The Llama of Death

by Betty Webb

  Tigers are predators. Unless given something to exercise their I’m-gonna-kill-and-eat-you instincts they grow bored, and a bored tiger is a doubly dangerous tiger. Thus Maharaja’s beloved bloodsicle, a frozen half-pound tube of cow blood infused with turkey strips.

  Maharaja knew the drill. As soon as I attached the bloodsicle to a long bungee cord, he padded over to the thick gate that led to his night house. Once it slid open, he entered. The gate immediately shut, but I could still hear him pacing and snarling and grumbling as I hurried into his enclosure and made my way to the live oak that stood in the middle. While a curious group of zoo visitors gathered to watch, I hung the bungee cord from one of the higher limbs so Maharaja would have to work to get at his bloodsicle. Once it was secured I returned to the protected area and pressed the remote control button that opened his gate.

  The crowd ooohed and aaahed as the big Bengal rushed out with a mighty roar and made straight for the bloodsicle. He leaped into the air, and with the swing of a huge paw, snagged a fist-sized chunk of iced blood. After making quick work of it he leaped again, this time coming away with only a finger-sized bite.

  “Better luck next time,” I called, leaving.

  Behind me, a louder chorus of ooooh’s informed me that he had made a more successful leap.

  Zoo visitors frequently ask me why we make getting at food so difficult for our animals, even the less-lethal ones like the tiny squirrel monkeys over in Monkey Mania. We’re not trying to frustrate them or tire them out, which in the case of the Bengals is not a bad idea, but we want to keep our animals healthy. Enclosures at the Gunn Zoo are quite large and designed to mimic an animal’s native territory, but they still cannot be as large as an unfenced jungle or savannah where animals can roam and run for miles every day.

  All wild animals work for their food. In the case of the big cats, that means running down a gazelle or zebra. For elephants, it means stretching their trunks high in the air to pick the foliage off trees. Constant activity in the wild keeps animals mentally alert, their circulation healthy, and their muscles toned. Zoos match these natural workouts by something called behavioral enrichment, a series of cleverly designed food stations in each enclosure, where in order to get food, animals must make the same types of physical movements they would make in the wild. Thus our big cats leap for treats, and elephants stretch to obtain hay from bales hung from tall eucalyptus trees.

  Practicing behavioral enrichment is especially fun with the squirrel monkeys. In their case, it not only means coaxing them to climb, but figuring out ways to make them use their fingers and brains. For them, we had created an ongoing, ever-changing game of Hide and Seek. Later today, I would stash a mixture of dried crickets and fresh fruit into camouflaged boxes throughout their enclosure in order to get them off their little rumps.

  But first I needed to visit Maharani. Having gone off heat, Maharaja’s mate now occupied the enclosure next door. Bengals are solitary animals; after their brief but frenzied mating encounters, the pair lost interest in each other. Therefore the impregnated Maharani was left alone with her very own bloodsicle.

  Environmental enrichment of a different sort took place in the cheetah brothers’ digs. While Abasi and Akida looked on from the other side of the gate, I attached part of a beef haunch to a motorized pulley, then flicked the switch and sent the carcass on a thirty-mile-per-hour trip around their enclosure. Once I took myself to safety and opened the gate, the cheetahs joyfully bounded after it. Akida, the quicker of the two, brought down their prey as it neared the second turn, delighting both me and the crowd gathered to watch.

  Compared to that, hiding dried crickets and fruit from the monkeys was no big deal.

  By the time my rounds took me to Friendly Farm, the pleasure I took in caring for my four-legged friends had made me forget about my mother’s woes. But when Alejandro trotted over to me I had a brief flashback of Victor Emerson lying dead at his feet. I tried not to convey my unhappiness to Alejandro while refreshing the water in the barnyard’s big trough, but llamas are sensitive creatures and little gets past them.

  “Errr?” he asked, nuzzling my neck in an apparent attempt to comfort me.

  “I was thinking about how sad it is, what happened to poor Victor.”

  “Maaam” More nuzzling.

  “Who killed him, Alejandro?”

  “Maaam.”

  I scratched his ears. “No, Mother’s off the hook for that.”

  “Maaam.” He lowered his head and gently butted my chest.

  “But she’s still in jail.”

  I was about to tell him how much I missed Joe when a group of children entering the barnyard caught his attention. He raised his head and flicked his ears toward the piping voices. His big brown eyes gazed at me soulfully. “Eeep?”

  “Sure, go play with them. I know how much you love kids.”

  As if he understood, he turned away and trotted toward the children, humming happily.

  After I had added fresh hay to his manger, then returned the wheelbarrow to the equipment shed, I noticed that the Reptile House across the way and the area surrounding it were being cordoned off by yellow warning tape. Concerned, I approached Phil Holt, who was married to my friend Deborah, who worked at Friendly Farms. The head reptile keeper’s gaunt face looked stricken.

  “Has there been an accident?” I asked.

  “Not yet,” he said, his voice edgy. “But Sssybil’s missing. She wasn’t in her exhibit when I went to feed her a few minutes ago. Apparently the bottom hinge on her door rusted through, and she managed to get out through a small opening. We were about to call a Code Red and clear everyone out of the zoo, but then Nicci here…” he motioned toward another worried-looking zookeeper, “saw signs she was heading for the vineyard.”

  The Reptile House backed up on the huge Gunn Vineyard, which was good in that Sssybil, a four-foot-long Mojave rattlesnake, wouldn’t be injecting her venom into some unfortunate Gunn Zoo visitor. But it was bad in that one of Aster Edwina’s workers might get bitten or instead, kill Sssybil in what he saw as self-defense. June wasn’t a busy time for the vineyard but on the way to work this morning I saw several men pulling weeds between the rows.

  The venom of a Mojave rattlesnake is highly potent, ten times more toxic than any of the other eighteen species of North American rattlesnakes. To get fanged by one is a serious matter. The venom not only keeps a victim’s blood from clotting, but it also contains a neurotoxin that causes respiratory paralysis if the victim isn’t immediately treated with antivenom. Even then, there will be a certain amount of necrosis, possibly resulting in the loss of fingers or even a hand.

  And yes, snake bites were usually on the hand, a man’s hand to be exact, because men were more quick to prove their machismo than women. The joke among herpetologists was that the words most commonly heard before a snake bite were, “Hold my beer and watch this!”

  I hoped Aster Edwina’s vineyard workers had more sense. “Did you call Aster Edwina for permission to search her property?” I asked Phil.

  “We contacted her immediately and since she knows what’s up with these Mojaves she said yes. Several keepers have volunteered for the hunt, but until we find her, this area has to stay off limits. The chance is slim that she might get hungry and return on her own, because that vineyard’s filled with snake food. Mice, ground squirrels, lizards, what have you, it’s got them all. And fresh, not freeze-dried, like she gets here.”

  As much as I wanted to join the search party there was already too much on my plate. I wished Phil good luck and continued my chores.

  The rest of my workday passed quickly and six o’clock found me still in my zoo uniform, letting myself into Caro’s house in Gunn Landing’s Old Town, the wealthy enclave sitting high on a hill overlooking the Pacific Ocean. Feroz Guerrero, Caro’s miniscule Chihuahua, met me at the door. He kept me
trapped in the hall until he’d explored every strange odor on my clothes: eau de monkey, cheetah, tiger, llama, anteater, koala, sheep, chicken, and goat.

  Pulling a tan lip away from an incisor in a tiny sneer, he asked, “Aark?”

  “Yes, Feroz, I’m afraid I stepped in goat dung at Friendly Farm. I’ll try to be more careful next time, but you know how it is. When you’re busy, you don’t always watch where you’re going.”

  “Aark!”

  “You can say that again.”

  Once I’d been thoroughly sniffed, Feroz allowed me access to the kitchen, where I found Eunice Snow, my mother’s new maid, weeping at the kitchen table. Unlike her predecessor, she was young, no more than thirty.

  “Hi, Miss Bentley,” she sobbed.

  “Er, hi. Is there anything I can do to help?”

  She looked up at me through reddened blue eyes framed by straggly blond hair. “You can get Miss Caro out of prison. She’ll wilt in there. I know.”

  “Jail,” I corrected. I did not want to know how Eunice knew anything about the depression that usually follows incarceration, because I suspected I might not like the answer. Mother had a decidedly spotty record with household help. Last year she’d gone through five maids. This year, although it was only June, three had already walked out on her. Of late she’d become so desperate for help she no longer checked references, just hired whomever was ill-informed enough to apply for the job.

  “Actually, the jail didn’t seem all that bad to me,” I said, attempting to cheer Eunice up. “There’s a rec room with a TV for people not charged with violent offenses. And the corrections officers are even letting Caro keep part of a manicure kit. Besides, she’ll only be in jail for thirty days, not life.”

  “Prison is torment. It breaks your spirit.”

  “Hmm.”

  Perhaps sensing the way my suspicious mind had begun to work, she added, “I’m also upset over poor Reverend Emerson’s death. He married me and Bucky a couple years ago. Bucky thought that little church of his was cute.”

  “Chapel.”

  “That’s what I said, church.”

  Deciding not to enlighten her on the many differences between a wedding chapel and a church, I said, “Mother wanted me to pick up Feroz, so if you’ll show me…”

  “I’m pregnant again, too.”

  Here I’d been thinking she was just fat. “Congratulations.”

  “Bucky wants a big family.”

  “Oh?”

  “Our twins were born last Christmas day. Bucella and Bucky, Jr.”

  “My, wasn’t that a merry Christmas!” Feroz nipped at me when I picked up his bowl, but working with tigers had given me quick reflexes, so his teeth closed on empty air.

  “Yeah, we were all real happy then, but Bucky got laid off last week.”

  “I’m so sorry. Do you know where Feroz’s leash is?”

  “Second drawer from the left. With your mom in jail and you taking the dog, will she still need me here even though things don’t get messed up like they usually do? I can dust. And mop. Maybe organize the basement, where all that junk is thrown together—chairs, lamps, clothes, and what all. I really need this job, Miss Theodora. Mine’s our only paycheck until Bucky finds work. If Miss Caro decides not to use me while she’s in jail, I don’t know what’ll happen.” She snuffled, dabbed at her eyes. “We’re already behind on our rent.”

  “What does Mr. Snow do?”

  “He’s good with cars and things.”

  I thought a moment. “Does ‘things’ include scraping barnacles off boats?” The Merilee had collected a few; same with the Tea 4 Two, the Running Wild, the Minnie, and a few other boats moored at the harbor. Maybe I could throw some work his way.

  My plan faded when Eunice asked, “What’s a barnacle?”

  Feroz hopped up and down, trying to grab the leash. Taking pity, I snapped it to his collar. He tugged toward the door with surprising strength. Time to go.

  “Eunice, give me your home phone number, or your cell, whichever. I’ll ask my friends if they need some help or know anyone who does.”

  “We’d be so grateful, Miss Theodora.” Lowering her voice, she added, “Bucky’s parole officer said that if he’s not working by the end of the month, he’ll have to go back to prison. And prison makes you…”

  “Wilt,” I filled in, unhappily.

  ***

  After a brief walk in Gunn Landing Park, Feroz established himself as captain of the Merilee. While DJ Bonz and Miss Priss took refuge in the forward sleeping area, the Chihuahua swaggered back and forth through my small boat as if it belonged to him.

  “Better watch yourself, Feroz,” I warned him. “Pride goeth before a fall.”

  Come to think of it, I’d better watch out, too. Here I had been priding myself on my ability to help with the Snows’ dire financial situation, when all along, Eunice’s out-of-work husband was a convicted felon, not that there’s anything wrong with that. But husbands often paw through their wives’ handbags, and what would happen if during a cursory pawing, Bucky found my mother’s house key? When I ran a brief mental inventory of the contents of Caro’s bedroom safe, I came up with eight diamond solitaires ranging from two to six carats, and an emerald-and-diamond necklace with matching earrings—all gifts from various husbands. That inventory didn’t include the furs in her closet, a PETA nightmare of sable, mink, and ermine.

  In order to keep Caro’s inventory at its present level, I decided Bucky Snow needed a job, and fast. While Feroz continued his reign of terror, I fished my cell phone out of my pocket and made some calls.

  Time flies when you’re setting up job interviews for ex-cons, but I was eventually able to call Eunice with good news. The San Sebastian Cinema needed an usher, someone who was as good with a broom as he was throwing out disruptive teens. Given Mr. Snow’s prison experience, I figured he would be perfect. Before I ended the call, it occurred to me to ask Eunice what had landed her husband in prison in the first place.

  “Grand theft auto,” she answered.

  Good news, since the San Sebastian Cinema wasn’t a drive-in.

  Minutes later, DJ Bonz’s frenzied barking reminded me of something I had forgotten in my rush to find Bucky a job. My own dog needed his evening walk. Ignoring Feroz’s jealous snarls, I snapped Bonz’s leash onto his collar and started off.

  Evenings are my favorite time at Gunn Landing Harbor. While I’d been on the phone, a thick fog rolled in, enveloping me and my three-legged terrier in a vast cocoon of gray. The usual night sounds were softened. The foghorn on the breakwater muted to a moan, the warning bell on a channel buoy pealed more discreetly, and the incoming tide whispered instead of roared.

  After being cooped up all day, the three-legged mutt took his time, piddling on this Monterey pine, squatting under the next. Eventually he signaled he was ready to return to the Merilee and his evening dinner, so we headed back. As we were about to cross the parking lot that separated the park from the boat slips, he barked at a dark shape looming toward us through the fog. A smaller dark shape trailing the larger one yipped back.

  “Who goes there?” the big shape called. “Friend or foe?”

  It was Albert Grissom, lawyer to the less-than-downtrodden. Not surprised at his defense attorney theatrics, I called back, “Friend of a friend. I’m Teddy Bentley, Caro’s daughter, and my companion is DJ Bonz, my trusty Heinz 57. Who’s the little charmer with you?”

  Al emerged from the fog with a Chihuahua even tinier than Feroz. She wore a doggy diaper, which signaled she was in season. When she reached Bonz, she indicated more than casual interest, so Al bent down and scooped her up.

  “DJ Bonz, meet the lusty Golden Honey Veracruz de la Sonora, Vera to her friends, of which she has more than she needs right now.” Smiling, he added, “I plan to breed h
er, but only to a gentleman I deem worthy of her favors. No disrespect intended.”

  Poor Bonz. Unlucky in the leg department, unlucky in love.

  While Bonz mournfully eyed the lusty Vera, Al and I talked dogs. Once that subject was exhausted, we talked Caro.

  “Theodora, I was going to call you this evening, so it’s fortuitous that we ran into each other. A source of mine at the sheriff’s office said Elvin Dade is still trying to drum up evidence against your mother for the Victor Emerson murder.” His mouth turned down and a line formed between his eyebrows. “I find that worrying. In fact, my source says Elvin is downright obsessed with the idea of Caro’s guilt. Is there a history between the two? Something I should know about? I’m speaking as her attorney, of course, not as, well, someone who, ah, who…” His blush travelled all the way to the tips of his ears.

  There was a history, all right. According to Caro, Elvin Dade had pretty much stalked her during their high school years. Not knowing as much about men then as she did now, she accepted a soda date with him, naively believing it would scratch his itch. Her ploy didn’t work. On the way home Elvin attempted to kiss her, among other things. The groping stopped only when she grabbed his ear and twisted it until it bled. Thinking quickly, she hopped out of the car and ran up to an elderly couple, pleading for assistance. Unfortunately for Elvin, the elderly man turned out to be a retired California Highway Patrol officer. After reading the randy teenager the riot act, the ex-cop called Elvin’s parents and told them how badly their darling boy had behaved. Elvin was grounded for a month and his driving privileges were revoked for the rest of the school year. For a teenage boy, that was tantamount to a life sentence.

  When I finished relating this sorry story to Grissom, the attorney’s face shone with admiration. “What fire your mother has!”

  “You could call it that.”

  “We have to protect that wonderful woman from herself, Theodora.”

  “Teddy.”

  “Ah, yes. Teddy. Can I rely on your help?”

  “Certainly.”