattler the night before. Their reptile had finished shedding, so he was going to be hungry. The feeding instructions were taped to the aquarium. I would need to stop by the pet store for a live mouse. I counted llamas on my walk back down the lane to the barn. The little white cria named Moonbeam frolicked in circles around her mama, looking more like a fluffy wind-up toy than a real animal. I tossed hay, replenished poultry feeders and provided fresh water to the entire menagerie. I finished with less than an hour to get ready for the ballet.
Showered, dressed and primped, I had groomed myself for a man I barely knew, who might or might not be planning to commit mayhem or worse on my person before the night was over.
Judging by the number of cars in the Civic Center parking lot, Giselle was sold out. Happy memories of my childhood ballet classes came to mind as I hurried to the lobby entrance. Arnie was already there, studying his wristwatch. When I spotted him and waved, he looked confused until I got close enough for him to recognize my face.
“Hi Arnie, it’s me, Aimee Machado.” His face brightened with relief. Poor guy, I wondered how often he got stood up.
“Hi. I didn’t recognize you for a moment. I was looking for a blonde.”
“I was wearing a wig when we met. Sorry.”
“Don’t be. Dark hair suits you better.”
It was thirty minutes before the curtain rose, so Arnie suggested we have a drink. We strolled to the bar at one end of the lobby.
“You look lovely,” he said. “I hope you’ll thank your boyfriend for me.”
I’d almost forgotten about my boyfriend. “He should be thanking you.” I said. “He hates ballet.”
“His loss.”
“You look very nice, too.” I would have said it just to be polite, but it was true. Arnie had gone all out. His tux was the ultimate in good taste and fit like a custom job. His skin had a healthy glow, and I could have sworn he was taller than I remembered.
With our wine glasses in hand, we stood people-watching as balletomanes entered the building. Arnie held his glass in his right hand, then switched to his left. I couldn’t be sure which hand was dominant. He seemed to enjoy making witty, sometimes catty, observations about various people in the lobby.
“See that couple coming in?” He jutted his chin in the direction of Willow and Grover Underhill. I’d nearly forgotten about the Everlasting Pets proprietors and their connection to Bonnie Beardsley. I turned my back to them.
“Do you know those people?” I asked.
“I know they have a reputation as swingers.”
“I’m not certain how you mean that.” I had a pretty good idea, but I wanted him to say it.
“Wife-swapping, ménage à trois, that sort of thing.”
Bingo. I recalled Willow’s odd, almost seductive behavior toward me the day I visited Everlasting Pets. And these swingers had considered Bonnie Beardsley a soul mate.
“That sort of thing doesn’t appeal to me.”
“Me either,” Arnie said. “Sex is complicated enough when it’s just two people.”
I didn’t respond. We passed a moment in awkward silence, broken when the lobby lights flashed.
“Maybe we should find our seats,” I said.
I was filled with excitement as we made our way to the dress circle. What a difference a day made—from dead rattlesnake to Giselle. I read the synopsis of the ballet to refresh my memory. Giselle’s untimely death and Albrecht’s subsequent broken heart led me back to Maybelline’s recounting of Jared Quinn’s ill-fated marriage. At least the Quinns had made it to the altar. I reminded myself to research the deceased Mrs. Jared Quinn the first chance I got.
Arnie and I parted in the crowded lobby during intermission, heading for our respective restrooms. My line was longer, of course, so I expected to find him waiting for me as I descended the stairs from the mezzanine. I stopped halfway down the staircase to scan the crowd. No Arnie.
Lobby lights flashed, warning patrons to return to their seats, but there was no sign of Arnie. I headed back toward our seats and spotted him standing in the aisle chatting with none other than Willow and Grover Underhill. Odd, after his comment about their lifestyle. Arnie spotted me, waved me over and did the honors.
“Willow and Grover Underhill, I’d like to introduce Aimee Machado.”
Thank God I hadn’t given them a fake name when I’d visited them in a professional capacity.
Willow’s eyes narrowed. “I think we’ve met. You have the emu, right?”
“Camel,” Grover corrected.
“It’s a llama,” I said. “They’re related to camels, but smaller.”
“Yes, of course.” Willow persisted. “Have you decided about the cloning?”
“Not yet.” I glanced at Arnie. His curiosity was obvious, but he kept quiet. I wasn’t the only one who hadn’t acknowledged knowing the Underhills.
Grover hung an arm over Arnie’s shoulders, and another over mine. “Say, why don’t we all go out for drinks after?”
“Yes,” Willow gushed. “You two are such a darling couple, and it’s so hard to meet people with similar interests in this town. We must get to know each other better.”
Most of the audience had returned to their seats. I shot Arnie a get us out of this look.
“Thanks, but we’ve made other plans,” he said.
“That’s too bad.” Willow pulled a busines
s card from her purse and pressed it into my hand. “Miss Machado, you must visit us in our new location. You do want to make plans for that special pet of yours, don’t you?”
The Underhills departed for the balcony, and Arnie and I returned to our seats. By the time Albrecht survived the dance of death and Giselle drifted out of his life forever, I was emotionally exhausted. I thought I had been prepared because I knew the story line, but watching the inspired performance by this troupe had an unexpected emotional impact. The heartbreak and finality of the couple’s loss of love reminded me of Nick and brought me close to tears.
Chapter 19
Applause filled the theatre at curtain call. House lights came up and we began our halting progress toward the exit. Arnie and I found ourselves stalled behind a group of folks who were too busy critiquing the performance to notice that they were blocking traffic. While we waited for the exodus to pick up speed, I heard a familiar voice.
“Yoo-hoo, Ms. Machado. Wait up.”
It seemed impossible, but I recognized the voice of Maybelline Black as she and Orrie Mercer descended from the nosebleed seats in the balcony. Maybelline’s choice of formal wear might have been surprising if I hadn’t already been familiar with her flamboyant taste: a black velvet tunic trimmed with a wide collar of black ostrich feathers. Her spindly legs were encased in leopard print tights, and on her feet she wore metallic gold ankle boots with three-inch heels. She had a fake beauty mark glued to the corner of her upper lip.
Stunned as I was, I managed to grasp the piece of knowledge this chance meeting confirmed. Maybelline and Orrie were indeed an item.
“One of the auxiliary girls came down with shingles, so she gave me her tickets,” Maybelline explained. “Wasn’t that a stroke of luck?”
I doubted the woman with shingles saw it that way. I made introductions, all the while ignoring the blatant curiosity in Maybelline’s enormous eyes. She was giving Arnie an examination only slightly less thorough than a full body CT scan.
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