Stuffed

by Brian M. Wiprud

  Motives? Love or money, and my money was on money. Whatever was going on, there was a lot of moola involved, that was for sure.

  Throw it in a pot and boil it down, I had no one I could trust to act in my best interest other than me. Clearly, the best path for me wasn’t to find some stuffed crow of no intrinsic value or to track down the people who accosted Angie and me. There was no reason to put my neck on the line. None at all.

  On the other hand, forsake not the fig leaf of prudence for naked practicality. I mean, it wouldn’t hurt to try and get a little more background on the players, just in case Kim didn’t command as much influence in this affair as he claimed. For now I was still in dutch, so it couldn’t hurt to make a few phone calls, could it? I dropped a dime and photocopied the obituary.

  Chapter 14

  Where was Angie? There were no messages back at the hotel, and I was worried. She’d been gone about four hours and should be at Mallard Island already. But I managed to calm myself somewhat. At least she was far away from Slim, Angus, and my “friend” Jimmy. Among all the other wacko stuff coming down the pike, I found that reassuring, I can tell you.

  So I turned my attention back to Bret’s obituary, which read:

  Bret Fletcher, 25, of Brendille Lane, was the victim of a hit-and-run accident outside the Maple Motor Court. He was pronounced dead at the scene. Circumstances of his death are still unclear at press time. It appears he was chased into the road by one of the motel guests, who mistook him for a prowler.

  Fletcher graduated from Daniel Webster High School, and subsequently took several credits in veterinary sciences at Portland College, Oregon. He worked two summers with Faldo Amusements, a traveling carnival. Last summer, Fletcher took an internship with the Primate Department at the Portland Wildlife Conservancy.

  Bret Fletcher is survived by his mother, Bernadette Fletcher, of Guilford. Services will be held at the North Guilford Funeral Home this coming Saturday.

  Well, Phil, looks like you didn’t quite have the whole story. Or chose not to tell me. Or didn’t care enough to tell me.

  Primate Department. That didn’t set off any bells, but it was a whole heck of a lot more to go on than carnival workers.

  I got on the horn to the conservancy in Oregon. “Yes, could I please speak with someone in the Primate Department?” They switched me around.

  “Yello?” somebody sighed in Portland. She sounded like a refugee from a truck-stop lunch counter.

  “Hi, my name is Carson, and I’ve been retained to investigate the circumstances of Bret Fletcher’s death. If I may, I’d like to ask—”

  “The police already called. If it’ll make you happy, I’ll tell you what I tol’ them.” Truck Stop didn’t give me a chance to answer. “Bret was a bright kid, good with the animals. He was almost always on time and a good summer intern. Most of the folks in the department are older than him, an’ since we didn’t socialize, I don’t know who his friends are. He had a basement apartment a few miles from here.” Truck Stop sighed again. “Look, I gotta go, awright?”

  “Did you ever see him with a white crow?”

  Another sigh. “A what?”

  “A white crow?”

  “Like a bird? No. Just primates. Simian anthropoids. Apes.”

  “What duties did he have?”

  “Whadda you mean? You mean like cleaning cages, feeding? What’s this, the third degree?”

  I felt she was about to hang up, and I figured my sex appeal wasn’t going to keep her on the line. After sex and money, guilt usually proves a pretty good motivator. “Sorry to cut into your coffee break, but Fletcher’s mother, a little rosy-cheeked old lady in a little white house surrounded by posies, is crying her eyes out right now, brokenhearted. Her only son is dead and she needs to know why.” I surprised myself; a sob caught in my throat. “Are you going to help Mrs. Fletcher or hang up on her?”

  “Dang . . .” Truck Stop said slowly. “I didn’t know it was ’xactly like that, y’know.”

  “So, what animal did he spend the most time with?”

  “But I don’t see what use . . .”

  Neither did I. Just trying to open this clam. “I assure you, these questions have a direct bearing on his murder.”

  Truck Stop harrumphed. “Glenda and Gobo. He spent lots of time with them. Not common with interns.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Bret liked taking care of Glenda and Gobo. Mountain gorillas. Wasn’t like we let him get in the cage with ’em. You know, a rapport. He fed ’em. Same you get with a cat. It rubs against your leg when it knows you got tuna. Except they’d probably rip his brains out by his nose. Yello?”

  “I’m here. Very interesting. Did anybody else take care of the gorillas?”

  “Of course. You don’t think we’re gonna let a bio intern be in charge of a half million bucks worth of ape?”

  “Half million?”

  “Look, he had nothing to do with the Glenda and Gobo thing, if that’s what you’re gettin’ at.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Look, I’d like to talk, but—”

  “What Glenda and Gobo thing?”

  “Dang, don’t you read the papers?”

  “I’m out east.” Boy, Truck Stop was as annoying as Mrs. Fletcher was damning. “What Glenda and Gobo thing?”

  “Gobo died on accident, got hold of some cleaning fluid.”

  “On accident?”

  “On accident.”

  A little flicker, a little tingle, a little notion popped into my head. As morbid as it sounds, I have a contact, a disinterested techie at the World Wildlife Conservancy Fund, who lets me know when something interesting dies at a zoo. They track captive-animal mortality. Tiger cubs, chimps, and other endearing critters I don’t make a bid for, knowing full well that the zoo would have political if not staff problems if they sold the carcass. Besides, many of those are dissected for pathology studies. Deceased birds of prey and parrots I almost always inquire after and often get them in exchange for a donation. It works out for me, because having exotic birds stuffed isn’t usually as expensive as exotic mammals.

  “What did they do with the body?”

  “Who is they?”

  “What happened to the body?”

  “Buried. Buncha folks in town here put together a collection for the funeral.” There was a soft chuckle. “People get pretty soft when it comes to gorillas. Bought a plot for her an’ everything.”

  “In a pet cemetery?”

  “Uhn-uhn. In a human cemetery. I thought it was kinda sick, embalming, a coffin, an’ all that.” The tone darkened suddenly. “If they wanted to do something nice, they shoulda planted Gobo in a rain forest, in a nice nest of leaves. Public relations, don’tcha know. Yello?”

  “Who was at the funeral?”

  “Everybody.”

  “Could you narrow it down a bit?”

  “Everybody from the department, a lot of donors, the mayor—stuff like that.”

  “And Bret, right? Was he with any friends then? A happy Korean guy maybe?”

  “I tol’ you, I never met or saw any friendsa his, happy or otherwise. Bret was there with the department and the funeral director.”

  “Who?”

  “With us. But he was the one who found a funeral parlor that would do the embalming. So he was with the funeral director a lot, y’know, for the arrangements.”

  “What funeral parlor?”

  “MacTeague’s . . . Yello? Yello?”

  “Guy with black hair?”

  “Hair as red as a clown’s, actually. Scotch, I think.”

  “Thank you very much for your time. Sorry to trouble you.”

  “Yeah, okay.”

  I depressed the receiver and let it up to make the next call.

  “Yello?” Truck Stop was still on the line.

  “Good-bye, thanks a million!”

  This time I held it down for a full minute.

  I called information, then MacTeague’s Funeral Home.<
br />
  “Yes, is Mr. MacTeague there?”

  “Regrettably, no.” A soothing voice replied, the antithesis to Truck Stop. “He’s away for the week. My name is Norman. May I serve you?”

  “Well, yes, um, I had spoken with Mr. MacTeague about some arrangements.”

  “Ah yes, arrangements. Our continuing condolences.” Norman’s timbre could smooth over a bed of nails. “Name?”

  “You see, well, we never got as far as that, we only spoke briefly. I’m out east, in Vermont, and we were thinking of a burial out west. He said he was planning a trip here and that we might consult in person.”

  “Hmm, yes. Too bad. He’s currently in Maine, on other business. He’s due back tomorrow. Let me take your name, and I’ll have him call.”

  “Thanks just the same.” I hung up.

  I was beginning to feel a bit more like a detective. But I decided to fight the odds and see if I couldn’t make a few honest bucks.

  I called all the chums I’d tried to reach that morning and predictably found that nobody knew of any white crows except the one at the Terry Brisbane Taxidermy Museum. At the same time, I managed to conduct a little more business, which was good, because I was living on Visa and running my business into the ground by staying away from the shop.

  I had a call on my machine from Gillie, a fifties’ retro dealer in Charleston, who said he had a customer who wanted a moose, which are slim pickins down thataway. I left a message on his machine that I could ship one out to him next week for eight fifty plus crating and shipping, which probably would let him cut a couple hundred out for himself. I asked, by the by, whether he had any dolphin (the fish, not the mammal), which are a hot item in the northeast but overflow the back rooms of some taxidermists in Florida. A lot of tourists catch fish but balk when it comes time to foot the bill.

  Then I called Oscar in Rangely (who almost always has a couple midsize, fair-priced Bullwinkles) and rounded out the deal, copping a hundred for yours truly. But that wasn’t going to excite my checking account any, so I asked Oscar if he could move any dolphin. I heard him scratch his stubble, then say, “Just might,” which in his lexicon meant yes.

  May seem easy, but it’s not every day that I can clear three hundred for the price of a few phone calls. Might even break even for the week if I could work a little more magic. Which reminded me that I had to call the Network Theater again and check on my bear. Turns out they’d used her the night before, in a taped segment. The bit went well, and the celeb host Buddy wanted to rent Aunt Jilly for a month. Hot damn. They could have bought her for two weeks’ rent, though I had little doubt the thing would be returned in bad condition after all that time in a studio. The dry heat of stage lights combined with sloppy stagehands really takes it out of a mount. So I leveled with them, said they might as well buy the bear. No way. Had something to do with how their budget works. Fine.

  I pulled a piece of paper from my wallet, the one Pete Durban had given me in the Ernest Borgnine booth, and unfolded it. I ran my finger above the bit about the white crow to where it read MOOSE HEAD 4 SALE and then dialed the number.

  A sleepy female voice answered tentatively: “’lo?”

  “Hi, I’m calling about the moose head, the one that must go, you haul?”

  “Yes. What?”

  “You have a moose head for sale?”

  “Why, yes . . .”

  “I’m interested in buying it. Do you still have it?”

  “Hello?”

  “Moose head. You have one for sale.”

  “Why, yes . . .”

  “How much is it?”

  “The moose head?”

  Is it just me, or are there some days everybody else seems to be running on AAA batteries?

  “Yes.” I winced. “The moose head. How much is it?”

  “When can you come by?”

  “I don’t know where you live,” I sighed.

  “It’s fifty dollars.”

  My fist tightened around the receiver.

  “Where do you live?”

  “On Dewberry Road. When can you come by?”

  I jotted the road down.

  “I’ll come right over as soon as you tell me what state you’re in.”

  Nothing.

  “Hello?”

  Still nothing. I heard a click. The line was dead.

  I redialed and found the line busy. Waited five minutes. Still busy. Was someone doing this to me on purpose? I could picture an old woman in a TV lounger in front of Golden Girls, still cradling the receiver, mouth open, eyes closed and snoring. For crying out loud.

  Next call: home. Now, in person, it’s difficult communicating with Otto. Over the phone, well, it’s like talking to your dog. But like any bad dog, he knows a few key words.

  “No smoking in house!”

  “Ah, Garv, very nice!”

  “Everything okay?”

  “Vhat? Eetz looking, yes, of course. Garv, how Yangie? Eh?”

  “Good.”

  “Vere you, Garv? Vac-ate-ton? Eh? Wodka, maybe svimming pool, naked veemin? Naked veemin beach?”

  “Vermont, Otto. No nude beaches.”

  “Ah, good, eetz looking: Vere Mont. Many trees, bird, air good. Maybe I go Vere Mont, yes? Otto verk all time. Maybe Otto vac-ate-ton, eh?”

  “Look, Otto, get a pencil. . . .”

  “Pencil, yes . . .”

  “I want to let you know where we are. Ready?”

  “Yes, I ready.”

  “Angie and Garth are at the I-N-T-E-R-S-T-A-T-E M-O-T-O-R L-O-D-G-E.” My enunciation was as elongated as possible. “That’s in B-R-A-T-T-L-E- B-O-R-O, V-E-R-M-O-N-T.” I capped it all off with the phone number. “Got that?”

  “But of course, Interstate Motor Lodge, Brattleboro, Vere Mont.”

  “Okay. We’ll see you soon.”

  “Soon? Ahoyatilne!” That last exclamation is yet another Russian tidbit, one based upon a certain aspect of the male anatomy. It could mean almost anything but was always an exclamation. “Eetz looking, Garv! I see you soon, yes, of course. I very heppy.” There was a click and he was gone.

  I called him back.

  “Garv! Very nice speaking again, my friend.”

  “Don’t hang up until I tell you, okay?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “I need you to pick up the penguins. They’re in Astoria. The address is on the rental-slip pile on my desk. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, of course. Dopey, Sleepy, Heppy, Doc . . .”

  “There will be seven of them.”

  “No, Garv, penguins six. Dopey, Sleepy, Heppy, Doc . . . Oh my Got, eet very bad Sneezy pizdyets.”

  “Otto, we have a new penguin. He’s a dead penguin. Penguin pizdyets.”

  “Yes, Sneezy dead. Someday my print wheels come, someday wheels meets a can . . .”

  “Stop singing and listen to me, Otto.”

  “Otto sad, sing sad song of wheel very lonely.”

  “This is not Sneezy. This is a new penguin, a new dead penguin that was alive yesterday but is dead today. We are going to have him be our new Sneezy.”

  “Ahh! Yes, yes, yes. New dead Sneezy, I understand. My Got! But, lookink, eh? High low, High low! A working wheel will go . . .”

  “Otto, please do not sing on the telephone!”

  “Garv, why songs about wheels? Very nice, but—”

  “Shut up and listen to me. The new Sneezy is frozen. Put him in the chest freezer.”

  “In chest? But—”

  “Otto, put him in the chest freezer.”

  He sighed. “How you want. But I dunno. Not lookink.”

  “The new Sneezy needs to be kept frozen. On ice. Very cold.”

  “Yes, my friend.”

  “Also, there’s a rental slip from the Elks, at the Sheraton. Go to that address, pick up the elk.”

  “Elk, up pick, Sheraton. I clean and make all very nice.”

  “Go to the U-Van down the block, rent a van to make the pickups. Tell them
to put it on my account.”

  “Rent van, eets okay.”

  “Did you see the zebra pelts on the workbench?”

  “Otto make all good, eh?”

  “You cleaned them already?”

  “Pizdyets,” he barked. Suffice to say, pizdyets is a Russian profanity that means finished. Use your imagination.

  “And the caribou racks . . .”

  “Yes, of course!”

  “Good boy, Otto. Now, you’ll pick up the penguins and the elk, yes?”

  “Garv, I know, I know . . . Otto is very good up to pick.”

  “And you have our address here in Vermont?”

  “Ah! Garv, I very much to see you.”

  “Yes, I’ll see you soon. You can hang up now.”

  “Someday my print wheels come . . . Why wheels come, Garv?”

  Next I checked my messages. Maybe Angie had lost the number of the hotel and left a message at home?

  I was greatly disappointed.

  “So, Carson . . .” Walker’s voice chuckled. “I hear you got in some hot water up there in Vermont. Sorry it wasn’t me that busted you but just wanted to reassure you that if you manage to wriggle out of it, I’ll be here waiting.”

  I hung up. Walker really had it in for me. As if I didn’t have enough troubles, I had him stalking me too. I gave both Ma Bell and me a rest from that exhausting string of calls. But I was also giving it a break hoping Angie would ring.

  Now, let’s see . . . wasn’t I just talking to a woman in Seattle about a gorilla funeral and a guy named MacTeague? I had an idea there was something crooked going on with the gorilla—they’re inherently valuable for parts. But I still couldn’t draw a bead on the crow or how I was going to find Slim and Angus, a.k.a. MacTeague, unless I was mistaken. A flock of birds were flapping around my noggin and wouldn’t roost on the same branch.

  With any luck, Angie would call before long and ID the bird from Mallard Island as our white crow.

  I picked up the car keys, figuring I’d grab a Lil’ Anthony’s Pizza and some Looney Bread from across the way, bring ’em back to the room, wait for Angie’s call.

  But I didn’t figure on Slim sucking a toothpick on my doorstep.

  Chapter 15

  Like a crocodile’s smile, Slim’s wasn’t so much a function of good humor as of accommodating all those big teeth—and, of course, of the self-satisfaction that comes with being the baddest beast on the beach. He’d taken the precaution of ditching his hat, which exposed the graying brown hair swirled around a thin patch on top. The skin on his face and neck was red, thick, and creased, elephantine from way too much exposure to the sun. On his ropy upper arms, I could see blurry tattoos peeking out from under his T-shirt.