by Dixie Lyle
But I thought I did.
After that Whiskey and I headed back toward the house. Yemane Fikru was definitely off the list, but then he’d never been a prime suspect. Who should I try to cross off next?
[You must heed my warning,] intoned a foreboding yet familiar voice. We were almost to the tall wooden gate that separates the graveyard from the mansion grounds proper, and the voice was coming from behind me. I turned to look back, and there he was: Jim the Wonder Dog, standing again on the crest of the hill, being ominous.
[This,] he said, [is your last chance.]
18.
“Really?” I said. “I thought these dire warnings always came in threes, or sevens, or some other mystically significant number.”
Jim stared down at us balefully. An English setter can do a pretty good baleful—not as good as a Great Dane, but a lot better than a French bulldog. Several bales’ worth, anyway.
[Mock me at your peril. You must take heed—]
I held up a finger. “Hold on. Before I take heed of anything, I need to ask: Did you just say mock me at your peril in a non-ironic way? Because the only people who talk like that are old-school supervillains, and I had no idea Dr. Doom was actually a deceased hunting dog under all that armor.”
[Your humor is misplaced, mortal.]
“Oh, we’re going with name-calling, are we? Go ahead—I always wanted someone to address me as puny human. Or are you more of an impudent whelp! sort of bad guy?”
He glared at me, trying to amp up the bales but not really succeeding. [That’s insulting, you know.]
“What, using whelp as an insult? I know, I know, not very PC of me. In my defense, I find that a little snarkiness goes a long way toward getting someone to engage, and getting you to engage—as opposed to intoning a few spooky warnings and then running away—is what I’m trying to accomplish here. Also, once we’re having an actual conversation, I can pretty much guarantee you won’t leave until you can respond to my comments—because that’s how a conversation works—which means that so as long as I keep talking you’ll stay put and also not notice that my partner has cleverly circled around behind you and now you can’t pull that disappearing stunt again.”
Jim glanced behind him. [Oh.]
[Don’t try to run,] Whiskey said. He’d taken the shape of a greyhound, but he shifted from that to a muscular Great Dane and then back again. [You’ll only embarrass yourself.]
Jim looked like he’d just been caught rooting in the kitchen garbage can. [Well. This is awkward.]
I climbed the rise, stopping a few steps away from him, then crouched down so we were closer to the same height. “I understand—sort of—what you were trying to do. I’m still among the living, so there are certain things I’m not aware of. You figured you could use that to spook me, though I’m still not exactly sure why. What I am sure of is that you’re a fake.”
Jim had the kind of focused, intent gaze that Whiskey usually wore. [What makes you so certain?]
“Well, I’m fairly intelligent. And when one of my partners who has access to information I don’t lets slip that you’re a fake—what you do is impossible—I notice. I mull things over. There was even some pondering going on. And the logical conclusion that I’ve come to is both amazing yet simple: Destiny is bogus.”
[Bravo,] said Whiskey. [Well done, very clever, and just remember that it was the cat who told you.]
“There’s no such thing as fate. There’s no big list of things that are definitely, absolutely going to happen. We get to make choices, which means we also have to take responsibility for those choices. We don’t get to blame things on some mysterious, all-powerful plan, because we—all of us—are making this stuff up as we go along. That’s why all your predictions of doom are meaningless; you can’t predict what’s going to happen because no one can.”
Jim raised his eyebrows hopefully. [Have you considered, by chance, that I may have confidential—but reliable—information?]
“I have. If so, a smart dog like yourself would have found a way to get a more concrete message to me. The thing is, if predicting the future is impossible now, it was when you were alive, too, which means you were a fake right from the start. No, this prophet-of-disaster stuff is all theater, which fits your history perfectly. You’re doing this for the same reason you always did: You love the attention.”
Jim’s intent gaze slowly faded into shame. He lay down and put his head on his paws. [Very well. I admit it. I missed the adulation of the crowd. I thought perhaps I might recapture some of my former glory, but the director failed to be impressed by my abilities. I concocted this scheme out of desperation; having fooled those around me for years, I thought I might do the same now.]
I shook my head sadly. “Jim, Jim, Jim … it was never going to work. None of the other animals take you seriously; it was one of things that tipped me off. I mean, maybe a graveyard full of ghosts is setting the bar pretty high for scary, but if there was any credibility to what you were saying at all, you’d think at least one of them would have gotten nervous.”
[It’s my performance, isn’t it? The cat was right. I’m no good at this.]
Whiskey trotted forward and sat down in front of Jim. [Now, now, old boy—that’s not it at all. Personally, I found you very convincing. But this business of something terrible coming … well, you should have picked something a little less dramatic. It’s my job to know when such things are afoot; you sounding the alarm is a bit like telling a fireman how to put out a fire. If there were any smoke on the horizon, I’d be the first to spot it.]
Jim lifted his head. [That’s very kind of you. But you know what they say about old dogs and new tricks; I was simply doing what I knew best.]
“Speaking of tricks … did you spread rumors among the actors as part of your campaign?”
[What? Of course not. I was going for epic dread, not gossipy backbiting. A great cataclysm is coming—and by the way, I heard that Chihuahua call you fat. Not very fear-inducing, is it?]
“Sorry, had to ask. One more thing: How did you perform all those amazing feats when you were alive?”
[I just paid attention, mostly. My master would ask me to pick out a particular thing or person, and almost always glance in that direction. Subtle shifts in his posture or smell would also provide hints. And of course, I had a good memory and ear; after a while I learned how to identify quite a few words, which gave me even more information to go on.]
“How about determining the sex of unborn babies? Smell?”
[Of course.]
“Predicting the winner of the Kentucky Derby?”
[Inside information from another dog.]
“Knowing who would win the World Series?”
[My master was a Yankees fan. I just agreed with his preference.]
I felt both oddly elated and a little let down. On the one hand, logic and reason had won the day; on the other, the world was now a little less magical and mysterious. No, wait—I was having these thoughts in the Great Crossroads, with two talking deceased dogs. Magical mystery maintained.
[If you’d like to redeem yourself, I have an idea,] Whiskey said. [Of course, it may require a certain amount of acting…]
Jim’s ears grew points.
* * *
I decided to stay for dinner that night. It was my last chance to see all the suspects together, as Lucky was planning on finishing the final few shots tomorrow and leaving after that. Well, almost all the suspects—Catree wasn’t officially on the invite list.
So I changed that.
“Hi,” I said, when she answered her phone. “ZZ would like you to join us for dinner tonight.”
“Really? But I’m just a lowly engineer. I make stuff blow up and bleed and catch on fire.”
“Exactly. Haven’t you been paying attention? ZZ’s a total science buff. The only reason you weren’t staying at the house with everyone else in the first place was Rolvink, and he’s no longer in the picture. So stop camping out in your workshop an
d have a nice meal with everyone; I guarantee ZZ will insist you stay with us before dessert shows up.”
“Oh, I don’t know. Give up on my comfy hammock and space heater to go eat rich food and sleep in an actual bed? I couldn’t possibly.”
“You’re already walking toward the front door. Aren’t you?”
“Yes. Yes, I am.”
“I’ll see you in a minute.”
I wasn’t lying to her, either. I’d already cleared her dinner invitation with ZZ, who’d taken even less convincing than Catree: “A special-effects wizard? Of course she’s welcome!”
I went back to my office and changed into my evening outfit, a simple black dress and heels. Whiskey studied me as I applied some makeup in a mirror.
[Certain human behaviors never cease to fascinate me. Not satisfied with your own mating and display rituals, you borrow from other species. The brilliant colors of tropical birds, the heady scent of flowers, the bright accents of shimmering scales … really, it’s like you’re wearing a rain forest.]
“I’m not sure that’s a compliment or a criticism. And that heady scent of flowers you’re talking about is my deodorant. I don’t use perfume.”
[Nor should you. One’s own scent should be quite sufficient.]
I peered at my reflection and touched up my mascara. “Yes, well, we humans aren’t always as appreciative of natural body odors as you are. I’d prefer people to remember me by my personality rather than my smell.”
[To a dog, the two are inextricable.]
I finished up and we went downstairs. The others were just sitting down; I noted with interest that Catree and Jaxon were about as far apart as it was possible to get and still be at the same table.
“And here’s Foxtrot,” said ZZ, at the head. “Splendid that you could join us tonight, my dear.”
“Thank you,” I said, and took a seat between Oscar and Keene. Yemane Fikru was across from me, and Lucky Fortunato beside him. Jaxon Nesbitt was at the end of the table to ZZ’s right, and Max Tervo was to her left. Catree was across from Oscar.
“What a lovely gathering,” Keene said. Whatever he and Fikru had taken, it hadn’t worn off; if anything, they seemed higher than before. “I especially like the fairies on the flying mice, though I wonder what they need them for. Don’t they already have wings of their own?”
“Luggage, my dear boy,” said Oscar. “Fairies may present themselves as ethereal and unburdened by worldly concerns, but they change clothes at the drop of a leaf. And then there’s all the glitter, of course.”
Keene smiled dreamily at Oscar. “Oscar’s making fun of me. Excellent. He’s so good at it, don’t you think?”
“Oh, dear God,” Oscar muttered. “And the floodgates of sentimentality open. It’s like defending yourself with a rapier against a scarecrow covered in syrup.”
“You see?” Keene said, beaming. “What imagery! What elan! I want pancakes.”
“Pancakes,” said Yemane Fikru. “Yes. They’re both round and flat. But never perfectly so. Never utterly round. Never absolutely flat.”
“Is anything?” ZZ asked with a grin and a sparkle in her eye. “Perhaps we need a scientific opinion on the subject. Catree?”
Catree had dressed for the evening in a blue-and-orange tropical shirt, khaki shorts, and sandals; ZZ had no rules about formality, though she applauded style in whatever form it took. “I don’t know about round, but the flattest—and thinnest—substance that exists is graphene. Carbon atoms, bound together in a hexagon pattern. Basically a two-dimensional material that’s stronger than steel.”
“Amazing,” said Keene. “And clearly made by fairies.” He gave Oscar a superior look, as if he’d just declared checkmate in a game of checkers. Oscar saluted him with his glass and a single raised eyebrow.
“Not so much,” said Catree. “It comes from graphite, the exact same thing we use as pencil lead. Know how they isolated the first samples of graphene? They stuck some tape—ordinary, transparent Scotch tape—to a block of raw graphite and pulled it off. They did this over and over, then looked at what they’d lifted off under a microscope. Eventually won them a Nobel Prize.”
“Unbelievable,” said Jaxon Nesbitt. He was grinning at her, and Catree was smiling back coolly. “The things you learn over dinner.”
“I shall never look at a pencil the same way again,” Keene declared. “Or Scotch tape. Or anything sticky or pointed, for that matter.”
“Which brings us,” said Oscar, “back to my original point.”
“Untrue,” said Jaxon. “Your original point was about fairy luggage loaded down with glitter.”
“He’s right,” said Catree. “The sticky-pointy stuff came later.”
“It often does,” said Jaxon. They shared a look that spoke volumes—volumes with three great big X’s on the cover, stored on a high shelf where children couldn’t reach.
It’s funny, what can come up at one of ZZ’s dinners. She loves spirited discussion, exchanges of unusual ideas, information of any kind, but that doesn’t mean her gatherings are strictly cerebral. Drink flows as freely as the conversation, and opinions are almost as welcome as facts—just don’t be surprised if those opinions are challenged by someone who knows better than you do. We’ve never had an actual fistfight, but I’ve heard both insults and death threats, lewd suggestions and marriage proposals, crazed laughter and heartbroken sobbing. Intellect may rule here, but high emotion is always trying to storm the castle—which is just how ZZ likes it.
She’d noticed the chemistry between Catree and Jaxon, of course; ZZ’s eyes are as sharp as her wits. “I’m so glad you could join us tonight, Catree; I like to say that science has a permanently reserved seat at my table.”
“Thanks for inviting me,” she said. “Looking forward to one of these feasts I’ve heard so much about.”
“We’ll make sure you don’t starve, dear. But our hospitality isn’t free; you don’t have to sing for your supper, but you can’t just sit there with your mouth shut, either.”
Catree laughed. “Generally not a problem for me—you might even regret saying that.”
ZZ snorted. “Ha! I regret very few things, my dear, and almost none of them are things I’ve said.” She smiled warmly. “Now—in your professional opinion, what sort of bomb went off in my house?”
At a conventional gathering, that sort of bald-faced question would cause a horrified hush to fall as everyone struggled with what to say in response. But Keene, Oscar, and I were veterans of these dinners, and we reacted accordingly.
Oscar: “Bravo, Mother. Now there’s blood all over the salad course.”
Me: “I was wondering the same thing.”
Keene: “Are the pancakes ready?”
To her credit, Catree didn’t freeze up, either. She nodded, slowly and seriously, then said, “Trinitrotoluene, absolutely. You can tell by the color of the smoke, and the smell. If it had been dynamite, the smoke would have been white and smelled a lot worse.”
“Is that hard to obtain?” ZZ asked.
“Not really. It’s one of the most commonly used commercial explosives. With some basic chemistry knowledge and an Internet connection, you could even make your own—though I’d advise against it. You let the nitrogen oxide levels get away from you during the nitration process and the whole thing goes exothermic.”
“Boom?” said Max Tervo.
“Boom,” said Catree. “But if you’re smart enough to avoid home-cooking, it’s pretty safe to handle. Shock- and friction-proof, so you don’t have to worry about bumping it or dropping it. It actually melts at a really low temperature—about a hundred and seventy-seven degrees Fahrenheit—but doesn’t detonate until it reaches three hundred and thirty-three degrees. That’s still pretty low, though—a hundred and eighteen degrees lower than the ignition point of paper, for instance.”
“You sound like a dangerous person to cross,” said Jaxon.
“But a wonderful person to have as a friend,” said Oscar. “I
shall have flowers delivered to you, forthwith.”
“Careful, Oscar,” said ZZ. “You’ll make Mr. Nesbitt jealous.”
Now there was one of those frozen pauses.
“Also,” continued ZZ, “a florist might have some difficulty in locating the truck she’s currently staying in. I don’t think they’ll accept a license plate as a valid address.”
“Um,” I said.
“Well put, Foxtrot,” said ZZ. “That’s one of the things I love about you; you’re always so well spoken. Except, of course, on those rare occasions that you don’t speak to me at all, which I’m sure was a simple oversight on your part and won’t happen again.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said.
“Don’t ma’am me, I took the brown acid at Woodstock. Put her in the room next to Mr. Nesbitt’s, will you? I’m sure that’s an arrangement that will suit everyone.”
“Okay,” said Catree. I’m pretty sure the stunned look on her face was identical to mine.
“Mr. Nesbitt,” said ZZ. “Jaxon. Do you have anything to add?”
Jaxon’s smile didn’t have a lot of embarrassment in it. “There is, actually. I just want to say that all the secrecy wasn’t my idea. Catree’s the shy one, not me. Hell, I’ll march out the front gate right now and give her a big kiss right in front of the paparazzi.”
“What’s going on?” Keene demanded. “Did I black out again? Dear God, did I miss the pancakes?”
“Yes,” said Oscar. “A shame, really. They were all perfectly flat and perfectly round; I’ve already called Guinness.”
“Well, at least there’ll be beer,” said Keene.
“I have every right to my privacy,” said Catree, staring hard at Jaxon. “I don’t care that you’re famous, and I don’t want to join you on the cover of a tabloid. I sleep with you because I have a weakness for eye candy and you make me laugh. Also, you’re not stupid.”
“That’s the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard,” said Oscar. “I may weep.”
Yemane Fikru, who had been staring fixedly at a cherry tomato on his plate for the last five minutes, abruptly looked up. “Secrets. So many secrets…”
