The Llama of Death

by Betty Webb

  In the end, the old woman softened enough to let her chauffeur take me home. During the drive down Old Bentley Road, we found ourselves stuck behind the tow truck hauling my battered Nissan.

  The poor thing looked as depressed as I felt.

  Chapter Four

  The next morning one of my liveaboard neightbors gave me a lift to Monterey, and I picked up my Nissan. Then, taking Aster Edwina’s threat seriously, I worked my usual shift at the Gunn Zoo. In between frantic calls to Caro’s attorney on the cellphone I’d finally recharged, I fed tigers, shoveled anteater poop, and estimated how far along in her pregnancy Wanchu the koala might be. I wasn’t only covering for one zookeeper, but two. Jack Spence, the bear keeper, was in Africa with Robin Chase, the big cats keeper, and rumor had it that romance was in the air.

  Romance was in the air at the zoo, too, springtime being breeding time for thousands of species. Take the Galapagos tortoises, for instance. Big Tim was busy knocking up Big Lil, and the noise they made while mating horrified some prim zoo visitors.

  “Make them stop!” begged a Rotarian-type male as I trundled by with a wheelbarrow full of anteater dung. The man looked like he was about to have a heart attack. “They’re upsetting my children.”

  Oh, no, they weren’t. The man’s three kids, ranging in ages from around five to ten, were loving the triple-X display.

  The Devil in me was tempted to send Shy Dad over to the Argentine duck enclosure, where the sixteen-inch-long male, in accordance with his species, had been busy all morning lassoing various females with his seventeen-inch-long, retractable penis.

  But the Angel in me overcame my naughty side, and I merely answered, “Sir, it would be very difficult to stop an eight-hundred-pound tortoise from doing anything it wants, but even if I could, that would mean we wouldn’t get any cute little Galapagos babies, would we?”

  The wheelbarrow and I moved on.

  The blue-footed boobies were at it, too, but theirs was a more restrained ritual. While emitting high whistles, the male marched around in a small circle, lifting his big blue feet up in the air as high as they would go while the female judged the angle of the lift. Unimpressed, she waddled away.

  “Hang in there, big fella,” I called. “Women have been known to change their minds.”

  As if he understood, the male waddled after her, still lifting his feet with the energy of a drum major on crack.

  A few feet away from the boobies’ enclosure, I stopped in the shade of a looming eucalyptus tree, pulled out my finally recharged cell, and called Albert Grissom again. When the attorney picked up, he sounded testy.

  “No, Teddy, the hearing hasn’t started yet, and haven’t I told you a dozen times I’ll call you as soon as it’s over? You do realize, don’t you, that I’ll have to turn my cell off the minute I get into that courtroom?” Impatience roughed his pleasant tenor.

  After I apologized, his voice softened and he added, “Between you and me and the lamppost, I’m hoping your mother keeps her mouth shut during the hearing. When I met with her this morning, she didn’t come across as the most reasonable person. If you don’t mind my asking, what is a color palette?”

  I groaned. “Try to keep her quiet, that’s all I’m asking. As for color palettes, it has something to do with a pink mani/pedi clashing with orange.”

  “As in jail jumpsuits?”

  “Exactly.”

  He chortled. “She is beautifully groomed.” The roughness had disappeared from his voice.

  “You wouldn’t happen to be single, would you, Mr. Grissom?”

  “My divorce was final last month. Why?”

  “If your annual income is in the seven-digit range or higher, I’d advise you to give my mother a wide berth after today’s court proceedings.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You will.”

  We rang off and I resumed my duties.

  I’ve always seen the Gunn Zoo as the one perfect place in a naughty world. The three-hundred-acre private zoo—founded by Aster Edwina’s father—is home to more than fifteen hundred species, ranging from anteaters to zebras, all exhibited in large enclosures that mimic their natural habitats. Among the zoo’s collections are endangered animals such as snow leopards, Asian rhinos, red pandas, Bengal tigers, Andean bears, wooly leumurs, and cheetahs. At the back of the zoo, but not open to the public, is the one-hundred acre elephant sanctuary, where both African and Asian elephants roam free.

  Working here is a privilege. No matter how irritating Aster Edwina can be, not one of her zookeepers would work anywhere else. Not only is the zoo large, but it is one of the most beautiful in Central California. More than three miles of walking trails weave in and out of eucalyptus forests, sun-dappled hills, and lush, bird-songed valleys. Every day here is a day spent in Eden.

  But even in Eden there are chores.

  And trouble.

  After spending the next hour feeding, sweeping, and changing bedding in various enclosures, my mother’s attorney still hadn’t called back. To calm my nerves, I wandered over to Friendly Farm. Alejandro was on exhibit in the barnyard, surrounded by chickens, pygmy goats, and children. He looked happy. Not wanting to disturb him by my adult presence, I began to back away, but he caught sight of me.

  “Maaa-yah!” he called, his head going up, ears pricked. Careful not to step on tiny toes, he moved forward until he was within spitting distance.

  “Alejandro, please don’t…”

  He didn’t. Instead, he nuzzled my neck. “Maaa, maaa.”

  “I love you too, Alejandro,” I whispered. “We’ve been through a lot together, haven’t we?”

  “Maaa.”

  “I’m worried about Caro, you know.”

  “Maaa?”

  “She’s wily, but not always smart.”

  “Maaa.” He nuzzled my neck again, offering comfort in that special way llamas can.

  By this time, the children in the Friendly Farm enclosure had realized a species-to-species conversation was going on, so they came over to take part, trailed by two pygmy goats and a chicken.

  “Does she know what you’re saying?” asked a little boy of around four.

  “He’s a he, and his name’s Alejandro. He probably doesn’t understand my exact words, but llamas are very good at sensing our feelings. That’s why people like them so much.”

  “Does he bite?”

  “Never. Especially not children.”

  “Alejandro looks worried,” said a slightly older girl who looked enough like the boy to be his sister.

  “See what I mean about llamas sensing our feelings? I was worried about something, and he picked up on that.”

  She frowned. “What are you worried about?”

  Rule Number One for zookeepers: never bother the visitors with your personal problems, even if you’re bleeding profusely or your mother’s been jailed. “I’m worried it might rain.”

  The children looked up at a cloudless sky. “I think you can stop worrying,” the little girl said.

  I looked up. “Oh. I think you’re right. Smart girl!”

  As the child congratulated herself on her superior intelligence, my cell phone chirped. Alejandro cocked his head. “Eep?”

  “Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen and llama, but I must take this call.” With that I hurried to a more isolated place in the exhibit.

  It was Albert Grissom with bad news. Bail had been denied. Not because of the murder charge—Judge Feinstein, knowing Deputy Elvin Dade personally, scoffed at the arrest—but because Caro’s subsequent behavior in the courtroom gave him no choice.

  “Teddy,” Grissom moaned, “The minute Judge Feinstein ruled your mother be released, she jumped up and began a tirade about conditions at the jail. When he tried to shush her, she accused him of being the unwi
tting pawn of an evil empire set up to guarantee the comfort of the upper classes at the detriment of the lower. She then turned around to the other prisoners who were awaiting the deposition of their cases and urged them to free themselves from their chains and unite to overthrow the class system.”

  My mouth dropped so low it was a miracle my lower lip didn’t scoop up goat droppings. “That…that doesn’t sound like Caro.”

  “You should have seen the fire in her eyes!” Grissom said, admiringly. “Unfortunately, Judge Feinstein was unimpressed, especially when the gangbangers behind your mother began rattling their shackles and shouting ‘Fight the power!’” His voice took on a mournful quality. “The judge actually sentenced that magnificent woman to thirty days for incitement to riot.”

  What an ass, and I don’t mean the judge. Grissom had obviously fallen under Caro’s spell, becoming more fan boy than lawyer.

  “Mr. Grissom, do you have any female attorneys in your office?”

  “Call me Al, Teddy. Yes, why do you ask?”

  “I want a woman handling my mother’s case from now on.”

  “Surely you don’t mean that.”

  After thinking carefully about my answer, I said, “Look, Mr. Gri…uh, Al, you’re such a well-known attorney and all, as well as high-priced—justly, I hasten to add, considering your many achievements in California jurisprudence—but I think we need someone less expensive.” And everybody knows women work cheaper than men; I had the paycheck to prove it.

  “No problem, Teddy. I’ll work pro bono.”

  Poor sap. I might as well start calling him “Dad” right now, because Caro knew a sucker when she saw one. Accepting the inevitable, I said, “Well, Al, do what you can for her. Caro has a tendency to be her own worst enemy.”

  “I understand. People with strong beliefs in social justice often behave that way, thus they become true martyrs.”

  Somehow I refrained from laughing. The only time Caro had ever felt martyred was the time she wore a pair of five inch Fendi pumps to meet the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge at the Pebble Beach National Pro-Am.

  Chapter Five

  After ending the call with Caro’s attorney, I looked at my watch. Lunchtime. Normally, the San Sebastian County Jail was a half-hour’s drive away, but my Nissan’s new tires made it more zippy, so twenty minutes later, I was arguing with my mother through the Plexiglas barrier.

  “What in the world do you think you’re doing with this ‘overthrow the class system’ business, Caro? You never gave a hoot about the underprivileged before.”

  “Soledad Rodriguez has opened my eyes. Did you know that…”

  “Soledad Rodriguez!” I yelped. “Surely you’re not talking about the woman who heads up that Female Devils gang!”

  “Their proper name is Demonios Femeninos, Theodora, and I’ll thank you to remember that. And it’s more like a sorority than a gang.”

  When she leaned back and crossed her arms in disapproval, I noticed her manicure now matched her orange jumpsuit, although the job looked rushed. “Who did your nails?”

  “My cellmate. She doesn’t understand cuticles.”

  “Where’d you get the nail polish? That’s not something the jail normally keeps on hand.”

  “Al brought…”

  “Al who?”

  A scowl. “Albert Grissom, of course. My attorney. Please try to pay attention, Theodora. Anyway, dear Al brought me a complete manicure kit, just as I requested. The corrections officer had to take away the metal nail file, but she let me keep the emery boards. Perhaps the color selection isn’t all I could wish for, he must have picked it up at some discount drugstore, but when you’re fighting the power you have to make sacrifices.”

  “Your lawyer brought you a manicure kit and the guards let you keep it?”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “Why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why did the guards let you keep a manicure kit?” Food I could understand. Magazines, books, a Bible, the Koran, the Ark of the Covenant. But a manicure kit?

  “Guard. Singular. A lovely girl named Annabelle, whose mother once worked for your father’s firm. Before he embezzled all that money, which he should never have done, at least that’s what the Federal prosecutor said, although I think…”

  “Stick to the subject at hand.”

  She gave me a look. “I swear, Teddy, sometimes I despair of your temper. Let’s see, what were we talking about before you turned into Mr. Hyde? Oh, yes, Annabelle. Surely you don’t hold to the antiquated belief that all jail guards should be male. If so, let me set you straight. Fully one-third of the corrections officers here are female and they understand the necessity for every woman to put her best foot forward, especially when incarcerated by the male-dominated ruling class.”

  This time I counted to ten before I spoke. It didn’t help. “So you are telling me that your attorney brought you a manicure kit and that your cellmate did your nails but she doesn’t understand cuticles. What does your cellmate do for a living, drive getaway cars?”

  “Hardly. Soledad is a…”

  “Soledad Rodriguez is your cellmate?!”

  A disapproving frown. “I’ll have you know she’s never been convicted of anything other than a misdemeanor.”

  “What was that for? Bank robbery with plastic explosives and a machete?”

  “Bank robbery is a felony, you foolish child. No, poor Soledad was convicted of littering for passing out fliers at the La Raza Parade last year. The judge actually gave her thirty days, which I find outrageous.”

  “What did the fliers say? ‘Arise, revolt, and behead?’”

  She pursed her perfect lips and folded her arms in front of her, the very picture of a disapproving parent. “Considering the circumstances, Theodora, I find your sarcasm to be sorely out of place. The fliers merely announced the grand opening of her uncle’s new auto parts store.”

  “Soledad was charged with a misdemeanor for that?”

  “Some of the fliers blew away in the wind. Well, maybe a lot of them did.”

  Aha. Not for nothing had the city of San Sebastian won the coveted title “The Cleanest Small Town in Central California” the past three years in a row. In San Sebastian, litterers were considered only slightly less reprehensible than serial killers. However, given Demonios Femeninos’ fearsome reputation, the misdemeanor charge was probably the law’s way of getting the gang leader off the streets. For a while, at least.

  “What’s she in for now? Re-littering?”

  “She’s awaiting trial.”

  “For what?”

  “Homicide. But the man was already dead when she got there.”

  Not only was my mother in jail, but she was being housed with a probable murderer. “Who’d she kill?”

  “Didn’t I tell you that the man was already dead?”

  With some difficulty, I kept my voice steady. “Then who was the already-dead-man she didn’t kill?”

  “Your lack of knowledge of current events is appalling, Theodora. You should spend more time reading the newspapers.”

  “I’ve been busy. Who was it?”

  Mother shifted her eyes to her orange nails, then to the corrections officer standing behind her, back to her nails, then to a spot somewhere beyond my left shoulder. Speaking to the air, she said, “The victim was Duane Langer.”

  Now I remembered. Last week Langer, the titular head of Viking Vengeance, had been found shot to death in a San Sebastian alleyway. And wasn’t there something…“Mother, wasn’t Soledad Rodriguez found standing over him with the murder weapon in her hand? And didn’t all this happen on Demonios Femeninos’ turf, where Viking Vengeance was forbidden to go?”

  “It’s Caro.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Ho
w many times do I have to remind you to call me Caro?”

  Oh, for the love of…

  Here my mother was, locked up in jail for the next thirty days, her cellmate was a suspected murderer, and all she cared about was her color palatte and what she considered was the proper way to address her.

  “Okay. Caro.”

  She sniffed in satisfaction. “Yes, if you must know, Soledad admits she was holding the gun, and that he was on her gang’s turf, and furthermore, I really don’t care who killed the despicable Duane. Be that as it may, Theodora. I want you to…”

  “You want me to tell your attorney to bring your furs and jewelry?”

  “No, Miss Sass. Al doesn’t have entrée to my house, not yet, anyway, so I need you to go over there and pick up my Le Bleu Crème Pour le Visage. The air in this place is so dry I despair of my complexion.”

  “Considering that you’re sitting in jail, what does it matter what your complexion looks like?”

  She gave me a look of disbelief. “In the eyes of a man, a woman’s years are like dog years. By the way, while you’re at the house, get Feroz Guerro and drive him back to your boat. The maid’s been taking care of him, but I’d rather have him stay with you for the duration now that the ruling class had decided to keep me locked up for a month simply for exercising my civil rights to free speech.”

  “For inciting a riot, you mean.”

  “Whatever.”

  ***

  Another thing I like about animals is that, unlike people, you can always count on them. Granted, in some cases that means you can count on them to bite your eyes out, but at least you’re forewarned enough to safeguard against such behavior. Take Maharaja, for instance, our five hundred pound Bengal tiger. As I guided my wheelbarrow into the protected area behind his enclosure, he attempted to claw my arm off through the bars separating us.

  “Missed again, big boy,” I said, happy to see him so feisty.

  He snarled.

  “My, what big teeth you have.”

  Threat duly delivered, he sat back and watched in eager anticipation while I readied his daily bloodsicle.