I made a quick check of the Cat-A-Mite Museum's address in the building city directory by the front doors of my office building. A rickshaw ride left me at its front entrance by eleven-twenty. “So much for meeting up with Joann,” I mumbled, slightly bothered, as I did like her younger sister.
I padded up the ten stone steps to the double doors of the nine-story marble building. Just inside the entrance, a tiger security guard stood watching the floor. To his right was a bored Dalmatian custodian who accepted my donation of five notes to gain entry and gave me a brochure that showed the floor plans and the museum's exhibits. Twenty steps across the floor brought me to the information booth, for animals who needed more than the brochure offered. Here, an older leopardess sat, dressed in a conservative, long-sleeved summer dress of reds and yellow. Before her she was reading the latest magazine on May to mid-June vacation spots on the greater outer banks of the Farmark coastline. Farmark was our closest continent east of Burrland. Though the northwest neighboring continent Snowflurry was closer geographically, it did require an animal to have long thick fur like mine or wear something equivalent. Most travelers preferred Farmark.
Even though the leopardess could not miss my standing at her counter when I stopped before her, she refused to acknowledge my presence until I placed a paw on the counter. Upon my blatantly obvious wish for information, she laid her magazine down, pushed up her eyeglasses and gave me a bored look of irritation for disturbing her.
“Yes?”
“Ms. Apiyo,” I began, having read her name plate on the countertop. “My name is Mr. Snow. I'm here on a matter concerning one of your employees. Could you direct me to the office of your curator, please?”
“Mr. Gatura is a busy lion.” She picked up a pad and pencil and set them before me. “Leave your name and address, whom you wish to have a discussion about, and a letter for an appointment date and time will be mailed to you.”
Her tone of voice told me she didn't particularly like anyone in the Canine family. If this was true, I wondered at her placement in a booth that necessitated assistance to the general public. Of course I may be over analyzing; she could just as easily have noted my pistol and have a dislike for law enforcement, security guards or P.I.'s, as we are the only animals allowed, with an updated license, to legally carry weapons.
I ignored the pad and pushed my luck with her. “Ms. Apiyo, I'm a private investigator commissioned to investigate Mr. Oscar Sullivan's disappearance. In light of this, could you direct me to Mr. Gatura's office or at least let him know I'm here?”
Her dark blue eyes narrowed, but she picked up a two-way radio, adjusted the dial and depressed a button. “Mr. Gatura, there's a P.I. here who wishes to speak with you.” She released the button and we waited a few seconds. The speaker in her radio crackled.
“Tell him or her to leave their name, as I'm busy right now.”
I sighed, as the leopardess was being difficult on purpose. “Ms. Apiyo, could you please inform him my being here is in regard to Mr. Sullivan's disappearance?”
She grimaced but depressed the button again. “Mr. Gatura, he says his visit concerns Mr. Sullivan.”
“Inform the investigator that Mr. Sullivan is currently unavailable, but if he'll leave a name and address, I'll send him a letter when Mr. Sullivan is made available.”
I sighed in irritation and considered dropping the whole issue, but Mr. Gatura's response was perfectly understandable, as Ms. Apiyo was refusing to pass on any true information. Taking a chance, I reached out and snatched the radio from her paw, an act which set her off. She stood, claws extended, and took a swipe at my arm as I stepped back to avoid the attack.
“Give that back!” she demanded, alerting the security guard by the door.
I depressed the button and quickly said, “Mr. Gatura, I'm here in regard to Mr. Sullivan's disappearance.” With that said, and before the muscular security guard could take three steps my way, I tossed the radio back at the difficult leopardess, who caught it.
Ms. Apiyo nearly slammed the radio down as she leaned on the counter and angrily demanded, “Get out, before I have you tossed out on your ear!”
“Is there a problem here, Marsha?” the tiger inquired.
“Yes!” she snapped. She was about to point me out as her problem when Mr. Gatura's voice came out over the radio's speaker.
“Ms. Apiyo, please inform Mr. Snow I'll be out to see him shortly.”
Ms. Apiyo looked down at the radio then shot a heated glare at me, baring teeth that would have had any herbivore ducking for cover. As neither I nor the tiger were herbivores, I stood my ground.
The tiger inquired yet again, “Marsha?”
Ms. Apiyo kept her angry gaze on me as she told the guard, “Apparently, not at the moment.” She pointed with an outstretched arm. “There's a bench to your right against the wall. Park it there and don't move, or I will have Xavier throw you out!”
As I wished not to be thrown out, I did as instructed and parked my butt on the bench. I sat back and made certain my fluffy tail had room to move in the void of wood behind my back. I next crossed my legs, laid my arm out on the bench back, and contented myself to look around the lobby without showing any victory dance on my face.
Xavier watched me sit, after which he looked at Ms. Apiyo, shrugged, and then retook his position.
My wait for Mr. Gatura wasn't long. A tall lion dressed smartly in a pinstriped gray and white cotton business suit came out to the information booth, where Ms. Apiyo pointed me out without looking up. He looked my way then said something only for her ears, which gained him a reluctant nod from her. He took up his waistcoat and pulled it taut before he padded over.
“Mr. Snow.” He held out a welcoming paw. “I'm Avery Gatura.”
I stood and accepted his paw. “A pleasure to meet you. I'm Braxton Snow.”
“Please, let's go to my office so we may talk in private.”
Mr. Gatura gestured and led the way into the main museum proper, where a pack of full-sized mannequin tigers with long, curved saber-shaped canine teeth stood on rocks. Rounding the exhibit, Mr. Gatura guided me to an office door, partly concealed by a large display that accurately depicted the Felidae family evolution over the past ten thousand years from the simple, four-legged animals they used to be to their present day stature of intelligent, bipedal animals. Similar displays of other animal families could be found elsewhere in the museum as well as in their own family museums around the city. Lower down, I saw a plaque indicating, “The above diagram depicts the last ten thousand years. The family of Felidae, as far as research has determined, goes back more than two million years. However, due to recent discoveries unearthed in ape habitats, there is a growing consensus that our knowledge is millions of years off.”
He opened his door and walked in. Mr. Gatura's office was both functional and personalized with artifacts generously applied around shelves, file cabinets and on his desk. Two oil paintings were hung on the wall opposite his desk depicting prides of lions, one of which could only be his immediate family, as I recognized a younger version of him standing behind a lioness and two cubs.
Mr. Gatura took his seat and indicated a chair for me. “Please, Mr. Snow.” Settled, he put his elbows on the arms of his chair. “How is it that you came to know about Mr. Sullivan's disappearance?”
“A Ms. Catharine Nelson contacted me last night and asked if I'd have a look into the matter.”
“Ah, yes, Ms. Nelson. A very pleasant young fox. I know her very well.” Mr. Gatura scratched his jaw line with a sharp nail. “Oscar is very proud of his niece. His nephew, I'm sure you know by now, is another matter entirely.”
“Mr. Bryn Nelson,” I clarified.
“Yes, quite. He's rather a disappointment to Oscar in regard to his chosen field of work.” Mr. Gatura dropped his paw onto his desk; his face indicated Bryn was not well liked. “I take it you've had a visit from Mr. Uchi?”
“He did drop by,” I said without any flux in my
voice to indicate how I felt about the fennec fox, so I could watch his expression.
“In that case,” he began, his tail twitching behind his chair while his tone plainly displayed Mr. Uchi was not well received either, “I must ask why you are here. Surely by order of Bryn, that fennec canceled any investigation Catharine may have asked of you.”
“In point of fact he did,” I admitted. “However, as Ms. Nelson told me a certain police detective recommended she look me up, I decided to have a look into the matter regardless. So tell me, does Mr. Sullivan disappear for long periods of time without leaving some notice as to what he may be doing?”
Mr. Gatura looked uncomfortable. His tail stilled and he rubbed his other arm. “To be honest, yes. But only on his own time. He'd never vanish after the college assigned him a class of students.”
“I see, umm, might he have forgotten or cancelled the class without notifying your office?”
Mr. Gatura's voice took on a defensive tone. “Mr. Sullivan is held in very high esteem by the local colleges as well as being an honored archeologist amongst his peers. I say this so you'll understand when I tell you he'd never take off during this time of year when classes are formed. The study of archeology and passing on to young intelligent minds his beloved craft has ever been a passion of his.”
“I meant no disrespect, Mr. Gatura,” I assured him. His mane rippled in agitation, though his face remained unchanged, a sure sign of his professionalism. “I'm merely inquiring to ascertain his mental ability and habits.”
Mr. Gatura settled. “Of course, sorry. I'm afraid I'm a little touchy, as Oscar's a good friend of mine.” He reached for a pitcher of water. “Might I pour you a glass?”
“Thank you, but no.” I passed as he poured one for himself.
Mr. Gatura took a sip to wet his throat. “So what can I tell you?”
“You pretty much have given me a mental image to start with. I would, however, like to talk with his students if they're still around, and have a look in the area he was last seen.”
“Yes, of course.” Mr. Gatura stood, pulled his waistcoat down, and led the way. “His students are in the lab.”
The lab was of course in the back, opposite the storage room and loading dock and through a set of large double doors. A group of eight animals were spread around the room, each involved in some project—whether cleaning, scraping, writing or reading—all busy, some even cracking jokes while others looked more serious.
****
Chapter 3:
One Book, One Archeologist. What's Wrong with this Picture?
“Good afternoon, class,” Mr. Gatura said as we entered. “May I have your attention, please?”
All the animals looked our way, some setting down tools, other taking seats if they stood.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Gatura.”A male lynx dressed in simple black cotton pants and gray short sleeved shirt spoke up first. His words were followed up by similar vocal gestures of politeness from the others, something a lot of adolescents seemed to be missing these days. I often wondered if manners were even taught anymore in school or had it become passé.
“Mr. Vetrov.” Mr. Gatura nodded, and went on. “Please everyone.” He motioned everyone to draw near with his raised paw. “This is Mr. Snow, a private investigator. Mr. Snow has graciously donated his valuable time to look into the disappearance of our own Mr. Sullivan. He would like to ask some questions, after which, Mr. Vetrov, if you would be so kind as to show Mr. Snow the document archives?”
“Not a problem, Mr. Gatura.” The lynx nodded with a light smile.
“Very good then. Mr. Snow, I'll leave you with these capable young animals, as I've a lot of work to do.”
After I shook paws with Mr. Gatura, I looked over the group as I pulled out a notepad to take down names, for Mr. Vetrov had already taken it upon himself to introduce me to everyone, starting with the females. There was Kaia Sundell, a snow leopard, Cerise Vasser, an arctic hare, Milena Ludlow, a polar bear, Yukiko Taira, a sea otter, Filip Cupar, a sable, Juan Sosa, an oncilla and Neil Deville, a snowshoe hare.
“Right then.” I slapped my paws together. “So how many of you have spent time with Mr. Sullivan?”
Mr. Vetrov volunteered, “All save Filip and Neil have been with Mr. Sullivan for three years. This is their first year. As for myself, this is my forth and last year.”
“Great. Now, please be candid and hold nothing back. Does Mr. Sullivan have any quirks, female-friends, habits, gambling or drug problems, or anything else that may help me determine a starting point for discovering his whereabouts?”
The group looked at each other, eyes roving. Two of them seemed to indicate they knew something but were unsure or unwilling to speak up.
“Please, Kaia Sundell,” I chose her over the others to start with. “You look like you know something.”
Kaia's ears rose, her startled hazel eyes looking at me.
“If you're asking if she's heated up the bed sheets with Mr. Sullivan, “Mr. Vetrov began, “I can answer positively no.”
“Are you saying Mr. Sullivan's tastes tend for males?” I arched an eyebrow.
“Absolutely not. I—”
“Then let Ms. Sundell answer for herself.”
Mr. Vetrov's hackles rose.
“Don't, Mitch.” Ms. Sundell walked over and put a restraining paw on his shoulder. Mr. Vetrov cast a questioning look at her, but the snow leopard shook her head no. “You're right that I didn't, but I do know something he asked me not to talk about.” Ms. Sundell turned to me. “You see, my family is well-off, Mr. Snow. Oscar, I mean, Mr. Sullivan, came to me a week before his disappearance. He asked if he could obtain a loan or grant from my family to further his pursuit on a project of his that his predecessor passed down to him.”
“Oh, that again…” Mr. Vetrov rolled his eyes.
I looked at the lynx, who elaborated without being coaxed.
“For years Oscar has been chasing ghosts. Although archeology seems to be the same thing, when bones or artifacts are unearthed, these ghosts become fact. His theory, which the museum and the colleges have both politely asked him to drop, concerns one old volume out of many in the archives he claims proves the hairless apes who came before us just one day packed up and used some sort of transportation to leave our world.”
“Hmmm, and you don't buy into his theory?” I asked, as a thought came to mind. I read something similar in an old history magazine, though if I remember correctly, the idea was quashed as soon as it hit the shelves.
“Not likely. It's well documented by over five hundred years of proven archeology finds of hairless apes' unearthed skeletal remains that they died out quickly from some sort of disease. Besides, have you ever seen any evidence they had any kind of flight capability?”
Because Mr. Vetrov seemed to distain the theory out of paw, I wondered if he also held a dislike for Mr. Sullivan. To better understand the lynx, I thought I'd tweak his conviction. “They built buildings that towered many times over any that our civilization as been able to construct,” I quoted from my history lessons. “How was that possible?”
“In theory or fact?” Juan Sosa the oncilla inquired.
Mr. Vetrov waved him off. “The point, Mr. Snow, is Mr. Sullivan is chasing his tail concerning this hairless ape theory.”
“Regardless of how you feel concerning the unpopular theory, it sounds like an important issue with Mr. Sullivan,” I pointed out. “Which is exactly the kind of thing I need to know.” I eyed the group. “Now, does anyone else have anything? Mr. Deville?” I inquired of the second student I sensed had something to say.
Everyone looked at the snowshoe hare as he scratched his long white ear. “Well, uh, does it matter at all that Mr. Sullivan dated my older sister?”
“That would depend. Is he still doing so?” I asked.
“I'm not sure. Possibly. Giselle is nothing if not discrete in her many affairs.”
“But you seem to know about them,” I said.
“Well yeah.” Mr. Deville shrugged. “That's because I lived with her a few months until I found someone at college to room with.”
“Fair enough. How about giving me her address? Perhaps I'll call on her.” I looked around the room but didn't spot any others with obvious information. “Well then, if there's nothing more, Mr. Vetrov, do you know where this book you mentioned is?”
“Yeah, but so does Juan.” He turned to the oncilla. “Why don't you take him? Perhaps you two could talk about your theories about the hairless apes.”
Translation, I mused, I got under your fur and you don't want to deal with me anymore.
“Sure thing, Mitch. Mr. Snow, if you'll follow me?” The oncilla gestured with an outstretched arm, walking past me to the entrance.
I thought of irritating Mr. Vetrov more by insisting he guide me, as Mr. Gatura had specified he'd do so; however, I felt nothing more could be gained from the lynx, so I followed the first-year student. “So tell me, Mr. Sosa—”
“Juan, please, Mr. Snow.”
“As you wish. So Juan, how is it you know about this volume Mr. Sullivan is convinced holds some sort of revelation of the past?”
“In truth, anyone who works with Mr. Sullivan does.” Juan rubbed the back of his neck as we walked. “I didn't know at the time, but learned later that Mr. Sullivan runs that volume past anyone who'll listen, especially his students.” Juan looked over his shoulder before saying softly, “Truth is, Mitch is jealous of Mr. Sullivan.”
“How so?” I asked just as softly.
“Well, you know, Mr. Sullivan is not even of the felidae family, and yet the museum backs him on all his excavations.” Juan's large dark blue eyes looked back over his shoulder. “Something about that really irks Mitch.”
“But it doesn't bother you?”
“Why should it? Mr. Sullivan's reputation for sniffing out dig sites that yield valuable insights to the past is near-on legendary among the halls of my college. That's why I'm here.”
Braxton Snow P.I. (The Snow Adventures Book 1) Page 4
