by Dixie Lyle
My point (and, as Ellen DeGeneres likes to say, I do have one) is that lying is not the one-dimensional, evil activity it usually gets labeled as. It’s one of the fundamental ways we exchange information.
Heh. No, that’s a lie.
Sounded good for a second, though, didn’t it? And that’s the essence of a good lie. Surround it with actual facts, then slip in the falsehood. Which doesn’t make you unreliable or a bad person, it just means you’re in a situation where telling a lie is a better option than telling the truth.
Better for who, you ask. That would be where the whole good-or-evil thing would come in, and since my lie was in service of the greater good I didn’t have any moral qualms about lying to a police officer. Nope, no qualms for me. I was completely and absolutely devoid of qualmage.
“So,” I said to Lieutenant Forrester, an actual member of law enforcement who could totally shoot me, “you IDed Rolvink’s body, huh? Any idea what killed him?”
There was a pause. “Who told you that?”
“A fellow grape. Not sure what their name was—all us grapes on the grapevine look the same, to me—but they seemed like a reliable source. You know, for a talking grape.”
“Fair enough. Just tell me it wasn’t one of my own people.”
“It wasn’t one of your people.”
“That’s not very convincing.”
“Oh, you wanted convincing? I can do convincing. I can even drop hints, if you know what I mean.”
“Not always, no. All I can tell you is this: It would be really, really helpful if we could locate the missing parts of the body.”
Uh-oh. I knew where those parts had ended up, and I didn’t think they’d prove all that useful in their current form. I’m no forensics expert, but I couldn’t see whatever was left after passing through the digestive tract of a honey badger containing much in the way of relevant information.
“Sorry, can’t help you there,” I said. “But if they turn up on the grounds, I’ll make sure to let you know. Is there any place in particular you think I should look?”
“If I knew that, we’d be looking there already.”
“Let me put it another way. Was this a middle-of-the-night event, or did it happen while people were still up and around? The first could have happened pretty much anywhere, while the second needs seclusion.”
He sighed. “I see what you mean. It’s entirely possible some of your guests were still awake when it happened, so you might keep an eye out for any concealed places that smell strongly of bleach.”
“I’ll do that. In the meantime, I’ll schedule those interviews for you and call back—shouldn’t take more than an hour, tops.”
He thanked me and hung up, leaving me to ponder what I’d learned. If they really needed the head and hands for cause of death, that meant they hadn’t learned it from the rest of the body. That ruled out a bunch of possibilities, including poison, heart attack, or simple bleeding to death. Most likely it had been some kind of head trauma, but with the head gone that was difficult to narrow down. Gunshot? Sharp object? Blow to the skull?
Calculating time of death is tricky; usually the coroner’s dealing with a range rather than a concrete moment, and that range can be a few hours long. From what Forrester had told me, it sounded like he’d narrowed it down to sometime between seven thirty—when dinner had ended, and the last time Rolvink had been seen alive—and whenever everyone (except Keene) had gone to bed.
It wasn’t much, but it was more data than I had a moment ago. And I could use the pretext of scheduling the interviews to ask a few questions of my own.
* * *
The first person I intended to talk to was Catree—I needed to know if Keene’s memory of seeing her was accurate, and if so what she was doing on the grounds in the middle of the night. But you know the old joke, the one about how to make God laugh? Turns out you can more or less replace God with a cat and it turns out exactly the same. Which won’t come as a surprise to anyone who’s had a cat, ever.
In case you haven’t heard it: How do you make God laugh? Tell him your plans.
Whiskey and I ran into Tango at the foot of the stairs, where she was being appreciated by Yemane Fikru. Appreciation meant lots and lots of stroking her while seated on the bottom step, with Tango blissed out in his lap.
I stopped halfway down the stairs. I could hear the purr from there, both in my ears and my head. Wow. Sounds like he’s really got the touch.
No verbal response, just the steady rumble of a very happy cat. Needless to say, Whiskey couldn’t let that go unremarked.
[Oh, dear. Somebody appears to be trapped under a chain saw. Which they forgot to turn off.]
The only response from Tango was to stretch out even farther, spreading her toes as wide as she could. Her claws extended, too, but only for a second at the very limits of her stretch. Completely coincidental, I’m sure.
“Hi,” Yemane said. He was dressed in another baggy T-shirt and sweatpants, his long blond dreads spilling out from under a red-and-green knit cap. “Not in the way, am I?”
“No, not at all. I see you found Tango. Not so skittish now, are you, kitty?”
[A rusty chain saw, at that. It’s a wonder it works at all.]
Yemane shook his head, his dreads swaying. “No, this isn’t the cat I saw. Pretty close, but definitely not the same one.”
“Oh. Well, I’m going to go out on a limb here and say this one is far superior.”
[But badly in need of engine maintenance.]
The purr slowed, sputtered, and died. Two feline eyes opened just a crack to look at me.
[Hmm. A speaking chain saw. How bizarre—]
What phase? “So, Yemane—I hope you’re settling in okay. Haven’t seen much of you.”
“Yeah, been doing a lot of meditating. Started out in the graveyard, but had to move to the gardens.”
“Oh? Why is that?”
[Cats have been getting stuck in trees since trees were invented. Ever seen a dog stuck in a tree? No, because we understand what trees are for: bulletin boards. That and producing sticks.]
Yemane stopped stroking Tango and looked up at me. “Too much going on. The psychic atmosphere is, like, intense. Not in a bad way, just really powerful and constant. Like standing next to an electrical plant and hearing that hum down in your bones.”
I put two fingers to my temple and rubbed. I’m good at multitasking, but sometimes having a mental conversation and an audible one at the same time was a bit much. “Too much mental noise, huh? I can relate to that. Well, I think you’ll find that the gardens give off a much mellower vibe.”
[You’d think that would be the case, wouldn’t you? And yet, time and time again, firefighters have to be summoned to rescue some hapless feline who’s unclear on the concept of reverse.]
[Firefighters are often accompanied by dalmatians. Would you like to know what a dalmatian calls a cat? Not smart enough to be a squirrel.]
“Actually, I had to leave there, too,” Yemane said. “I know this is going to sound a little weird, but—well, do you believe in ghosts?”
“Absolutely.”
He looked a little surprised. “Yeah? Well, animals have spirits, too. And your graveyard is full of them—maybe a little too full.”
I kept my voice neutral. “And you know this
because?”
“I’ve seen them. I know how that sounds, but I really am sensitive to other realms. And you have ghosts wandering through your yard.”
This was not a problem I ever expected to have. Not only was the ability to see ghosts rare, the ghost themselves didn’t tend to roam. There were exceptions to both rules, but I’d never had to deal with both happening at the same time.
“I’m … not sure what I can do about that,” I said carefully. “But I’m sorry if any part of our environment is making you uncomfortable. Is there anything that would help?”
He shook his head again, and Tango took the sudden movement as an excuse to jump off his lap. “Nah, it’s fine. I’m not sensing any hostile intent or anything, it’s just a bit much. Been chilling in my room. I could sense that they were still around, but I put out a do not disturb vibe and they respected that. They were still there, but they didn’t manifest, if you know what I mean.”
I thought what he meant was he couldn’t see them, but since I didn’t have that luxury—if there was a spook present, it was plain as day to me—I wasn’t sure. “I think I understand.”
“Anyway, I’ve adjusted my psyche. Keene and I are going to do a little exploring later, see what we can see. It’s cool.”
“Sure. Say, were you around for his big construction project?”
He looked blank, so I told him about the front yard and what Keene had done to it.
“He did that? I thought it was part of the movie.” Yemane shook his head. “No, sorry. I was around for the first part of the croquet game, but competitive sports really isn’t my thing. I spent the afternoon in the graveyard and the evening in my room. Sacked out early, around eleven.”
“Oh, that reminds me. The detective in charge of the investigation is coming back for follow-up interviews. He’s asked me to liaise for him, so this is me, liaising. Shouldn’t take long at all—when’s good for you?”
We arranged a time, I thanked him, I turned to go—then stopped and turned back. “Oh. One last thing. Did Maurice Rolvink ever track you down? He asked me if I knew where you were and I couldn’t tell him. Wanted to talk to you about some sort of business proposition?”
Fikru just looked at me for a second. I’m good at reading people, but at that moment he was a complete and utter blank—no signals at all. Anyone entering the room at that moment would have sworn I was alone.
Then he spoke, and the blankness was gone. “Yes, he did. He wanted to know if I could obtain a large quantity of illegal drugs for him, which he would then dilute and sell at inflated prices. I told him I was a shaman, not a drug dealer, and wasn’t interested. He immediately stopped being interested in me and left.”
“Ah. Are you going to tell Lieutenant Forrester that?”
Fikru smiled. “Why shouldn’t I? It’s the truth…”
* * *
After talking to Yemane Fikru, I tried to call Catree—I collect phone numbers more avidly than autograph hounds hoard signatures—but she didn’t pick up. That was unusual; like me, she’s expected to be more or less available all the time. Of course, like me, she’s also sometimes too busy to answer her phone.
I disconnected without leaving a message and put the phone back in my pocket. What I really wanted was to talk to her in person, but I couldn’t do that if I didn’t know where she was. I decided my best course of action was to roam the grounds with Whiskey and Tango, and see who we ran into. I could arrange interviews and gather information at the same time, and sooner or later someone would point me in the right direction.
Or I could just ask my partner with the supernatural nose to find her for me—
That’s as far as I got with that thought, because of the goats.
They were exploring Keene’s croquet course. And by exploring, I mean practicing goat mountaineering techniques.
Goats love to climb, and for an animal with hooves instead of claws, they’re awfully good at it. I should probably add at this point that these were spectral goats, probably from a petting zoo or something, goats that got plenty of affection and attention when they were alive but were now definitely dead. If they were living goats, they would no doubt be trying to eat the structures as well, but ghosts don’t (generally) have much in the way of appetites.
“Um,” I said. “We’ve been invaded. By goats.”
Whiskey studied them intently, his herding instincts springing to attention. [I could take care of that.]
“Extras? As in, you’ve already filled your quota of goats for today and these are left over? Or extras as in oh my God Tango you cannot fill the front yard with deceased ungulates you plan to use in your new film.”
[Audition? You don’t audition to be an extra.]
You know what else goats love to do? Jump. Climbing and jumping and eating whatever they could find; it’s like they evolved living on the side of a mountain or something. But now, having accomplished the primary goal of evolution—which was to die in order to make room for something better suited to surviving—they were free to do whatever they wanted. At first glance that simply appeared to be more jumping and climbing, but ghosts can do things living beings can’t. A dead shark can swim through the air as easily as the ocean; a dead bird can fly right through a closed window without smacking into the glass.
And dead goats can jump really, really far.
I watched one bound from the frame of a rowing machine to the handle of an upended wheelbarrow to the very tip of a spade leaning against a lawn chair. It paused there, unconcerned, looking totally at ease and highly improbable.
“Goats on the Moon, as rendered by Salvador Dalí,” I murmured. “All it needs is a few melting clocks.”
Another goat bounded gracefully over my head, landing on the miniature trampoline and not bouncing at all. “I’m beginning to understand why Mr. Fikru was complaining about all the psychic traffic noise. Tango, you’ve got to keep these spirits inside the boundaries of the Crossroads.”
[Stop saying cattle dog. I’m already uncomfortable with the fact it has the word cat right in it without hearing it from your brain.]
“Besides, these are goats, not cows. Ghost goats. I’m not sure Whiskey even could herd them.”
[Now you’re insulting my professional abilities? After that demonstration with the ostrich?]
I bowed to the inevitable. “Okay, pooch. Have at them.”
The words were hardly out of my mouth before Whiskey took off like a rocket, barking madly and charging right at the nearest goat, which was standing beside a weight-lifting bench and trying to gnaw at the padding with non-corporeal teeth; I guess habits sometimes die harder than appetites.
Cattle dogs are trained to herd all sorts of animals. Unfortunately, Whiskey now found himself in a situation that seemed specifically designed to frustrate him, as goat apparitions could do two things most livestock couldn’t. First, we were in a large space that was full of tall, precarious perches that the goats could reach easily and Whiskey couldn’t; the goat he rushed toward leapt straight up and then stared at him from the top of the wicket, which was made from a portable basketball hoop.
Second, these goats could talk.
If I wanted to converse with a living animal, I needed Tango’s translation skills—but the dead share a common telepathic tongue, one that cuts across species boundaries. I may not always understand what they’re trying to tell me, but the concepts themselves come across as recognizable words in my head.
{Ahem,} said the goat.
“Bark bark
bark bark bark!” barked Whiskey. But what he was saying mentally was [Go! Go go go go go go!]
{Go where?}
“Bark bark bark barkety bark!” [Over there! Over there! Over there!]
{Why?}
Whiskey stopped barking and stared at the goat with the kind of intensity only a working dog in the unrelenting grip of his instincts can manage. [Because I said so! Do it now! Do it now!]
{Will you please stop repeating yourself? It’s really irritating.}
A goat perched on another wicket called out, {What’s he want?}
{Says he wants me to go over there.}
{Why?}
The goat standing on the rim of the basketball hoop hopped to the top of the backboard. {No idea. Seems pretty upset about it, though.}
The second goat decided to join the first one, bounding from his wicket to the hoop where the first one had been. This produced a frenzy of barking: [No no no no no no no!]
The new goat peered down at Whiskey. {Hmmmm. You’re right, he does seem rather overwrought. Perhaps we should ask him why. Excuse me?}
Whiskey paused. [What?]
{What’s all this barking about? What’s so important over there?}
The first goat chimed in. {Yes. And if it’s so important, why don’t you go over there?}
Whiskey gathered his control and his dignity and sat down. [Ah. My apologies. I was simply following the dictates of my instincts and attempting to guide your actions through the direct intervention of loud vocalizations.]
{Barking, you mean.}
[Well, yes.]
