Marked Fur Murder (22 page)

And even though Hayden Metcalfe wasn't exactly innocent, there was nothing to prove he'd killed his wife—and learning that she'd been unfaithful to him in her last hours was maybe more punishment than he deserved. Especially if the information wasn't trustworthy—which was exactly what Theodora was insisting.

Trust. While I was feeling sorry for myself because I couldn't trust those around me, Theodora couldn't trust parts of her own personality. Maybe I wasn't as bad off as I thought.

But I needed to know whether or not it was true, whether Keene and Anna had been together on the night she died. And I knew just where to start.

“You're probably right,” I said to Theodora. “That Doc is a tricky rascal, isn't he? He really got us.”

Theodora nodded, looking relieved; she wanted to believe it was just a joke, no doubt one of many Doc had played on her. Coop looked less certain, but he didn't say anything.

“Well,” I said, getting to my feet, “I've got to run. Never enough time, you know?”

“Yes, yes, of course,” said Theodora. She pushed her tortoiseshell glasses up the bridge of her blocky nose with one large finger. “Please carry on with your day. We'll keep you apprised of any new developments.”

“Thank you. Good luck.” I let myself out, and went in search of Whiskey.

I tried paging him telepathically first, since the graveyard acted as a psychic amplifier. I got an immediate response: [I'm over by Davy's Grave, watching Kaci and Gorshkov.]

When I headed over that way, I saw the Russian and his dog, but not Whiskey.

Where are you?
I thought.

[Downwind. Behind the tree.]

I glanced in that direction as I got closer, trying not to be obvious, and saw what might have been a nose peeking out of a clump of grass.
Good disguise. What are you, a miniature toy dwarf Pygmanese?

[Longhaired Chihuahua. Only four inches tall, ideal for surveillance.]

As long as you stay downwind.

Kaci seemed to be painting a picture of a tree, but I wasn't interested in art appreciation at the moment. Their backs were to me, so I stayed out of sight and told Whiskey to come over. I saw some rustling in the grass, and a moment later a tiny, black-and-white dust mop scurried up.

“I think I've seen bigger cheeseburgers,” I said.

[It's not the size of your bite, it's the sharpness of your teeth.]

“Very profound. Come on, we need to check something out.” I explained to him what Theodora had told me.

We paused at the gate leading to the grounds of the mansion to let him shift into his customary canine form. [So where are we off to? If you want to confront Keene, I saw him earlier in the graveyard.]

“Not my plan. I need your nose to confirm what Doc Wabbit claims he overheard in Keene's room.”

[Ah. Well, as long as the maids haven't been too efficient, some olfactory evidence should remain.]

*   *   *

The tricky part wasn't getting into Keene's room—I had a master key to every door in the mansion. No, the tricky part was getting into the mansion itself without anyone seeing me. Even if I was technically off duty, that probably wouldn't stop either staff or guests from asking me to solve their problems; that was my role, after all, and everyone around me was so used to it they'd probably go into shock if I claimed I wasn't working. And it wasn't that I minded people asking for my help; more like I wouldn't be able to say no. Before I knew it, I'd be caught up in a dozen minor details that needed fixing and my own agenda would be completely derailed.

Maybe I really should rethink a few things.

Whiskey and I got as far as halfway up the staircase in the main hall before a maid got me. Consuela called my name from below; I sighed mentally and turned around physically. “Yes?”

“Ms. Foxtrot, you have to do something about the paintings.”

“The paintings?”

“The paintings. They are everywhere!”

For a second, my current state of mind conjured up the image of a flock of flying canvases, harassing Consuela like crazed seagulls. Half of them were portraits of Teresa Firstcharger done in oils, the other half watercolor sketches of a rainbow-hued snake. “What do you mean, they're everywhere?”

Consuela gestured with a hand. “Everywhere. In the bedrooms, in the dining room, in the hall. Did you not see?”

I hadn't. I walked back down the steps and saw what I had hurried past a minute ago: that paintings were propped against the walls in the foyer, and down both hallways that led away from it. They were large, at least five feet high, and each one was only a few brushstrokes in bright, primary colors. They seemed to portray either bushes, flowers, or trees—all except one.

Whiskey and I stared at it. Whiskey cocked his head to one side. “Well,” I said. “I guess you made an impression on her. Impressionist.”

[Is my head really that lopsided?]

Not most days.
I frowned. I should have known; when the cat's away, the rats will play. In this case, the rat was Oscar, and he'd wasted no time in taking advantage of my supposed absence to create a little havoc.

“I see,” I said to Consuela. “It appears that under Oscar's patronage, Kaci's output has greatly increased.”

“Indeed it has,” said Oscar, strolling out of the sitting room. “I believe it has something to do with the convivial environment here. Her technique over the last few days has shown such a change. It's become more…”

“Economical?”

He smiled, and raised his everpresent glass to me. “Just so. Quick, but focused. It's quite exciting.”

“It's quite inconvenient, Oscar. Why are these works of art all in the house?”

“They're drying, of course. Can't be outside—bugs, you know. How would it look if a future masterpiece turned out to have a mayfly embedded in it?”

“Like an opportunity to sell it as one-of-a-kind?”

He looked thoughtful. “I hadn't thought of that…”

“Well, now you have. Move the canvases, please—there's plenty of room outside and it's not going to rain.”

He nodded graciously. “Ah, of course. I heard you'd taken the day off, but clearly I was misinformed. You were merely busy expanding your realm of control to the weather—I knew it was only a matter of time.”

I blinked. “I have to go.”

I turned and charged back up the stairs, Whiskey at my heels.

[We should have a word with Mr. Gorshkov. Obviously, he's working Kaci much too hard.]

“She's a working dog, remember? Used to chasing sheep twelve hours a day. I don't think a few brushstrokes are going to wear her out.”

We got to Keene's room. I pulled out my master key and took a deep breath. I didn't like snooping on the guests, and I liked snooping on my friends even less, but this was serious. If Anna and Keene had been together, I needed to know.

I unlocked the door and we stepped inside.

Keene didn't have a particular room he preferred over the others; in fact, it was his stated intention to eventually stay in all of them. When I asked him why, he told me, “Because I love this place and want to know all of it, inside and out. Besides, if
every
room is my favorite, then I'll never be disappointed, will I?”

He had, of course, made the room he was currently staying in his own. He never actually broke anything—well, nothing he didn't profusely apologize and pay for—but he did tend to unpack rather explosively. Clothing shrapnel covered a great deal of the room, as well as a number of guitars, a violin on a stand, a large red cylinder attached to a gas mask with a hose, and a great deal of Lego. The top of one table was dominated by a sprawling, free-form sculpture made of the stuff; it managed to be both playful and vaguely pornographic at the same time.

Whiskey was already over by the bed, which the maids clearly hadn't gotten to yet—cleaning Keene's room was always problematic, due to his habit of sleeping at odd hours and behaving oddly the rest of the time. We'd had to let one maid go after she walked in on him, a supermodel, a pair of hip waders, several gallons of vanilla custard, and an industrial paint mixer. Don't ask.

Whiskey sniffed at the sheets. He sniffed at the carpet. He sniffed at the bedside table. He sniffed at several items on the bedside table that I won't describe. And finally, he stopped sniffing, sat down, and looked steadily at me.

[I'm sorry, Foxtrot. Anna was here, with Keene. And they were … busy.]

Dammit.

I sat down on the edge of the bed. I shouldn't have been surprised. Keene slept with plenty of women, some of whom he brought with him, some of whom he met here. There was that Nobel Prize winner a while back—nobody saw that one coming except me. Anna was angry at her husband, Keene was sexy and funny and available … I found myself more disappointed in him than angry. A woman in Anna's state—he should have known better.

But that was all secondary. Anna was dead, and Keene had lied about sleeping with her. Was he trying to spare her husband the knowledge that her last act had been to cheat on him, or was he covering up something more sinister?

I looked around the room. I'd seen this mess plenty of times before, and even though it was always different it was always the same. There was his favorite silk shirt. There were the leather pants—a blue pair and a red pair this time. Lots of T-shirts, some new, some not. Enough makeup on the vanity to make a model drool.

But something was missing.

I stood up and went over to the vanity. It was the most organized part of the entire room, with all the accessories laid out in a very systematic manner. Eyeliner, moisturizer, hair products …

“No hair dryer,” I said. “Keene never travels without one. And it's always right there, next to the gel.” But not this time.

I searched the room. I found many interesting things, some of which required batteries, but no hair dryer. I was pretty sure I knew where it was, though: in a police evidence locker.

“This is bad,” I said.

[There might be an innocent explanation.]

“Sure. Maybe he forgot it. Maybe he took it with him for some bizarre reason. Maybe Anna borrowed it after they had sex and liked it so much it wound up in the pool with her.”

[None of those seems very likely.]

No, they didn't. A more likely explanation was that Anna hadn't been alone in that pool. Keene did love a naked, late-night dip, and he preferred his dipping to be done with others. He was vain enough to have taken his hair dryer with him, too.

The hair dryer hadn't killed Anna, though. It must have been thrown in to make us think her death was an accident, by someone who didn't know she was a Thunderbird. Possibly by the person who actually killed her.

But why? Keene had no reason to kill Anna. An accident, maybe?

I just didn't have enough information. I needed to learn what actually killed Anna, which meant talking to somebody official. Fortunately, I knew somebody better than someone official—I knew who did their paperwork.

We left Keene's room. A quick call to the coroner's office put me in touch with Harriet Tilford, who was the coroner's version of me. Harriet couldn't divulge details of an ongoing investigation, except for little insignificant things that might affect the person filling out all the insurance forms, a person she could really identify with and feel sorry for and you never heard this from me, right?

Usually Harriet was extremely helpful, but in this case she didn't have much to offer because the autopsy hadn't been done yet. So I thanked her and asked her to give me a call when she could because we really should catch up. Which I meant, because Harriet is a lovely person and we really do have a lot in common—mostly that neither of us has any time for catching up with friends.

I wondered how Tango was doing with Fimsby. I tried paging her telepathically, but got no response; she must have been out of range. I made a mental note to myself to someday test what the practical limit of that range was, in and out of the graveyard, then pulled out my phone and e-mailed myself a reminder.

“Whiskey, see if you can track down Tango for me and get an update. I'll meet you out by the pool.”

[Very well.] He trotted back the direction we'd just come from.

I ducked down the back stairs. Those let out kind of close to the kitchen, and I really hoped I wouldn't run into Ben. I wasn't ready to talk to him yet. But I heard a tremendous racket start up when I was only halfway down, and guess where it was coming from? I had to check it out.

I opened the kitchen door on a blizzard.

I staggered back, blinded by a torrent of swirling, clattering white. It took my senses a moment to register that the temperature hadn't dropped, and a second after that to realize that the whiteness whipping through the air was far too fine to be snow; it was much more like dust.

I licked my lips. Flour. That was a culinary tempest I was looking at, not a seasonal one. Right about then a silver pot clanged loudly off the door frame and I knew why it was so noisy, too.

“Hey!” I yelled into the storm. “CUT IT OUT!”

The wind slowed. I heard the last of the cookware crash to the floor and stepped into a murky, swirling fog of finely ground whole wheat.

I could see two figures, facing each other in the middle of the kitchen. One was Ben. The other was Teresa Firstcharger.

The good news was, I hadn't interrupted some sort of frenzied Thunderbird mating ritual. The bad news was that they looked like they were ready to kill each other.

Ben was dusted in flour from head to toe, but Teresa looked like she'd just stepped out of a salon; somehow, she'd prevented any of the flour from actually touching her skin. The level of control that implied was terrifying. So was the look on her face. She was smiling. It was the kind of smile you'd wear if you'd learned how by studying pictures of serial killers.