A Whisky, Tango & Foxtrot Mystery 04 - A Deadly Tail
Page 5
I knew as soon as I said it that I’d made a mistake.
“Just your run-of-the-kitten-mill ghost cat, prowling around the front door. Ran away as soon as I spotted it, right back to the graveyard. Nothing unusual about it, probably just curious.”
“Um. Well … a bit like you, actually. Black and white.”
Her voice in my head was as silky as her fur.
I gave up. “Pretty much the same. Even had the little question mark between your eyes.”
“I tried to chase it—”
Tango gave her head a quick shake of annoyance.
“It got away.”
“Okay, okay. You have your strengths, I have mine. But let’s not get carried away. How is this a problem?”
That brought me up short. Whiskey’s a shape-changer, but he’s not the only one. Thunderbirds can shift between human and avian forms, and apparently so can their biggest enemy—a nasty creature called an Unktehila. We’d never met one in the flesh, but supposedly they can look like just about anything.
Including Tango. Or a honey badger.
“Look,” I said, “if there’s a shape-shifting monster roaming around the grounds, there’s even less reason to let you out.”
Right. Unktehilas also supposedly had this big crystal implanted in their heads that let them influence people’s minds, making them a paranoid’s worst nightmare come to life. “I didn’t forget. And like I said, no way are you going outside.”
“But you can’t—”
She had me, and she knew it. “Promise me you’ll stick to the graveyard and stay away from the film crew,” I said.
She gave me a pitying look.
I walked over to the kitchen door and opened it. “Just stay safe.”
She strolled out with her tail high, as casually as … well, a cat.
* * *
A few words on the subject of croquet:
It evolved from a much older game called lawn billiards, a sport in which you tried to fling large wooden balls through a central ring with giant spoons. This eventually gave way to hammering them through metal hoops instead, which probably both reduced the number of ball-related injuries and killed the craze for gigantic teacups. This game was called Paille Maille in France (derived from the Latin roots for “ball” and “mallet”) and Pall Mall when King Charles II of England imported it as something fun to do on those huge palace lawns. Commoners love to imitate royalty but usually can’t afford to; hitting a ball with a club, though, was something pretty much anyone could do. It became so popular that a London street wound up being named after the sport—the Pall Mall—and apparently sucking up to the monarchy like that paid off: The street itself became a very upscale, happening place that everybody else wanted to copy, including an American cigarette company that named their new brand after it. Which is why, the next time you take a big, cancerous drag on that Pall Mall, you can console yourself by remembering it was named after a game in which you try your best to hammer someone else’s ball before they hammer yours.
While the Zoransky estate isn’t anywhere near Palace of Versailles size, it does feature some impressive expanses of grass. Both the front and back lawns take up a considerable amount of real estate, and croquet often happens. ZZ’s son, Oscar, is a bit of a hustler with the hoops, and has relieved more than one of our guests of their folding money.
Keene is one of his victims. However, rather than holding a grudge, Keene’s decided to take the approach that he’s paying for lessons, and cheerfully loses to Oscar over and over again. But each time he loses by a little less, and even Oscar admits that someday he won’t lose at all. In the meantime they have a lot of fun while drinking entirely too much, which is something they’re both very good at.
“I say,” Oscar remarked as I strolled up to them on the back lawn, “I believe you’re blocking my wicket.” Oscar often sounds like he was born in the British Isles—he wasn’t—but it gets especially pronounced when he has a wooden mallet in his hand.
“Yes, no wicket-blocking, please,” Keene added. He wore a long woolen overcoat, a furry white hat with ears that stood up, and fingerless gloves.
I stepped out of the way while Oscar lined up his shot. “Awfully chilly for outdoor sports, don’t you think?” I said. “Frosty, even.”
“Nonsense,” said Oscar. He was dressed just as warmly as Keene, in a heavy overcoat, gloves, and a woolen hat. “Many activities take place in weather just such as this. Football, for instance.”
“’Course, this doesn’t involve as much physical exertion,” Keene said. “Or contact—except between balls.”
“Yes, you’re fond of pointing that out,” said Oscar. He swung and knocked his ball through the next hoop. “Tell me, when is your thirteenth birthday? I’d like to get you a nice poster you can hang in your bedroom.”
“Also, we have the advantage of alcoholic incentives,” Keene said. “Through the hoop and over the gums, look out stomach, here it comes!” He pulled a small flask out of his pocket and unscrewed the top. Oscar did the same. They raised their respective drinks to me.
“Chin chin,” said Oscar.
“To the Queen,” said Keene. “Freddie Mercury, now there was a chap who knew how to rock.” They both drank.
“Do you do that on every turn?” I asked.
“No, just when someone hoops,” said Keene. “We maintain strict sportsmanly protocols at all times. No peeing on the field, either.”
“I see,” I said. “You guys are starting awfully early, aren’t you?”
“All part of my strategy,” said Keene. “Having proven he’s my better when it comes to skill, I plan on beating Oscar through sheer endurance. Staying power, that’s my secret weapon. Can’t tour thirty cities in forty days if you’re going to let a little thing like exhaustion stop you.”
“Marathon croquet?” I said. “Interesting. Maybe I should call the Olympic committee.”
“Don’t bother,” said Oscar. “Croquet hasn’t been played in the Olympics since 1904, and even then it was an American bastardization called Roque. Why they dropped the first and last letters of the name I’ll never know.”
“It’s just what you Yanks do,” said Keene. “Take a perfectly good English word like spanner and mangle it into a wrench. Bloody annoying, it is.”
I shook my head. “Well, be advised that the film crew may need this location later in the afternoon. They’re using the front lawn for most of their shots, but that may change.”
“Ah, yes, the zombies,” said Keene. “I was having a word with the
director earlier, and he said he might use my idea of having one of them be dispatched with a croquet mallet. Fits right into the theme, he said.”
Oscar said something dry and dismissive in reply, but I didn’t really catch it. I was staring at the ghost dog.
Unlike Whiskey, who’s indistinguishable from the living article, this canine was definitely deceased: A collie, it had the brilliant, glowing sheen that most spirit animals seem to possess, its brown-and-white coat gleaming a luminescent bronze and pearl. It was trotting along next to the hedge, and did no more than glance in my direction before disappearing around the corner of the house much like the cat had, though it was heading in the opposite direction.
“Excuse me,” I said. “Something I need to take care of right away.” I strode off after it, though I wouldn’t have been surprised if it was gone by the time I rounded the corner.
It wasn’t, though. It was still moving at a steady pace alongside the house, and when it got to the far edge it stopped, peering around the corner.
I walked up to within a few feet and stopped, too. It was a beautiful dog, with the kind of calm elegance some collies just seem to exude. I didn’t quite know what to do next; I could try to talk to it—all ghost animals seem to share a common tongue—but I was afraid if I did it would bolt.
Then I realized I was close enough to my office that I could probably talk to Whiskey in my head and he’d be able to pick it up. Whiskey, I thought. Can you hear me?
[I can. Has your shame at my unjust imprisonment become so great that you can no longer communicate with me face-to-face?]
More like I need your help and I’m willing to shamelessly ask for it.
[I live to serve.]
That would be more guilt-inducing if you were actually alive. A condition, by the way, also shared by the deceased collie I’m currently looking at. Any idea why one would have wandered away from the Crossroads and onto the estate?
[Not really. Is there something unusual about said collie?]
Not as such. It’s just that this is the second animal ghostie I’ve encountered on the grounds today, and the other one bore an amazing resemblance to Tango.
[Does this one resemble me?]
Sure—if you were a regular spirit and posing as a collie. Otherwise, not so much.
[Maybe it smells like me.]
Maybe, but how would I know?
[You wouldn’t. Does this suggest a possible course of action in your immediate future?]
Hold on there, Nosy. I’m not letting you out unless I absolutely have to. Right now all Lassie is doing is standing there watching.
[Watching what?]
Uh … I can’t actually tell, since it’s around the corner of the building. The film crew, I guess.
[Fascinating. Perhaps its former owner was an ersatz zombie as well.]
[No,] said a new voice in my head, [but he worked with a few.]
The collie turned his head to look at me. His mouth was open in a friendly doggy smile, and his warm brown eyes seemed slightly amused.
[Hello,] he said. [Hope you don’t mind. It’s been a long time since I was on set—I just couldn’t resist taking a look.]
“Uh—not at all,” I answered. “I’m Foxtrot. Who are you?”
[I’m Pal. But you probably know me better by the name you called me earlier.]
“I’m sorry?”
[Lassie,] the dead dog said.
4.
Now:
Whiskey and I sprinted for the house. Most people would run away from an explosion, but not us. Like EMTs, firefighters, and cops, we’d been trained to head toward the disaster. Lucky us.
There was a house-sized black cloud over the mansion now, with a few trailing wisps emanating from the chimney. My detail-oriented brain noted that the little roof over the chimney that kept out the rain was gone, and a few seconds later I heard a metallic crash off to my left as we sprinted through the garden. Conclusion: The explosion had occurred in one of the fireplaces, channeling the blast up through the chimney like the barrel of a gun. The little tin roof had been the bullet, and what was left of it was now in pieces on the ground. Hopefully not on top of a guest.
Tango! I shouted telepathically. Are you all right?
[She’s fine. Stoned, but fine. Let’s concentrate on searching for wounded.]
That’s my dog—concerned, but pragmatic. Triage first, then we’ll sort out the details.
We pushed our way through a crowd of gawking zombies and got to the front door just as ZZ, the makeup people, and the household staff came stumbling out. “Anybody hurt?” I yelled. “Anybody missing?”
ZZ headed straight for me, coughing. For a frozen instant I thought she’d been horribly maimed, but then I realized she was still made up as one of the walking dead. “Foxtrot!” she wheezed. “What—what was that?”
“One of the fireplaces blew up, I think.” I did a quick head count and saw that Maurice Rolvink and Natalia Cardoso were the only ones not accounted for. Shondra Destry, our head of security, was on her cell phone, either talking to emergency services or calling in the marines; she’s ex-military, so this sort of thing is right in her wheelhouse.
Ben rushed up to me, his face grim, and said, “Something blew up. You think there might be a fire?”
From the look on his face, I knew that was Thunderbird-code for Do you think there should be a brief but intense rain shower in our immediate vicinity?
I gave my head a brief shake. “Let me check. Two people might still be inside.”
“How about Tango?’
Did what? I asked.
Just calm down. Who are they and what did they make illegal?
I didn’t have time for Tango’s freakout. You’re fine. Go outside. If you’re already outside, stay there. “Come on, Whiskey. Ben, you too.” I headed for the open front door, and to their credit neither my dog nor my boyfriend protested or asked questions, just trooped right along behind me. I knew Shondra would have come with me if I’d asked, but I wanted her outside doing crowd control and keeping an eye out for any further danger.
There was smoke and dust in the air, but it wasn’t too bad. I grabbed a fire extinguisher from the foyer—yes, I know where each and every one is located on the grounds—and looked around.
“Second floor,” Ben said. “That’s where it happened.”
“How do you know?”
“Air talks to me. Right now, it’s complaining that a whole bunch of it got pushed out of the way upstairs.”
Cautiously, I crept up the stairs. Plaster crunched underfoot, and there were little swirling things in the air—bits of shredded paper and cloth, most likely. I could smell charred wood and melted plastic and something I couldn’t identify.
[Trinitrotoluene. Or as it’s more commonly known, TNT.]
“Dynamite?” Ben said. “That’s not what I was expecting.”
“Me either,” I said grimly. So much for my working theory that somebody had tossed something volatile in one of the fireplaces by accident.
We reached the second floor, which was darker and smokier. No power, of course. Most of the light was coming from a doorway at the end of the hall that was missing its door, the remains of which were leaning against the corridor wall. A chilly breeze blew toward us—the blast had blown the windows in the room out. I’d have to make sure the back lawn was cleared of broken glass—
And then I realized that there was someone under that door.
I rushed down the hall, set down the fire extinguisher, and knelt. It was Natalia Cardoso, which made sens
e; it was her room that had blown up. She must have been outside when it happened—it looked as though the door had shielded her from the explosion itself, but had then torn free of its hinges and slammed her against the wall.
I checked her pulse. Still alive, but unconscious. “Help me move the door off her,” I said to Ben. Once we got that out of the way, I checked her more thoroughly. She was bleeding from a cut over her eye, but I couldn’t find any broken bones. She might have internal injuries, of course, but her breathing seemed normal. I pulled out my phone and called an ambulance, while Ben grabbed the fire extinguisher and took care of the few small fires guttering around the room.
I peered through the doorway. It looked like the blast had destroyed the wall directly above the fireplace, as if a bomb had been placed on the mantel. There had been a clock up there the last time I checked, but I was pretty sure I’d remember if it had been wired to a stick of dynamite. Because, you know, I have a terrific memory—
“Um,” I said. “Ben? There’s something else you should probably know about before the police arrive. Not because it directly involves you or anything, but just—you know, FYI.”
Ben glanced over at me and gave the extinguisher one last burst at a stubbornly smoldering piece of wreckage. “What?”
“Whiskey and I found a body on the grounds this morning. It had been—partially eaten. Probably by our honey badger.”
Ben stared at me. “Well, haven’t we had a busy morning. Who was it?”
“I don’t know. Those parts weren’t … there.”
He nodded, obviously trying to process this new information. “The honey badger. Of course. Well, you did try to tell me just how evil he was, though this is really taking it to the next level. What I want to know is, who taught him how to make a bomb?”
“That’s one theory…”
“Wait. It’s so obvious. He’s been talking to Wile E. Coyote. I mean, what with all the talking animals around here, doesn’t it make sense that they’d network?”
[I’m not sure if he’s being facetious or just in shock.]
I looked around at the blackened remains of the room. “I’m not sure he isn’t right…”