by Dixie Lyle
[Yes, it’s puzzling. Though I’m loath to admit it, Tango’s senses are quite acute; if she says no one approached the chimney while she was there, then no one did. Nor would she lie about her whereabouts during the night.]
“No, she wouldn’t. Which means nobody lowered it down the chimney—so how did it get there?”
And suddenly the answer came to me. Simple, yet obvious.
I grinned and pulled out my phone.
* * *
“Thank you all for coming,” I said. I’d gathered everyone—well, everyone except Natalia Cordoso—in the study. “I think I’ve figured out at least part of the puzzle.”
“Well done, Foxtrot,” said Keene. He seemed a lot more clearheaded than he had last night, as did Yemane Fikru. “Whatever it is you’ve done, I mean. We’re all ears.”
“I’m not,” said Oscar. “Not unless they’ve invented a sonic form of scotch, in any case.”
“Go ahead, dear,” said ZZ.
“Thanks, boss. What’s been bothering me is how the explosives were placed inside the chimney.”
“I thought we solved that last night,” said Max Tervo. “They were lowered from above.”
I shook my head. “Turns out that’s not true. I have information from a reliable source that proves no one was on the roof that night.”
I’d invited Shondra, too—she’d never forgive me if I didn’t include her. “What source?” she asked.
“I can’t reveal that right now, but where the information came from isn’t relevant. What matters is that it pointed me in a different direction: down.”
“Down?” asked Lucky.
“Yes. Our esteemed director was here in the study until two AM, editing footage on his laptop—but after that he put out the fire and went to bed. Which is when the killer entered the study and used something like this.” I picked up the coil of metal cable at my feet; it looked a bit like a steel lariat and was surprisingly heavy. “A plumbing snake. It pushed the bomb up the flue until it was at the level of the second floor, where some sort of spring-loaded mechanism was activated to lodge it in place. In an older house like this, it’s not unusual for two fireplaces to share a single flue—”
“Foxtrot,” Shondra said. “I’m sorry, but that’s not what happened.”
I blinked. “Excuse me?”
“The report on the bombing clearly shows the blast was centered inside the second-floor chimney, right above the second-floor fireplace. While the fireplaces share a chimney, they aren’t directly over each other; they’re offset.”
I smiled. “I know. I looked at the original blueprints; amazing what sort of stuff is archived on the Internet these days. The thing about plumbing snakes is that they have a crank or motor that not only makes the tip rotate, it also makes the whole thing flail against the sides of the pipe; I think that motion might have been enough to get the snake from one side of the flue to the other—”
“Foxtrot? Dear?” ZZ said, looking apprehensive. “I’m afraid that wouldn’t work, either. The original flue was shared, it’s true, but that’s considered unsafe these days. We had a brick flue divider installed ages ago. Long before you came to work here, in fact.”
And that was where I sort of ran down.
The bomb couldn’t have been pushed up the flue; my theory had literally smacked into a brick wall. I was caught, center stage, under a single bright spotlight, and I couldn’t remember my lines. Also, my pants had just disappeared.
“I,” I said. “I, I, I. Don’t. Know.”
Everybody stared at me. I felt dizzy. I could feel every inch of skin on my body turning bright red and preparing to burst into flame.
“It’s all right, Foxtrot,” ZZ said. “You got it wrong. It happens. Now, I believe it’s time for lunch; Ben has prepared a wonderful buffet, and I hope everyone will join me in the dining room.” She got to her feet, nodded at me encouragingly, and they all began to file out after her.
All except Shondra, who waited until everyone had left until she approached me. “Foxtrot. You know I’m not the kind of person to say I told you so—but you should have come to me about this first. I could have saved you some embarrassment. I might even have had some ideas of my own to contribute.”
“You’re right. I’m—I’m sorry.”
“This isn’t like you. You’re a terrific facilitator, which means you know which experts to put where and when before getting out of their way and letting them work. I’m the expert, here. Right?”
“Right.” I felt like sinking through the floor.
“So either you don’t think I can do my job, or your own job is stressing you out so much you’re starting to micromanage. I’ve seen it happen before, usually with new commanding officers; they’re so worried they’re going to make a mistake they feel like they have oversee every tiny detail. They get obsessed with control, and the more obsessed they get the more any tiny bit of chaos bothers them. It never ends well.”
“It won’t happen again.” The classic excuse of the screwup.
“Of course it will. That’s what life does. We can’t see everything coming, and that’s a good thing. The unknown isn’t chaos; it’s freedom. Try to remember that.”
She met my eyes, gave me a serious nod, and left the room.
I think that made me feel worse than anything. Shondra wasn’t so much angry at me as worried. Worried I couldn’t do my job properly, worried that I was cracking under pressure.
Was she right?
* * *
I went and hid in my office. I didn’t feel like eating. Whiskey sat with me on the couch and did his best to cheer me up, but it wasn’t working.
Which is when Tango strolled in.
“Not so great, kitty. I just tried to solve the bombing case and got it wrong. Totally, completely wrong.”
I groaned. “Can it wait? I really just want to sit here and be depressed. And a snuggle from my favorite cat would be greatly appreciated.”
She paced back and forth.
I leaned forward, suddenly concerned. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
She stared at me impatiently.
I frowned. “I’m not following.”
“Okay, I’m not going anywhere until you tell me where and why.”
I stared down at her. “Tango. Did you not hear what I just said? I screwed up, in front of everyone. I’m worried and embarrassed and depressed and I am not in the mood to untangle another one of your disasters.”
Maybe that was harsh. But I wasn’t doing well, and I really needed a little emotional support. Tango’s usually good at picking up on that, and providing as much comfort as I need. But at the end of the day, she’s still a cat; and cats can be self-centered and arrogant and aloof. Usually that didn’t bother me—but today I was the one in pain, and it did.
I leaned back against the sofa and closed my eyes. “No, Tango. I am not up for this, not right now. I’m glad your little project has kept you busy, but I’m trying to solve a murder and a bombing. Stuff that matters.”
Yeah, I said it.
I know, I know. There’s that point when a disagreement becomes a fight, and I’d just crossed it. I wasn’t just upset, I was angry. Not at Tango, but at myself; unfortunately, snapping at yourself doesn’t really work.
So this is the part where th
e other person usually does one of two things: They either get all haughty and cold and leave the room, or they ramp things up by saying something nasty back. Either one would have been in character for Tango.
But she surprised me by doing neither.
21.
She stopped pacing. She sat down, curled her tail around her, and just stared at me for a moment. Then:
“Kitty, I—”
I sighed. “Okay, okay, I’m sorry. Let’s go see your movie.”
“Right. Obviously.”
Whiskey had been oddly quiet during this exchange, but now he shook himself and jumped off the couch. [Excellent. Now we can see whether or not a feline has what it takes to bring a tale to life on the stage. Not quite the point of our original argument, but close enough.]
[Was that meant to be an insult? Because the only insulting thing was your lack of respect for me in crafting it.]
Whiskey paused. [Well played. Shall we go?]
So I followed my cat and my dog downstairs, out of the house, around the house, and into the graveyard—which seemed to be completely deserted. Tango led me to Davy’s Grave, where I was instructed to sit on the grave itself with the headstone as a backrest. I think this was more for Tango’s comfort than mine, since she jumped into my lap as soon as I sat. The ground was hard and cold, but I’d thought ahead and brought a blanket with me as a cushion; I had a good view of a hill with a bunch of graves on and around it. Whiskey lay down beside us.
“In the beginning, there was nothing,” a deep voice intoned. It was familiar, but I couldn’t quite place it. “And then … there was Tango.”
Midnight leapt into view from behind the hill, landing right at the crest. Hundreds of parrots exploded into the air behind him, a perfectly choreographed fountain of blue and yellow and red and green that curved up and to either side. The black panther posed regally, staring into the distance like a ruler surveying his kingdom, the parrots circling overhead giving him a Technicolor halo.
“But all was not well,” the narrator continued. “The world can be a cruel place.” Piotr the bear lumbered into sight, walking on two legs and wearing black horn-rimmed glasses.
“Glasses?” I whispered. “Where did he get—”
[You!] Piotr declared, pointing a massive paw at Midnight. [You are bad cat! I hate you! Eating my food and scratching my furniture—you can go live in street, bad cat!] He gestured dramatically with the other arm, and Midnight put his head down and skulked back the way he’d come, disappearing over the crest of the hill.
“Aww,” I said.
“Her first life was short and brutal,” the narrator intoned. “Scavenging for food, fighting other strays, always in danger. And then…”
Ever heard the sound of a bunch of deceased parrots imitating the noise of a car accident? I have. Screeching tires, crashing metal, stuck horn. Puts the eeeee in eerie, I can tell you.
“Her second life was longer,” the narrator said, “but still fraught with difficulty.”
A streak of black tore past me, right to left. Midnight, running with a gigantic rat in his jaws. A second later a pack of baying, barking dogs raced after him, clearly intent on taking his prize.
“But Tango had vowed never to back down from a battle, no matter how bad the odds.”
Midnight and the dogs circled the hill. When they’d made one full circuit, Midnight put on the brakes and skidded to a stop right in front of me. I had a sudden craving for popcorn, but kept that to myself.
Midnight dropped the rat and snarled. The dog pack slammed to a halt and looked uncertain. Midnight gave a full-throated panther yowl, and the pack broke up and bolted. The rat played dead rather well, though I thought the tongue protruding from its mouth was a bit much.
“This life was much more fulfilling,” the voice continued. “Tango knew both joy and sorrow.”
The rat scurried away as Midnight flopped over onto his side. Half a dozen cats suddenly appeared from behind a grave and darted over to him. They crept between his front and back legs, nuzzled his belly—and suddenly I wasn’t looking a full-grown panther; I was watching a domestic house cat feeding her litter. Midnight even groomed them as they pretended to nurse.
“Wow,” I breathed, and I meant it. I’d never imagined Tango as a mother—she’d been fixed when she’d lived with me—but of course she had. She’d had five entire lives of her own before she ever came into mine.
“But every life comes to an end. And this one did, too.”
The faux kittens all ran away. Midnight put her head down on the ground and closed her eyes for a moment—then opened them and sprang to her feet.
“In her third life, Tango found purpose. There was something out there in the world, something important. And she was going to find it.”
Midnight stalked up the hill, her tail lashing back and forth.
“But no quest is without its perils. Tango faced them all.”
Which is when Golden Cloud thundered over the rise. He was covered in monkeys.
“A monkey-pony?” I said.
Golden Cloud came to a stop. The monkeys clung to his mane, jumped up and down on his back, swung from his tail. Midnight put his ears back and hissed. Golden Cloud reared up on his hind legs and neighed loudly while pawing the air, a sight rendered only slightly less majestic by his coating of primates.
When he lowered himself back to earth, he began to stamp his feet and move backward slowly, in a circle around Midnight. The monkeys went nuts, climbing over and around every part of the horse as if he were a jungle gym, from the top of his head to the tips of his hoofs. It was dizzying, and ludicrous, and just a little terrifying.
When Golden Cloud had circled Midnight three times, he stopped. All the monkeys formed a line from head to tail, sitting perfectly straight and facing the cat. I almost expected them to do the famous hear-no-evil, see-no-evil, speak-no-evil thing, but there were more than three and what would the extra ones do? Smell no evil, fling no evil?
Midnight crouched lower and lower—then leapt, right over the horse and the monkeys. The monkeys never twitched.
Golden Cloud and his nimble riders trotted off. Which is when two schools of brilliantly colored tropical fish approached Midnight on either side, each stopping about ten feet away.
Midnight sat on his haunches, his head drooping. He looked weary and sad.
“But Tango did not find what she was looking for,” the narrator said. “Not in her third life.”
The two schools moved toward each other slowly, drawing closer and closer until their edges touched and they stopped, forming one big, shimmering neon curtain. I couldn’t see Midnight at all.
The schools pulled away from each other once more. Midnight was on his feet again, looking wary.
“And in her fourth,” the narrator continued, “she was beset by foes on all sides.”
Which is when the rabbits attacked.
I’ve already described this scene—twice, actually—so I won’t go into detail here, exce
pt to say that it went on for a long time and was utterly amazing. And while squirrels may or may not be evil, they are definitely the Bruce Lees of the rodent world.
Midnight fought them all. And though the battle was long and the enemies many, he emerged victorious. Exhausted, surrounded by the still-twitching bodies of his attackers, he stalked up the hill once more.
Well, Tango understood narrative structure: Give your protagonist an objective they really, really want, then throw obstacles in their way—one of which was the tendency of the main character to abruptly die every few minutes.
Which is when Topsy, the electric elephant, lumbered into view.
Topsy, believe it or not, was executed by none other than Thomas Edison. Her crime was killing her handler after he fed her a lit cigarette, but Edison was really just looking for an excuse to demonstrate how dangerous alternating current was; he was involved in something called the War of the Currents with Nikola Tesla, with Edison championing DC power over AC. Edison lost, but not before electrocuting a pachyderm and filming it.
Topsy was a prowler, and a scary-looking one at that. She was entirely black, still bore the chains she’d worn when she was executed, and voltage crackled over her skin, between her tusks, and over said chains. Which is why, I suppose, Tango cast her as a storm cloud.
“Even a lightning bolt could only slow her down,” the narrator said. Topsy extended a long, black trunk, and a bolt of electricity zapped from it to a spot awfully close to Midnight. The panther flopped over and played dead.
“Her fifth life was her most epic yet,” the narrator said. “It was then she met her archnemesis: Yappy Dog.”
