The Llama of Death

by Betty Webb

  The Llama of Death

  A Gunn Zoo Mystery

  Betty Webb

  www.BettyWebb-Mystery.com

  Poisoned Pen Press

  Copyright © 2013 by Betty Webb

  First E-book Edition 2013

  ISBN: 9781615954278 ebook

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.

  The historical characters and events portrayed in this book are inventions of the author or used fictitiously.

  *The song “Gathering Flowers for the Master’s Bouquet” was written by Marvin Blumgardener in 1947. It was recorded by Hank Williams and Kitty Wells that same year, and is now being used as a ringtone.

  Poisoned Pen Press

  6962 E. First Ave., Ste. 103

  Scottsdale, AZ 85251

  www.poisonedpenpress.com

  info@poisonedpenpress.com

  Contents

  The Llama of Death

  Contents

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Epilogue No. 1

  Epilogue No. 2

  More from this Author

  Contact Us

  Dedication

  To the memory of Lawrence George Olson

  November 13, 1936–April 23, 2012

  L.G., as his many friends called him, was the real-life

  model for the kind and philanthropic

  “Gold King” in this book.

  “By their works ye shall know them.”

  Acknowledgments

  Starting with the usual suspects, thanks a million to the ever-loyal and fierce Sheridan Street Irregulars, as well as the excellent Marge Purcell, Debra McCarthy, and Robert C. Kezer.

  More kudos go to Mike Foley, a keeper at the Phoenix Zoo, who gave me the delicious quote about snake bites. Helpful regarding all things llama were Dave Salge and Alicia Santiago, of Queen Creek, Arizona, the delightful couple at the helm of Arizona Llama Rescue. To contact ALR, visit www.azllamarescue.org. Many thanks to Jane and L.G. Olson, who for a generous donation to the Arizona Cancer Center, let me use them as characters in this book; Jane, although married only once (and to the superlative L.G.), courageously allowed me to give her as many marriages as Teddy’s mother! More thanks go out to Deborah Holt, a supporter of Murder on the Menu and other literacy projects in beautiful Wetumpka, Alabama, who became a zookeeper in this book. Thanks also to Paul Rago, of Brehm Vineyards, for taking time out of his busy schedule to educate me on the seasons of a vineyard.

  The idea for Llama came from an article written by reporter Megan Boehnke, which appeared in the March 26, 2010 edition of the Arizona Republic; it revealed a situation similar to the one found in these pages, proving that truth is stranger than fiction. Pursuant to that, California attorney Bonnie L. Riley was helpful in guiding me through the resulting are-they-legally-married-or-not quagmire.

  Last but not least, a rattle of the bones to that Renaissance Faire superstar Ded Bob, who gave me permission to use his handsome, if skeletal, self in these pages. If you’re headed to one of the larger Faires, check out the Ded Bob Show; it’a killer.

  Chapter One

  “Alejandro, you spit in my face!”

  He didn’t answer, just glared.

  I tried reasoning with him, keeping my voice steady while I wiped the spittle away. “Look, I know you’re unhappy, but I’m unhappy, too. After all we’ve been through together there’s no reason for you to treat me like this.”

  I ducked before he let fly again.

  There’s nothing more irritating than an irritated llama, but there’s also nothing faster than a ducking zookeeper, so Alejandro’s second spitball missed the top of my head by at least an inch. “Losing your touch, big fella?” Straightening up, I saw that the expression of disgust on his face had morphed into one of pure sweetness. What…?

  “I only weigh thirty-five pounds, so can I have a ride?” piped a tiny voice.

  By the gate stood a tow-headed child who barely reached my waist. “Llama rides costeth two yellow tickets, my lady,” I said, my tongue cramping as it curled around the sixteenth-century phraseology the organizers of the Gunn Landing Renaissance Faire insisted upon. “Plus you musteth have your kind lady mother’s permission.” Musteth? Was that even a word?

  The little girl’s mother, who’d missed the llama spit-fest, smiled. “The jousting knights scared her, so I thought a llama ride would be more her speed. Llamas are calming, so I’ve heard.”

  Alejandro’s ears, formerly laid back on his head, pricked forward. If I hadn’t known better, I’d swear he was smiling.

  Llamas play favorites. Alejandro adored children, but he wasn’t crazy about adults, especially adults wearing outfits as ridiculous as mine. Billowing pink cotton skirt with too much lace and too many flounces, a plunging neckline that barely missed being X-rated, and a steel-ribbed bodice that would probably turn my face blue long before the day was over. And that net thingy the seamstress had called a “snood”? The only thing good about the contraption was that it kept my corkscrew red hair out of my eyes. Earlier this morning, after taking one look at me in my borrowed outfit, the seamstress—Maid Lucinda, she called herself—said, “Guess that will have to do.” Then she’d turned her face away, but not before I heard her snicker.

  So here I was, dressed up like some deranged sixteenth-century tart, working as a llama wrangler on the opening day of the Gunn Landing Renaissance Faire, when I should have been a mile away up the hill, tending to my usual rounds at the Gunn Zoo. I missed my friends: Lucy the giant anteater and her baby, Ricky; Wanchu the koala; even Marcus Aurelius, the mischievous lemur. Disgusted by my fate, I would have sworn a blue streak, but I couldn’t remember the proper curses. Zounds? Forsooth? Earlier, I’d heard one of the knights—Sir Roland, I believe, although it was hard to tell under all that armor—snarl something pithy about a spotted toad wed to a warted hog, but the rest of his insult escaped me.

  Trying to look as delighted as Alejandro now did, I smiled at the innocent little face looking up at me. “The llama’s name is Sir Alejandro, my lady. If you’re nice to him, he’ll be nice to you. Uh, zounds.”

  She reached up a tiny hand and patted him on the nose.

  Alejandro closed his eyes and hummed with pleasure.

  “He’s purring!” the child exclaimed.

  “Most llamas make that sound when they’re anxious, but he’s different. He only makes it when he’s happy, my lady. It doth appear you have truly stolen Sir Alejandro’s heart. Forsooth and all that.”

  She beamed from ear to ear.

  “Up you go, my lady.” I heaved her o
nto Alejandro’s saddle.

  As soon as she settled in, we set off around the paddock. Alejandro continued to hum contentedly while I silently cursed my boss, Aster Edwina Gunn. Thanks to the old tyrant, I was up to my ankles in llama droppings, sweating like one of the Queen’s royal swine in the hot California sun. Not to mention ducking spit.

  ***

  “Quit glowering, Teddy,” Aster Edwina had snapped a week ago, after delivering my marching orders. “The Faire only runs four weekends and all the proceeds go to the San Sebastian County No Kill Animal Shelter, a cause dear to your heart.”

  “But my job at the zoo…”

  “You’ll miss four Saturdays and Sundays, that’s all, and your duties will be taken care of by other zoo staff. On week days you’ll stick to your normal schedule and even appear on that TV show of yours, Teddy’s Terrific something or other. What name did we decide on?”

  “Anteaters to Zebras, as you well know, since you’re the one who roped me into doing it in the first place. But like I said, I’m much too busy at the zoo to play around as llama wrangler at the Renaissance Faire. We have that new orangutan fresh out of quarantine who’s just started trusting me and the Grevy’s zebra with the bad hoof. I’m the only person he’ll let touch him.”

  She waved my protests away. “Costs on the No Kill Shelter have risen dramatically and we need the extra income the Faire will bring in. You’ll make the perfect llama wrangler.”

  “What if it rains?”

  “I won’t let it.”

  Aster Edwina was only half joking. The wealthy old lady—she was somewhere in her eighties—was powerful enough to bully the weatherman. As head of the mighty Gunn Trust and doyenne of one of the wealthiest families on the Central California coast, she ruled over the Gunn Zoo, Gunn Castle, Gunn Vineyards, and dozens of other San Sebastian County properties and businesses, some of which included land my family owned. Or, rather, used to own before my felonious father, for reasons he alone knew, embezzled several million dollars, which allowed the Feds to swoop down and gobble up everything we held title to. Acreage, houses, boats, jewelry…Only my mother’s subsequent remarriage to another multi-millionaire had saved us from living under a bridge with the rest of the homeless. I was a child when it happened, but the scandal taught me humility. Which is probably why I eventually gave in and allowed Aster Edwina to bully me into working the Faire.

  ***

  By the time the little girl finished her llama ride, it was past one o’clock and I was overdue for my lunch break, but Deborah Holt, my relief llama wrangler, still hadn’t arrived. I couldn’t leave Alejandro alone. For some reason the llama had developed a major hate-on for Henry the Eighth, or rather, for the Reverend Victor Emerson, who played the part of the much-married Tudor king. Given Alejandro’s current mood, I wouldn’t put it past him to jump the fence and gallop over to the Royal Pavilion and drown the roly-poly reverend in saliva.

  Behind me, Alejandro grumbled.

  “Don’t start that again,” I told him. “You’re not the only person around here who’s unhap…”

  “Sorry I’m late,” Deborah Holt’s voice rang out. “But the leper twisted his ankle and I had to help him to the First Aid tent.”

  Deborah looked even more miserable than I. One of the zookeepers who worked the Friendly Farms enclosure at the Gunn Zoo, she was a near-beauty with honey-colored hair, clear skin, and bright blue eyes. Her ample bosom, almost shockingly revealed by her low-cut Renaissance gown, brought out the wolf in every man at the Faire. The lace hanky she’d sewn into her neckline during a fit of modesty hadn’t helped.

  “How are you bearing up?” I asked.

  Her scowl was a perfect match for Alejandro’s. “My breasts are thinking about bringing a class action suit for sexual harassment against every man at this God-forsaken place, that’s how I’m doing. Has Alejandro calmed down yet? I hear you’ve had trouble with him.”

  “He really dislikes adults.”

  When she bobbed her head, her ample litigants-to-be bobbed along in time. “That’s to be expected. We rescued him from a Carmel couple who were keeping him as a ‘pet’ in their tiny backyard. Whenever they threw a party, which from what I hear was almost every weekend, drunks would go out there and mess around with him, try to get him to drink beer, stupid stuff like that. His owner actually chipped the poor thing’s front tooth ramming a beer bottle into his mouth.”

  I winced. No wonder Alejandro was so temperamental. “You ready to take over here? I’m starved. Any suggestions?”

  “The Steak on a Stake is good and so are the turkey legs at Ye Olde Peasant’s Place, but stay away from Dame Polly’s Porridge Pot. Several people who ate there wound up heaving in the Royal Privies. The Health Department’s on its way to check out Dame Polly’s kitchen.”

  “Holy…Uh, zounds!”

  She gave me a wry smile. “Just another day in Renaissance paradise.”

  Forewarned, I headed for Ye Restaurant Row. It being Saturday and the California weather as perfect as perfect gets, the Faire—spread over forty acres of pasturage downhill from the vast Gunn estate—was packed. Tourists and Renaissance-costumed characters wandered together along the High Street, the sawdust-covered main drag. High Street was lined on both sides with vendors hawking books, sculpture, garden gnomes, T-shirts, coffee mugs, blown glass, and all sorts of pseudo-medieval and Renaissance ware. Scents from the various stalls wafted to me on a gentle breeze: apples and cinnamon from Dame Dorothy’s Dumplings, attar of roses from Sir Pompadour’s Potpourri, the sour smell of beer from the King’s Ale House.

  Some of the stalls, such as the Royal Armory, which hawked replicas of medieval and Renaissance weapons, were owned by locals, but most businesses were run by professional vendors who travelled the rapidly growing Renaissance fair circuit.

  At the far end of the High Street sat the wooden enclosure of the Royal Joust Arena, where I could hear the clangs as knights bashed each other with broadswords. Near the Faire’s gated entrance rose two wooden entertainment stages, each featuring an assortment of musicians, magicians, dancers, and jesters. Located in a dogleg loop behind the Middleshire Stage were the rides and amusements such as the Flying Dutchman, Castle Siege, William Tell’s Archery Range, DaVinci’s Flying Machine, the Royal Maze, and the Throne Carousel. Although not historically accurate, there was no denying the Faire offered everyone a good time.

  Everyone, that was, except we Gunn Zoo animal keepers who’d been roped into volunteering.

  After purchasing a turkey leg the size of Arnold Schwartznegger’s bicep from Ye Olde Peasant’s Place, I slipped through a nearby door cleverly disguised as a castle wall and into the backstage area. This had been dubbed the Peasant’s Retreat, a place where Faire workers and volunteers spent their off-hours and nights in individual tents or communal RVs. Back here courtly manners slipped away and contemporary speech replaced formal King’s English. The gratis entertainment in the Peasant’s Retreat wasn’t half bad, either. Rumor had it that this evening, the Faire’s musicians would perform an uncensored concert featuring songs popular with medieval and Renaissance peasantry. Aster Edwina had barred the more ribald of these from the day’s public performance because their lyrics made gangsta rap sound sissy.

  For now, Renaissance porn was the furthest thing from my mind. All I wanted was a quiet spot in the food tent where I could eat. Most of the picnic tables in the big tent were already full up with monks, wizards, and wenches, but I found a space at a table toward the rear. I settled myself on a wooden bench and began to gnaw.

  “Well, if it isn’t little Teddy Bentley!”

  The chatter at the other tables ceased. I looked up to see King Henry the Eighth—a.k.a. Reverend Victor Emerson, all three hundred pounds of him—hovering over my shoulder. With his big moon face, hair even redder than mine, and belly the size of a water barrel, Victor bore
such a strong resemblance to portraits of the old Tudor king that several fair-goers had queried him about his ancestry. Today he looked even more kingly in purple velvet robes, a garish crown, and a faux (I hoped) wolf fur-lined cape. He brandished a half-eaten turkey leg that made my own look spindly.

  “Behead anyone lately, Your Majesty?” I asked.

  Ignoring my frown, he sat down beside me. “You sound as sour as your mother.” A mail-order reverend only, Victor was the proprietor of the San Sebastian Wedding Chapel. He had officiated at two of my mother’s marriages, once in his basic minister’s cassock, the other time dressed as Fat Elvis.

  “My mother has a right to be cross,” I told him. “Aster Edwina gave her the impression that she could have the role of Anne Boleyn, but you talked her out of it and turned the role over to Bambi O’Dair.”

  Victor gave me a smug smile. “Bambi wanted the part more. Besides, Caro’s much too old to play Henry’s second wife.”

  The talk at the other tables had resumed, but it paused again as everyone waited for my answer. Ignoring them, I leapt to my mother’s defense. “Chronologically, perhaps, but Mother doesn’t look a day older than Bambi.”

  “Only thanks to your mother’s many cosmetic surgeries, which they didn’t have back in the fifteen hundreds. Don’t you think a queen’s body should be as God created it?”

  “Bambi’s chest never saw an implant she didn’t like!”

  Two nearby monks snickered as Victor patted my hand condescendingly, tempting me to bonk him over the head with my turkey leg. “Your mother’s a beautiful woman, Teddy, and an ambitious one, too, but young she’s not. Anne Boleyn was little more than a teenager when she married Henry Tudor and not quite thirty-five when she died. But have no fear. I gave your mother the role of a lady-in-waiting. She’ll still be part of the Royal Court.”

  “As if she’d be satisfied dancing attendance on Bambi. Where’s your sense of customer loyalty, Victor? Doesn’t the fact that my mother is a returning client at your wedding chapel count for anything?”