The Llama of Death

by Betty Webb

  “As in Bambi.”

  “And as in bitch.”

  “Surely not.” My disclaimer was good manners only, because Judd had a reputation as a skirt-chaser.

  “If you don’t believe me, Teddy, check out that noisy party on the Runaround. When I left, Judd was dancing so close to her I couldn’t tell where he left off and she began.”

  “He’s just feeling his oats, Deanna.”

  “Is that what you’d say if the shoe was on the other foot, and your precious Joe was playing kissy-huggy with her?”

  Such was my fury at the thought that I immediately began to compile a list of reasons Bambi might have murdered Victor Emerson, and thus be sentenced to life in prison with no parole. But every time I had seen her and Victor talking together, they’d appeared genial, almost affectionate. And hadn’t he officiated at her nuptials? True, her marriage had been short-lived, but I couldn’t see why Bambi would blame Victor for that, especially since she had received a large financial settlement after the divorce. No, try as I might, I just couldn’t think of any reason the hussy might pick up a conveniently discarded crossbow and shoot the tubby reverend to death.

  The crossbow. Maybe I was going at this the wrong way. Instead of trying to pin Victor’s murder on anyone other Caro, maybe I should be paying more attention to the unusual murder weapon itself. Who, for instance, had a working knowledge of crossbows?

  Then I remembered that crossbow demonstration at the Faire. Deanna had been in the audience, but Judd hadn’t been with her.

  Before I could stop myself, I asked, “Deanna, did Judd attend one of those crossbow demonstrations?”

  “Please tell me you’re joking.”

  “Not really.”

  Her expression, so anguished earlier, morphed into one of pure rage. “Theodora Iona Esmeralda Bentley, get your nosy ass off my boat.”

  Realizing that it had worn out its welcome, my nosy ass complied.

  ***

  Two hours later I was changing clothes for my visit to the jail when my cellphone came alive. Praying the caller was Joe, I snatched it off the nightstand, only to read the name of my old friend, Deputy Emilio Gutierrez.

  Trying not to sound disappointed, I answered. “Hi, Emilio. What’s…”

  “I’m still on duty so I have to be quick. We received the autopsy report on the man we all knew as Victor Emerson. And you know the ME always checks a deceased fingerprints?”

  “Sure, but what does that have to do with anything?”

  “Teddy, Victor’s real name was Glenn Reynolds Jamison. Eighteen years ago, he escaped from the Ely State Prison in Nevada, where he was doing twenty-five to life for murder. Oops. Elvin’s yelling for me. Gotta go.”

  Thunderbolt duly delivered, Emilio hung up.

  Chapter Seven

  “How about this fake beard? Not only is it a different color than my own hair, but it changes the shape of my face, too. Bulks it up, don’t you think?”

  My father and Aster Edwina were standing in Gunn Castle’s aptly-named Gold Bedroom, the same bedroom where Wallis Simpson and the Duke of Windsor had once slept. Gold brocade covered the halls, gold silk damask draperies hung from the canopied bed, and gold-themed Aubussons carpeted the oak-planked floor. To keep the room from being too matchy-matchy, several Caneletto landscapes of Venice brightened the walls, their cool blues providing a refreshing contrast. The scent of lilies perfumed the air, much of it emanating from Aster Edwina. She was dressed to kill, too, in a silk shantung dress that perfectly matched the Caneletto skies.

  Ignoring her for the moment, I yelled, “Dad? What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  After driving my Nissan like a lunatic all the way from Gunn Landing Harbor, I had found my father studying his reflection in an antique cheval glass mirror, the same one in which Wallis Simpson once admired her own thin, rich self.

  He turned from the mirror. “Nice to see you, too, Teddy. As for what I’m doing, isn’t it obvious? I’m getting ready to visit your mother.”

  “That beard is black. Your eyebrows and eyelashes are red.”

  “Maybe I can borrow some black mascara from you girls.”

  Aster Edwina, who had always had a soft spot for my rapscallion father, giggled. She sounded like an innocent young girl, not the eighty-plus autocrat she really was.

  I felt less charmed. “Mascara won’t help. Neither will the fact that you’re an unforgettable six-foot-four.”

  “I’ll stoop. Lean on a cane.”

  “No, Dad. Not unless you want me to wind up with two parents in jail.”

  Aster Edwina cleared her throat and tried to act like an adult again. “As much as I hate to admit it, Danny, Theodora’s right. You’re still the handsome Daniel St. James Bentley I always knew, and fake beard or no, that vile Elvin Dade will recognize you immediately. If I remember correctly, and I’m certain I do, he used to clean your pool before he signed on to the sheriff’s department. You know the idiot would love to add your scalp to his less-than-stellar record, especially since you had to fire him after that dead-rat-in-the-drain incident. He knows how to harbor a grudge.”

  With a sigh, Dad pulled off the beard. “Caro will be so disappointed.”

  “She’ll live,” Aster Edwina snapped.

  “But Caro’s so sensi…”

  Before this could go any further, I interrupted. “Aster Edwina, if you don’t mind, there’s something I need to discuss with my father. In private.”

  She threw me a mean look, but for once I didn’t back down. “The sooner Dad stops worrying about Caro, the sooner he’ll be able to relax and devote his time to you.”

  My ploy worked, and with a final girlish giggle directed toward my father, Aster Edwina wiggled her bony hips out of the room.

  Dad turned back to the mirror. “Maybe a fuller beard? Light brown, perhaps? Or salt and pepper? Then the contrast with my eyebrows wouldn’t be so marked.”

  “Give it up, Dad. You’re not going anywhere near that jail.”

  “Your mother…”

  “You. Can. Not. Visit. Mother. Not as long as she’s locked up, anyway. But here’s how you can help. Turns out you were right about one thing. It takes a crook to catch a crook. I want you to call some of your felonious friends and get insider information on a guy named Glenn Reynolds Jamison who did time for murder in Ely, Nevada. In case I can’t find out on my own, I need to know who he murdered and why, who his associates were, and who helped him escape from prison. Find out whether any of his old friends or relatives are still alive. They could be, because he was only around fifty when he got killed.”

  “Don’t want much, do you, Teddy?”

  “Nothing you can’t take care of. When it comes to sussing out criminal behavior, you and your buddies are the best thing to come along since Google.”

  A smile. “Now you’re flattering me.”

  “As if you need it, you egotist you. Seriously, can you do that for me?”

  He crossed the carpet and kissed me on my nose. “For you, sweetie, anything. As long as it helps your mother.”

  “Good. Now I’m going to ask you something I’ve wanted to know for a long time but with one thing or another, never got a chance to ask. Why’d you do it?”

  He looked at his fingernails. They were immaculate. “Do what?”

  “You know what.”

  “No, really, I don’t.”

  I bet. “You already had more money than you knew what to do with, were a full partner in a lucrative business, married to a beautiful woman, had a daughter who adored you, owned a gorgeous house, several racehorses, a yacht, a half-dozen Rolexes—you had everything a man could want. Why did you throw it all away by embezzling money you didn’t really need?”

  He dropped the fascination with his fingernails and looked
me in the eye. “It was the challenge, the game. Could I do it? What if I got caught? But what if I didn’t get caught? Wouldn’t that be fun? It was the adrenaline rush, Teddy. There’s nothing like it.”

  “Not even love?”

  He didn’t answer right away, but when he did, it appeared to have nothing to do with my question. “Sweetie, you’re more like me than you realize.”

  “I am not!”

  “Then convince me you don’t get an adrenaline rush from all this detective work.”

  “I’m doing it to help Mother.”

  “And the case before this one? And the one before that?”

  “I…I…” For some reason, I couldn’t finish.

  Shaking his head, he left the room.

  Unsettled by the conversation, I spent a few minutes tidying my flyaway red hair in front of the cheval glass, then walked down the stone steps to find the housekeeper carrying a silver tray toward the library. It was loaded with a full tea service, including watercress sandwiches and marzipan cakes.

  “Miss Theodora, Miss Aster Edwina, and her visitor, whatever his name is, are in the library. Do you wish to join them for tea?”

  Mrs. McGinty knew perfectly well who the visitor was, but like the rest of the castle’s staff, she pretended she didn’t. Before being outed as an embezzler, my father was well-known in San Sebastian County for his numerous charitable activities. Since almost everyone falls upon hard times at least once in their lives, it was a rare family indeed that had never experienced his generosity, castle staff included.

  “Tea would be nice,” I said, falling into step behind the housekeeper. We clattered along the stone floor like a matched pair of Clydesdales.

  In contrast to William Randolph Hearst’s light-filled San Simeon a hundred miles to the south, the fourteenth century Gunn Castle was a study in gloom. It had been transported stone by stone from Scotland by Edwin Gunn, Aster Edwina’s father, and founder of the massive Gunn fortune, who had been more intent on impressing the neighbors than physical comfort. With six towers, a crenelated roof, and a row of archers’ windows, the sun seldom made entrance, and the few sconces lighting the hallway did little to penetrate its perpetual twilight.

  “Knowing that you and your fa…ah, the guest prefer non-caffeinated herbals, I’ve brewed up some chamomile,” Mrs. McGinty said.

  I was about to thank her when she added, “I’m glad the snake is doing okay.”

  “Snake?”

  She hissed at me. “Ssss-byl.”

  It took me a moment to realize she was talking about the Gunn Zoo’s runaway Mohave rattlesnake.

  “Did they find her?”

  “No, but she’s taking care of herself. Her first tweet yesterday said, ‘Mousie was delicious. So was kitty.’ Isn’t that cute?”

  I stopped dead in my tracks, right underneath an Elizabethan pike, which if it fell, would probably behead me. “Are you telling me that Sssbyl’s tweeting?”

  “Sounds like you haven’t been keeping up, Miss Theodora.”

  Annoyed at being told that for the second time in one day, I said, “Mrs. McGinty, snakes can’t tweet. They don’t have fingers. Or hands. Or Smart Phones. Or iPads.”

  The left corner of her mouth tilted up so slightly I couldn’t tell for certain if she was smiling. “I imagine Sssbyl’s talked someone into tweeting for her. She’s quite assertive.”

  “Next, she’ll put together a Facebook page,” I snarked.

  “She already has one, but tweeting is more immediate. Don’t you find that to be so, Miss Theodora?”

  “I avoid tweeting whenever possible.”

  “You’re missing a lot, then. Sssbyl’s having great adventures out there. Her latest tweet said ‘Love is a many-splendored thing.’ Isn’t that just precious?”

  “Not really.”

  The hinted-at smile fully revealed itself. “You’re so much like your fa…like the visitor. He swears he’ll get Mrs. Bentley out of jail if he has to tear it down brick by brick.” The housekeeper had never stopped calling my mother by her first married name, a habit which hadn’t set well with Husband Number Two, Husband Number Three, or Husband Number Four.

  “The jail is poured cement, Mrs. McGinty, not brick.”

  “Slab by slab then.”

  When we finally reached the library, we found Aster Edwina sitting on my father’s lap. The old hussy didn’t even attempt to look embarrassed, merely slid off, straightened the skirt of her silk dress and gave me a smug smile.

  In contrast to the dim hallway, the library was warm and welcoming. Late afternoon sunlight filtered through stained glass windows, probably looted from some Scottish church, cast jewel-toned reflections around the room. The huge Jacobean chair my father sat on wouldn’t have been out of place in a museum.

  “Shouldn’t you be at work, Theodora?” Aster Edwina asked. After taking the tray from Mrs. McGinty, she dismissed the housekeeper and began to pour.

  “You gave me the day off, remember? But you’re right, I have places to go and people to see. First, though, there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you. Why in the world did you let Bambi play Anne Boleyn when you’d already promised the part to Caro?” There was no point in spilling the beans yet on Victor’s true identity. She would find out soon enough.

  “Promises were made to be broken, Theodora.” Without asking if I wanted cream or sugar, she handed me a delicate Crown Staffordshire cup so overfull the hot tea slopped over into its saucer and onto my hand. Accident? I thought not.

  But the chamomile tasted delicious. So did the marzipan cake I helped myself to. “Promises shouldn’t be broken without a good reason, Aster Edwina.”

  “Wait a minute, you two,” my father interjected. “What’s all this about Caro being replaced as Anne Boleyn? That’s news to me. When she called me a couple of weeks ago, she sounded very excited about flouncing around as the Queen of England. I told her it wasn’t quite the same as being a real queen, but…” He shook his head.

  Caro had a rare talent for fantasy, which was why Victor’s slight had hurt her so much. Angry all over again, I explained to my father what had happened. “Didn’t your girlfriend here tell you that’s why Elvin Dade arrested Mom in the first place?”

  Aster Edwina ignored his glare. “Yes, I originally told Caroline she could be Anne, but that was before Victor Emerson made what I thought was a very good argument, that she was too old. If my grasp of history is accurate, Anne married Henry when she was either thirty-one or thirty-two, which is pretty much in the same ballpark as Bambi. Ghastly name, by the way. What could her parents have been thinking?” She sniffed. “Whereas your mother must at least be in her late fifties, if not beginning her sixties. Not that anyone can tell, given all those cosmetic procedures she’s undergone in her eternal quest of youth. But facts are facts, as Victor so rightly pointed out. Caroline was too old to portray a believable Anne.”

  On the surface her argument sounded reasonable, but I knew Aster Edwina too well to buy it. For now, I contented myself that the furious expression on my father’s face meant the old bat wouldn’t be sitting on his lap again anytime soon.

  While driving away from Gunn Castle an hour later, I tried to remember where Bambi had been when Victor Emerson—or rather, Glenn Reynolds Jamison—was murdered. Had she spent the night on the Faire’s grounds? Although I didn’t know her all that well, I couldn’t see her bunked down in a tiny tent or sharing an RV with the proletariat. My guess was that she had driven back to her house in San Sebastian when the Faire closed for the evening.

  But I would find out.

  ***

  Visiting hours had not yet begun when I arrived in San Sebastian, so I decided to spend the remaining minutes sipping decaf at the Uptown Diner across from the jail.

  Bad decision.

  As
I took a seat at the crowded counter, who did I see hogging a booth meant for six but Acting Sheriff Elvin Dade and his insufferable wife Wynona. If Elvin was unpopular, she was doubly so. Self-righteous to a fault, she had even earned the animosity of the parishioners at the strict fundamentalist church the two attended. If the Bible listed ten commandments, she had come up with a dozen more, ranging from forbidding makeup to a fatwa against wearing shorts on the hottest summer day. The Gunn Zoo’s summer uniforms—khaki shorts and camp shirt—had so outraged Wynona’s puritan sensibilities that she had led a campaign to prohibit schoolchildren from entering the zoo from May through August. Her campaign failed, but not before being rebuked by her zoo-loving pastor for the sin of pride.

  Here I sat, in my summer uniform, which I’d dutifully worn to the TV studio earlier than morning. Granted, the shorts weren’t all that miniscule, reaching almost to my knees, but they were still shorts, and my camp shirt bared a shocking amount of freckled forearm. By contrast, Wynona wore a print housedress that left everything to the imagination. With her scrawny body covered to her wrists, chin, and ankles, she resembled a plucked chicken stuffed into a flour sack.

  I ducked my head and pretended I wasn’t there.

  That never works, of course. The people you don’t want to see you always do, and before I was a third of the way through my decaf, Wynona was breathing down my sunburned neck.

  “For decency’s sake you should close that zoo down until…until the season is over, Teddy.”

  “Season? What season?” Although I knew perfectly well what had her dander up, it was more fun to play dumb.

  “You know. The season where the animals do, uh, what they do.”

  “Do? What are you talking about, exactly?”

  “The…the getting in the family way season.”

  “Oh, you mean mating!” I purposely said it loud enough that everyone in the diner turned to look. “Why are you so focused on mating behavior, Wynona?” I said that even more loudly.