by Dixie Lyle
“Technically, that would be a dog that hunted mimes. Not that I’m saying that’s a bad idea.”
Whiskey reverted to his usual form. [My point is that acting is a very fluid, reactive process. The feline mind is simply too stubborn to be anything other than what it is, a fact you’re usually proud of.]
Tango’s eyes narrowed.
[Shame.]
Whiskey rolled his eyes. [How can you possibly claim to be a great actor when you admit there’s an entire emotion you don’t understand?]
Whiskey growled in exasperation. [You can’t—that’s not—it doesn’t even—]
“Oh, there’s a whole lot of provoking going on, that’s for sure.”
[Look, let me make this as simple as possible: Numerous dogs have had long, successful careers as actors, both on television and in films. Name one cat.]
[Putting a bowl of food in front of a cat and filming it eating is not acting.]
[Is a cartoon.]
[Is another cartoon.]
[Was a comic book. Graduated to being portrayed by an animatronic puppet—which, while stiff, unconvincing, and more than a little creepy, was still a better actor than a cat.]
I sighed. “Guys, guys, guys. You’re both missing the obvious.”
I spun my monitor around so they could see it. “Grumpy Cat and Ceiling Cat,” I said. “Along with a few hundred thousand others. Sorry, Whiskey—on the Internet at least, cats rule.”
To my surprise, Tango gave her head an annoyed shake.
[I have to concur. Posing an animal—even a cat—in a humiliating costume with a childish caption is hardly art.]
I frowned. “An issue that you two agree on? Wow. Obviously, I am on the wrong side of this. My apologies.” I made a mental note to dump a certain file in the digital trash as soon as possible.
[Clearly we are not going to resolve this with facts, as you refuse to recognize mine and are countering them with nonsense. I will have to settle for Foxtrot recognizing the superiority of my argument—]
“Whoa! Slow down there, speedy. You’re not dragging me into the middle of this.”
I cocked an ear to one side. “Did you hear that? That scraping noise? Like a tortured soul’s fingernails on the floorboards as she’s slowly pulled to her doom … Me, now, middle of this.”
[That’s only for certain movies, not all of them—and you’re not suggesting the lion is the one who actually made those films, are you?]
[Man in a furry suit, with makeup. While I will concede that lions are large and fearsome predators, I’m skeptical of their ability to sing and dance.]
[You’re mistaken. A dog’s facial musculature makes it quite difficult to sneer and laugh at the same time.]
“The things you learn as life’s grand pageant rolls along,” I murmured. “Come on, guys, wrap it up. Mommy wants to go home and get horizontal with the latest John Connolly novel and a cup of chamomile.”
Whiskey cocked a skeptical eyebrow at me. [Please don’t refer to yourself as Mommy. You don’t have the requisite breasts.]
“What a disturbing yet insulting thing to say. Too big? Too small?”
[Too few.]
I was still recovering from the previous remark, so it took me a second to digest what Tango was saying. “Wait. Make a movie? How?”
[Is it? What are you planning on doing, recruiting talent from the film being shot here?]
[Oh, no.]
[And how are you planning on getting them to show up on film? They’re ghosts, Tango.]
Whiskey put his head down on the carpet and covered his muzzle with one paw.
* * *
I had expected the police to be gone by the time I came in for work the next morning, but there were still police vehicles parked beside the house and yellow caution tape blocking off large parts of the yard—including the section containing the free-form sculptures erected by Keene. Lucky Trentini was waiting for me at the front door with a large white mug of coffee in one hand and a worried look on his face. Actually, it was pretty much the same look he always seemed to wear, so maybe it wasn’t so much worry as general angst.
Whiskey and I strolled up. “Morning, Lucky. How are you today?”
“I’m—not good. Not good.” He gestured with the coffee mug. “Just look at this mess. I have reshoots to do, and I need this space.”
“I’ll see about getting it cleaned up as soon as possible.”
He shook his head morosely. “I know you’re good at what you do, Foxtrot, but unless you’ve got some serious clout with the cops, I’m not gonna hold my breath. They seem to think all this stuff is somehow related to the explosion or the body, I’m not sure which. None of my people are being allowed anywhere near it.”
I nodded in sympathy. “I see. But isn’t being without your female lead going to put a serious crimp in your shooting schedule anyway?”
He took a sip of coffee and stared glumly at an exercise bike balanced on top of an empty planter. “No, not really. Mainly I need some more zombie crowd shots—Natalia’s scenes are all done.”
“How’s she doing?” I already knew, having called the hospital this morning, but I wanted him to know I cared enough to ask.
“Good news, thank God. Vital signs are all strong and healthy. The real question is whether or not there’s brain damage. Brain damage, for God’s sake, on the set of a zombie movie. The Internet’s gonna have a field day with it.”
I winced. “Yeah. I think I saw a few media vultures hanging around the front gate when I drove in. They’re circling, but haven’t landed yet.”
“My Twitter feed is practically screaming at me for information. I posted a brief message last night, but I’m gonna have to give them something more, soon. I just don’t know what I’m supposed to say.”
I shrugged. “I can get some extra security down here if you want. Stop them from scaling the walls, anyway.”
“I can’t afford that
. This production is bleeding money every minute we’re not filming, and the guy with the credit card is missing in action. Maybe permanently.”
I remembered the conversation Rolvink had with Lucky about money. “Right. Rolvink wanted you to wrap things up early, didn’t he?”
“Yeah, but it wasn’t because we were over budget. I think he was more worried about his financial backers than anything else.”
I frowned. “Worried? Why?”
Lucky hesitated. “Maybe I shouldn’t say anything, but—I got the feeling some of the money wasn’t exactly clean. Frankly, those sorts of questions are the kind you don’t ask. You might not like the answer, or what sort of accent it’s delivered in. Which is not meant to be an ethnic slur, because the country I’m talking about is Criminalistan.”
“I see. You think that might have something to do with what happened to him?”
He shrugged. “Could be. Maybe he’s dead, maybe he just decided to cut his losses and run. The last conversation I had with him, he said he was looking at taking on another investor.”
“An investor with the last name of Zoransky, perhaps?”
He shook his head. “No, actually. He said he was going to talk to Keene’s friend, Yemane Fikru.”
I blinked. That was a surprise—I didn’t think the two of them had anything in common. Well, other than …
Lucky saw the look on my face and nodded. “Drugs, yeah. He didn’t share any details, but I could tell what he was thinking. Guess it didn’t pan out, though.”
“Guess not,” I said. “Well, as far as the paparazzi go, ZZ values her privacy, too. I’ll talk to her, see what I can—uh-oh.”
“Uh-oh? That’s not a good sound. What uh-oh, why uh-oh—oh.”
Whiskey, I thought. Do you see that?
[I do. Do you want me to round him up? I am wearing the form of a cattle dog.]
Not yet.
What we were discussing was the sudden—but not entirely unprecedented—appearance of an ostrich on the front lawn.
“There’s an ostrich on your front lawn,” Lucky said. “Which is probably the least strange thing that’s happened since I got here.”
“That’s Oswald.” I sighed. “He’s not even supposed to be outside, let alone roaming free. I knew I shouldn’t let him have that subscription to Lockpick World, but it was Christmas and I just couldn’t bear the look in those big, sad eyes.”
Oswald is our resident escape expert—or was, until Owduttf made his break. I honestly don’t know how Oswald does it; I’ve tried getting Tango to ask him, but he always plays dumb. Which means he’s either a criminal genius or just too dumb to understand what he does is impossible.
We stared at him. He stared at us. He was about twenty feet away from the first yellow ribbon of crime scene tape, and every time it fluttered a little his head would jerk to it for a second, then back to us.
“Careful,” I said quietly. “Don’t spook him. You wouldn’t believe how fast he can run.”
“Oh, I’d believe it. I’ve seen Jurassic Park at least a dozen times, and looking at those legs right now I have no problem in believing birds are descended from dinosaurs. The T. rex in particular.”
He had a point. Ostriches have incredibly powerful legs tipped with claws, and they’re sharp enough to disembowel a human or even kill a lion. They can sprint at over forty miles an hour, stand up to nine feet tall, and weigh over three hundred pounds. They prefer running away to fighting, but they can also be aggressive and territorial.
Oswald looked at the tape, then back at us. Tape, us, tape, us.
If he crosses that tape, I thought at Whiskey, he could compromise the whole crime scene. Which, Lucky’s complaints notwithstanding, is probably a bad thing.
[If I’m going to intercede, I’ll have to get between him and the tape. I can’t do that as long as he’s watching us.]
Go around the house and try to sneak up on him from the other side.
“Whiskey, circle and contain,” I said. He turned and trotted casually away from us, but not before sending me a parting thought: [Circle and contain? Really? That’s what you come up with?]
Shut up. I’m trying to sound like a professional dog-talking person.
[Redundant-talking person is more like it.]
“Wow,” said Lucky, watching Whiskey disappear around the corner of the house. “Your dog is really well trained.”
“Yet strangely impolite,” I said.
Which is when Oswald took one big step closer to the tape.
“No!” I said. “Don’t do it, Oswald. Do not—”
He looked at me and blinked with absurdly long cartoon eyelashes. And took another slow, deliberate step.
“No. Bad bird. Bad bird. Stay. Do not move.”
“You do realize you’re scolding poultry,” Lucky pointed out. “Giant poultry, but still.”
Oswald studied me with those gigantic eyes. Two inches across, the biggest peepers of any non-aquatic animal alive. I stared into them and thought as hard as I could: Oswald. Please. Just stay where you are and I’ll bring you a whole bag of nice, juicy crickets—
Big, round eyes as innocent as a toddler’s. And just as ready to see how far he could push me.
One more step. Right up to the edge of the tape.
Whiskey! Don’t—
Which is when my dog chose to tear wildly around the far corner of the building, barking his head off. If Oswald had been just a few feet farther away from the tape, it might have worked; as it was, it just drove the ostrich right where I didn’t want him. He tore through the yellow tape like a sprinter at the finish line, and bolted right into the modern art exhibit Keene had turned the lawn into.
Whiskey skidded to a stop and looked to me for guidance.
“Don’t just stand there!” I called. “Get him out of there!”
Which was exactly what Whiskey wanted to hear.
My dog may be dead, but that doesn’t mean his instincts are. According to him, whatever breed he’s currently embodying colors his outlook as well as his abilities; when he’s a Newfoundland dog, for instance, he’s powerfully attracted to water. And blue heelers—or Australian cattle dogs, as they’re also known—have been bred for generations to chase and herd cattle.
When there are no cows around, I guess an oversized chicken will do.
Of course, Bessie’s top speed is considerably less than an ostrich’s. They even race them in some places—ostriches, I mean, not cows. Apparently Oswald had some sprinter in him, as he tore around the lawn like a greyhound after a rabbit, a length of yellow plastic wrapped around his neck as if sporting a jaunty scarf. Whiskey tore right after him, barking crazily.
“Circle and contain! Circle and contain!” I hollered.
[Stop yelling that! It doesn’t mean anything!]
Well, stop barking like a maniac! It’s not helping!
[I can’t help myself! Oh Gods this is glorious!]
So much for the sanctity of the crime scene. Amazingly, neither of them crashed into anything during their crazed dash around the impromptu obstacle course—though at one point Oswald did make an impressive bound right over a pyramid of yoga balls lashed together with duct tape.
“Get him out of there!” I called. “Herd him back toward his pen!”
[Yes! Yes! Give me instruction! Use the word herd again!]
Okay, that made me distinctly uncomfortable—but it seemed to work. Whiskey managed to get Oswald headed in the right direction, which unfortunately was straight toward us. I knew he’d veer away, but Lucky wasn’t as experienced in the habits of enormous runaway feather dusters. He shrieked and dove to the side, splashing coffee all over the place.
As I expected, Oswald darted to the left at the last second (though that’s probably not the right verb for a creature his size; javelined is more accurate), his huge, two-toed feet ripping clods of dirt out of the lawn as he cornered. Ernesto was going to be some annoyed when I told him he had to fix that.
[Can I m
ake him do a lap around the house before getting him into his pen? Please please please?]
No! Curb your damn instincts and corral him already!
[Okay, okay!]
I watched them disappear behind a hedge, then leaned down and helped Lucky up. “Are you all right?”
“Fine, fine. Just embarrassed. You remember what I said last night about directors being fearless? I wasn’t scared, I was just doing my impression of somebody who’s scared. You know, in case I ever have to communicate that to someone I’m directing. What with me being a director, and totally devoid of fear.”
“Totally,” I agreed. “Though not entirely devoid of a thin layer of coffee, I’m afraid. Or a broken mug.”
He looked at the white handle of the ceramic mug he still held, though the mug itself was no longer attached. “Yeah. Well, easily remedied. Don’t you have to, uh, go after them?”
“Whiskey’s got it under control. But I should give Caroline a call and let her know what’s up.” I pulled out my phone.
“I’m going to get a new mug of coffee. And a dry shirt.”
I gave Caroline the news, and she told me she’d be right down. Then I contacted Whiskey, who told me he’d chased Oswald into his pen and was guarding the open gate. I walked over to see for myself, and got there just as Caroline did.
She looked more apologetic than annoyed. “My fault. I came through here this morning and left it open—Oswald was locked in his house. Sure, he’s hard to keep contained, but I didn’t think he could defeat a door dead-bolted from the outside.”
“He didn’t,” I said, pointing. I could see the open window from here. “He found another exit.”
Whiskey now had Oswald trapped in one corner of the pen and was pacing back and forth in front of him with his head down, his eyes intent. Oswald was watching him with the same blank-eyed look he always wore, an expression somewhere between inscrutable and idiot.
Caroline and I went over to examine the window. From the scratches and dents on the frame, we deduced he must have pried it open using both his beak and feet.
“Well, let’s get him back inside,” Caroline said. “Ostriches are native to Africa—they’re not built for this kind of cold.”
