by Dixie Lyle
The first goat snorted. {You could have just asked. Excuse me, would you mind moving in that direction, please? Is that so hard?}
[I suppose not.] Whiskey was beginning to look a little mortified. [Um. Would you?]
{Would we what?}
[Mind moving along, in that direction. Please.]
The second goat squinted at him suspiciously. {You still haven’t said why. I question your motives.}
{As do I.}
{Hullo, fellows! What’s up?} said a third goat, bounding over to join the other two. {Looks like jolly good fun, whatever it is!}
{Oh, hello, Nigel,} said the first goat with a marked lack of enthusiasm. {Reginald and I were just discussing why we should go “over there.”}
{Why? What’s over there?}
{Well, that’s the bloody question, isn’t it?}
{Is it? I thought the question was why we should go over there. Hope I’m not presuming about my own inclusion in this little excursion, ha ha ha.}
[If I might interject? My sole purpose in getting you to move “over there” is in having you not be “over here.”]
{I’m not sure you can define such an action in purely negative terms—oh, hello, Phillip. Geoffrey. Randolph.}
More and more goats were joining the first two, bouncing from wicket to wicket like hyperactive kangeroos in a trampoline factory, until they landed on top of the backboard or the rim of the hoop. Normally their combined weight would have toppled the entire structure over by now, but since they were spirits they could safely ignore restrictions like that. When they ran out of actual room, they just stood on one another.
“I always wondered how high you could stack a bunch of ghostly goats,” I muttered. “Said no sane person, ever.”
[… if we could get back to the matter at hand,] said an increasingly desperate-sounding Whiskey. [It’s really quite simple. You’re all here, and I would like you to be there.]
{We grasp the essence of the situation,} said Reginald huffily. {What we are trying to ascertain is the purpose behind our requested exodus. Isn’t that right, Tim?}
{Absolutely, Reggie. Seems a bit presumptuous to me.}
{Say, fellows! Why don’t I go over there and check things out? Make sure there’s no large predators lurking in the underbrush, ha ha ha.}
{Great idea, Nigel. Off you go.}
Nigel bounded off cheerfully, leaping from wicket to wicket as if they were craggy mountaintops. When he got to the one farthest away, he yelled back, {I’m here, fellows! Seems hunky-dory to me!}
{Too soon to tell, Nigel! Stay there and keep your eyes peeled!}
{Roger that!}
[Let me elucidate,] Whiskey tried again. [It seems—]
{I’m back!}
{Yes, Nigel, we can see that. Bit unclear on your instructions, were you?}
{No, no, just missed being in the thick of things. I can see your reluctance in making the trip; somewhat remote, that place is. Nice to be home.}
{It’s nice to see you, too, Nigel. Even though, at the moment, I can’t see much of anything due to your standing on my eye.}
{Sorry, Tim.}
By this point Tango was lying down, her paws tucked beneath her. “Enjoying yourself?” I asked.
Confronted by the spectacle of a mountain of goats, Whiskey remained resolutely calm. In one sense, he’d accomplished exactly what he’d set out to do: All the goats were in one place. Being vertical as opposed to horizontal was a mere detail; the important thing was, they were listening to him.
{I don’t know, Nigel, I think it tastes more like tin can than garbage pail to me.}
{Not as crunchy, though.}
{Not as such, no. But then, nothing is.}
{So true.}
[As I was saying,] Whiskey interjected. [Now that you’re all together, I’d really appreciate it if you’d—]
{Oh, not this “over there” business again.} Ever seen a goat roll his eyes? With those slitted pupils they have, it’s quite something to witness. {This is getting quite tiresome. We sent one of us over, didn’t we?}
[Well, yes, but he didn’t stay.]
{I could go again! I don’t mind a bit!}
{Thank you, Nigel, but that won’t be necessary. You’ve done your part.}
[It’s just that you moving along would be terribly helpful.]
{Would it? In what way?}
[In the sense that you would no longer be here.]
{I’m back!}
{Oh, hello, Nige. Haven’t seen you in a dog’s age. How’ve you been?}
{Can’t complain. It’s the isolation that bothers me the most, you know?}
{Oh, I understand. Don’t know how you do it, meself.}
A whine escaped Whiskey’s throat. Nigel peered down at him. {What’s the matter with him?}
{No idea. Bit high-strung, I think. Tad obsessive, too.}
[Not at all. I’m just not used to having explain myself to those I’m herding.]
{No? What’s your usual approach?}
[Dashing about barking wildly.]
{Really? And that’s effective, is it?}
[Not recently, no.]
{I have a question!}
{Yes, Nigel?}
{Why do you want us to stay here?}
There was a pause.
{Nigel?}
{Yes, Tim?}
{Please stop talking.}
{You got it, Tim!}
[Look, it’s really very simple. You’re here for the film, correct?]
{The film? Ah, yes, the film. That’s why we’re here, all right. We are definitely here for the film.}
Whiskey glanced back at me in despair. Poor doggy. But a cattle dog is nothing if not persistent. He asked the next, inevitable question.
[Do you have any idea what a film actually is?]
{I’m back!}
{Sorry, Nigel. Did you leave? I’m afraid I didn’t notice.]
{No, I just enjoy saying it. Everyone’s always so happy to see me when I do.}
{It’s because we’re fondly anticipating your next departure, Nigel.}
[Can we focus, please? FILM. We were discussing your understanding of what it actually is.]
{No need to get testy. It’s an easy question to answer, after all. It’s…}
The pause went on and on. I started to wonder if Tim had forgotten the question and Whiskey was going to have to start over.
{… a very thin layer of something on top of something else. Often flexible, sometimes tasty, occasionally chewy. Watch out for the chewy, brightly colored stuff, though. Pretty sure that’s what killed me.}
{Oh, are you dead, Tim? My condolences.}
{Thank you, Nigel. Also, you might as well know: You’re dead, too.}
{I am? But I was only gone a minute!}
On the ground, Tango had gotten to her feet and was now studying the scene intently, her ears cocked forward.
“Give him a little credit. He’s doing pretty well, all things considered—”
And that’s when Whiskey lost it.
10.
“Wow,” I said. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you lose it like that.”
Whiskey and I were in the small paved area where the film crew parked their vehicles. The trailer we’d discovered the body in was gone now, taken away by the police to be combed for clues, but there were still plenty of other vehicles there, including a few large equipment trucks.
Whiskey glanced at me contritely. [Once again, I’m sorry. But everyone has their limits.]
“I know. But it didn’t accomplish much, did it? You morphing into that gigantic—what was it, again?”
[Irish wolfhound.]
“Irish hellhound, more like. You changing into that and then leaping right at the pyramid of goats—well, you scared them, that’s for sure.”
[Yes. Scattering them to the four winds, which is the exact opposite of what I was supposed to do.]
I couldn’t argue with him there. App
arently enhanced croquet was also ideally suited to apparitional Ping-Pong bowling, as the goats bounced madly from wicket to wicket like cloven-hoofed inflatable ten-pins after being struck by a wiry-haired Celtic juggernaut.
It was a spectacle Tango should have taken great delight in, but in all the chaos she just slipped away without a word. I wasn’t sure if it was because she thought she’d ultimately get the blame for creating the mess in the first place, or because she just didn’t want me to see her convulsed with laughter. Maintaining the feline mystique and all that.
[In any case, they did eventually leave.] He stopped to sniff at a car tire.
“True. I just hope no one saw you change shape. An Australian cattle dog running around a lawn barking crazily at invisible animals I can explain—an Irish wolfhound, not so much.”
I stopped. “Did you hear that?”
[Yes. A thump, from inside the back of that truck.]
I moved closer. The truck in question was a battered white cargo van, the kind that looks like someone just nailed a white box to a flatbed. Now that I looked at it, I could see the back door—the type that rolled up into the roof—was cracked open at the bottom. A tiny wisp of vapor escaped from the opening, indicating the interior was warmer than the outside.
“Hello?” I called out.
I heard footsteps, and then the door rolled up with a clatter. “Oh, hey,” said Catree. “Welcome to my Fortress of Solitude. Unlike Superman, though, I will have to kill you to keep its location private.”
Behind her, the walls on either side were lined with tall steel shelves bolted to the floor, leaving a wide aisle in the middle. The shelves were stacked with transparent plastic bins that looked like industrial Tupperware, each of them sealed with a brightly colored lid. Warm air wafted out of the interior, and I could smell coffee.
Catree was dressed in her usual mostly black outfit, with high-top sneakers and a down-filled, multipocketed vest over a long-sleeved sweatshirt. She shook her head and said, “Sorry, was that too soon? I got thrown out of a sensitivity class once for making cannibal jokes to a vegetarian.”
“That doesn’t seem that bad.”
“She was in a wheelchair. And I may have used the word vegetable in a questionable manner.”
“I’m not going to ask you to explain that. So … are you going to invite me in, or am I interrupting something?”
She hesitated, then shrugged. “Sure, come on up. But you should probably leave Whiskey outside; there are chemicals and things he shouldn’t be sticking his nose into.”
[Every one of which I can identify from twenty feet away. I’m safer in there than either of you.]
Yes, but she doesn’t know that and I want to put her at ease. “Whiskey, stay here,” I said firmly, and hopped up into the truck.
Catree rolled the door shut behind me.
“Sorry for the secrecy,” she said, strolling past me to the rear of the truck. “I guard my little refuge fiercely. Most of the crew don’t know what I’ve got back here, and I’d like to keep it that way. The stars have their trailers, and I’ve got mine. But unlike theirs, nobody knows mine even exists.”
Another shelf stood at the back of the truck, at a strange angle. Catree slipped past it, and I realized it was a door, its hinges hidden. I stepped past it as well, and Catree reached out and swung it carefully closed.
The space she’d carved out for her inner sanctum was small, but very efficiently laid out. A small table that folded down from the wall currently held a laptop, a desk lamp, and her coffee mug. A heater hummed quietly under the table. A shelf at head height was occupied by a microwave, a Keurig coffeemaker, and a tiny fridge. I could see a bag made of bright-yellow meshwork hanging from a sturdy hook below the shelf, and realized it was a hammock. There was another hook mounted on the far wall, letting it be strung diagonally across the room.
Catree offered me the one seat, a folding chair with pillows duct-taped to it. “Not really set up for visitors,” she said.
“I’m honored. So this is where you come for a little break?”
She leaned against the wall. “It is. You have something similar, or do you just self-medicate?”
“I did, once upon a time.” I used to hang out in the graveyard to get a little peace and quiet, but that wasn’t the case anymore. “These days I mostly just huddle in a corner and weep.”
She nodded sagely. “That works, too. My corners aren’t terribly large, but I do have four. Feel free to use them.”
“Thanks, but I’m holding up okay right now. Actually, I was hoping I’d run into you. I tried calling, but—”
“Sorry about that. The cell reception out here is terrible, and by that I mean my phone was turned off. With the production on hold, I figured I could get away with it for an hour or two. What do you need?”
A reason you were here in the middle of the night, I thought, but kept it to myself. “Help answering a question. One of the other guests saw someone on the grounds early the same morning I found the corpse. Needless to say, the police are extremely interested in talking to said person.”
She picked her large steel mug up from the table and took a sip from it. “What’s your question?”
“Was it you?”
She met my eyes without any guilt. “Yep. I’ve been bunking out here since the second night. The motel Rolvink put us in was one step up from a craphole, and he was making us share four to a room. I need my space, Foxtrot; I deal with gotta-have-it-yesterday deadlines, hair-trigger tempers, and overinflated egos all day every day, and if I don’t have someplace to go to depressurize I explode. Hasn’t been a problem so far, but I’m reluctant to let the Catree out of the bag, so to speak.”
There we go. An innocent explanation that made perfect sense, delivered without hesitation or shifty eyes. Everything was fine.
Except.
“So,” I said casually, “what were you doing in the wee, small hours?”
She raised her eyebrows. “Do you see any bathroom facilities in here?”
“Oh. Uh, that’s probably not something you should mention to the gardener. Or ZZ. Or, really, anyone that isn’t me.”
“Wasn’t planning on it. Am I in trouble? Because I was … careful.”
I winced. “Stop right there. No, you’re not in trouble. But Lieutenant Forrester is coming back this afternoon to do follow-up interviews, and if this gets back to him he’ll want to talk to you. Might be better if you approached him.”
“Sure, I can do that. Thanks for the heads-up.”
Then there was an awkward moment of silence.
“Well,” I said.
“Right,” she said.
“I’ll give you a call later.” I got to my feet, she opened the swinging shelf-door, and a minute later I was back in daylight.
“You’ll keep my secret?” she asked, one hand on the pull-down of the door.
“Absolutely,” I answered.
She nodded, then yanked. The door rattled shut.
Whiskey was sitting right where I’d left him. He joined me as I walked away. [Did you learn anything interesting?]
I shrugged. “Not really. She says she’s been sleeping here because she likes her privacy, and didn’t deny being out on the grounds when Keene saw her. Said she was answering the call of nature.”
[Her nature compelled her to roam the grounds in the middle of the night?]
“It’s a euphemism, pooch. Means she was peeing.”
[What an odd way to put it. Not to mention it being untrue.]
I stopped. “What?”
[The grounds are large, but human urine tends to be pungent. I’ve been from one end of the yard to the other over the last few days, and I can reliably report that no human being has urinated anywhere in it.]
“Are you sure? She said she was … careful.”
[If by careful you mean not a drop touched the ground, I concede that I could be mistaken. But if she was going to be that cautious, why go outside at all?]
It was a good question, one I didn’t have an answer for. But it was Whiskey’s next inquiry that really stumped me.
[About those chemicals she was so worried I’d get into—there was quite the heady mix that drifted out when the door was open, but while you were inside I took the time to carefully sort through my impressions and compare them against my olfactory library. Among the identifiable scents were nitric acid, sulfuric acid, sodium sulfite, and toluene.]
“So? She does special effects. I’m sure she’s got all kinds of esoteric compounds in there.”
[The chemicals I just listed can be combined to form one compound in particular: trinitrotoluene.]
Or, as it’s better known, TNT.
* * *
I wasn’t really surprised.
Catree was smart and well educated. She played with all sorts of chemicals and electronics, and had even demonstrated a few to me. Of course she knew how to make a bomb, and of course she already had the materials at hand. None of that meant she was actually responsible for the blast that put Natalia Cardoso in the hospital, just as her lack of affection for Maurice Rolvink didn’t mean she’d killed him.
What was more troubling was the fact that I didn’t want it to be true—so much so I was worried it might be affecting my judgment.
She was a lot like me: focused, hypercompetent, able to juggle a dozen tasks at once with a grin on her face. I liked her—more important, I respected her.
Could she have killed Rolvink? Or planted the bomb?
Absolutely.
But if she had … she wouldn’t have been sloppy about it. The body wouldn’t have been discovered a few feet away from her little secret hideout. The explosion would have either killed its target or gone off harmlessly, depending on what she was trying to accomplish.
And there wouldn’t have been any traces of TNT in that trailer.
It was right about then that I had a lightbulb moment, though what it illuminated was more embarrassing than insightful. I’d been avoiding thinking of Catree as a suspect not because of the similarities between us, but because of the mistakes the killer had made. An evil version of me? No problem. But an incompetent one? No, no, hell no.
Human beings are weird, weird animals.
The realization made me feel better, though. Catree hadn’t hidden her distaste for Rolvink, either, another dumb move even an inexperienced killer wouldn’t make. If anything, the evidence pointed at someone trying to frame her—but maybe that was giving the killer too much credit. Other people on the film crew might have access to that trailer, and the know-how to make a bomb.
