The Koala of Death (15 page)

My concern about Speaks-to-Souls intensified when we entered the store. I bear no animosity toward New Thought philosophy, and God knows I’m a fan of the animal kingdom, but the store’s blending of the two jarred what little remained of my artistic sensibilities. Bamboo and copper wind chimes clacked and tinkled over a sound system playing Peruvian flute music, while paintings of dogs wearing angel wings hung on dark purple walls. Kapok-stuffed white tigers crouched next to a bookshelf filled with books on animal chakras, tofu recipes, and vegan candle making. A closer inspection showed the books had all been penned and self-published by Speaks-to-Souls.

More down-to-earth was the swarm of cats and dogs that rushed to greet us. A retriever mix with a battered snout and sweet expression licked my left ankle as an aged tabby with one ear rubbed against my right one. Close behind them were three mongrels of various shapes and sizes, and five alley-type cats. Judging from their scars and grateful natures, all were rescues. Well, good for Speaks-to-Souls. She might be a phony but at least she was a compassionate phony.

When the woman herself swept toward us, her orange-and red-patterned sari fluttering in the kitty litter-and-patchouli-scented air, my doubts about her increased. If she was American Indian, I was a Sumo wrestler. She wasn’t India Indian, either, because she looked Norwegian. At least six feet tall with pale gray eyes and what appeared to be natural blond hair, she was as sturdily built as a lumberjack. There was something familiar about her face, too, but I couldn’t quite pinpoint it. No matter. In deference to her obvious animal-rescue activities, I would sit politely through her spiel, urge Caro to write a fat check, then hustle my mother out the door as soon as possible.

And lay my plans for a dog-napping.

“Caro, how wonderful to meet you and Mr. Trifle in the flesh,” Speaks-to-Souls said, with a voice as deep as a man’s. “It’s so nice that you’ve brought your sister along.”

Accepting this transparent flattery as truth, Caro simpered. “Sweet of you to say so, but Theodora is my daughter.”

I didn’t simper. “Call me Teddy. And in the spirit of full disclosure, I’m an animal keeper at the Gunn Zoo, and therefore I’m a bit leery about all this dog psychic stuff.”

Penetrating gray eyes met mine. “The Gunn Zoo? How interesting. Oh, well. Let’s take Mr. Trifle into the treatment room and get started. Alyse will watch the shop while we work.”

A younger woman who looked enough like Speaks-to-Souls to be her daughter, although dressed in tee shirt and jeans, stepped from behind a unicorn-filled étagère. Her own gray eyes danced with amusement. “Will do, Mom.”

Then she winked at me.

The treatment room, as Speaks-to-Souls had dubbed it, was carpeted and painted a deep, restful blue. The furniture looked like rejects from a La-Z-Boy factory but for a shiny CD player nestled between two white, patchouli-scented candles. On the floor lay several doggie beds in varying sizes, ranging from teacup Chihuahua to great Dane. Scattered around them were a selection of doggie toys, including balls, ropes, and several stuffed animals. Mr. Trifle, still snarling after Caro lifted him from her tote, ignored them all.

“My, what a fierce fellow you are,” said Speaks-to-Souls, bending down to look him in the eye.

Mr. Trifle gave her a worried glance, then went back to snarling at Caro.

With a fluid move, Speaks-to-Souls flicked on the CD player and Peruvian flute music filled the room. She then lit the candles and switched off the overhead light. Settling herself into one of the big loungers, she said, “I believe I already know what the problem is, but I’ll need to go into a trance to check with the spirits. If you could both sit quietly, please?”

Caro and I sat, leaving Mr. Trifle standing at Caro’s feet.

Ignoring my warning, Speaks-to-Souls picked up the Chihuahua and placed him in her lap. For a moment Mr. Trifle seemed to consider biting her, then to my amazement, gazed into her eyes with an adoring expression. That surprised me more than anything I’d seen earlier.

Then, in the candle-lit room, Speaks-to-Souls slumped against the headrest of her La-Z-Boy, rolled her eyes back, and chanted, “
Um mah, um mah, um mah!
Oh, Great Animal Spirit, visit me now!”

I kept a straight face, but it wasn’t easy.

As the minutes ticked by, we were treated to more chants, more eye rolling. And more self-control from me. Caro, however, looked enchanted. So did Mr. Trifle.

“
Um mah, um mah, um mah
!”

Despite my best intentions, I yawned. The deep blue room, the patchouli air, the Peruvian flute music—I was desperate to go beddie-bye.

Suddenly someone—or some thing—answered in a deep, growly voice. “
Um mah zezezzer acupopo zeezix
!” Looking more carefully, I saw Speaks-to-Souls’ lips move.

She embarked upon a long conversation with whatever was hiding out in the ether. A sperm whale? Border collie? A vole? Whoever he/she/it was, he/she/it certainly liked to talk.

Stifling yet another yawn, I wondered how much longer this could continue. Would I be trapped in this dark room for eternity with an unseen spirit, a phony dog psychic, my nutty mother, and her just-as-nutty Chihuahua?

Speaks-to-Souls’ eyes suddenly flew open. “That’s it!” she proclaimed. “The Great Animal Spirit has revealed the problem!”

“Wha…What?” Caro asked, her voice unusually hesitant.

Without answering, Speaks-to-Souls began stripping Mr. Trifle of his Caro-clone clothing. Off flew the white jacket and matching beret. I had never seen Mr. Trifle look so relieved.

“His name is not Mr. Trifle,” Speaks-to-Souls declared. “The Great Animal Spirit has informed me that this noble animal is the reincarnation of a great Aztec warrior named Feroz Guerrero. Caro, you must begin calling him by his rightful name. And, my dear, stop dressing him up as if he were nothing more than a fashion accessory. Feroz Guerrero was known for charging into battle naked.”

Caro’s mouth, already open, dropped further.

So did mine, because I had realized that while Speaks-to-Souls was undoubtedly a charlatan, her animal skills—as well as her tact—were the real deal. “Ever think about becoming a zookeeper?” I blurted out.

Turning her head so that Caro couldn’t see, Speaks-to-Souls mirrored her daughter’s earlier wink. “Actually, I did give it some thought at one time. Then I decided I could do more good by channeling the Great Animal Spirit.”

After the performance I’d just seen, I wasn’t about to argue.

Before we left with a naked Chihuahua renamed Feroz Guerrero—who looked much happier now, by the way—I made certain that Caro wrote Speaks-to-Souls a large check. Surprisingly, the woman had her make it out to the building fund for the San Sebastian No-Kill Animal Shelter, explaining that she preferred not to profit from her work with the Great Animal Spirit. She did, however, talk Caro into purchasing several scented candles, and for those, had another check made out to her store.

As I slid into the Mercedes with a naked Aztec warrior tucked under my arm, I said to Caro, “Did Speaks-to-Souls look familiar to you?”

A bit stunned from her introduction to the spirit world, she shook her head and started the car. She remained silent as we drove back to Gunn Landing. Half an hour later, when Caro dropped me off at the harbor gate, I still couldn’t remember where I’d seen Speaks-to-Souls before. But then Caro couldn’t remember knowing Kate, either, so I guess we were even.

As I walked down the dock to the
Merilee
, I noticed that the
Nomad
had been taken away to the county’s evidence storage yard. The slip where Kate had berthed her boat now lay empty, except for a harbor seal swimming back and forth between the pilings. As much as I enjoyed wildlife, I found the scene depressing.

“Sad, isn’t it?” a voice said.

I turned to see Ford Bronson. He’d halted his evening run along the southern promenade and was jogging in place next to me.

“Very sad,” I replied.

“Life can be dangerous, Teddy. I’m surprised your mother lets you live down here all by yourself.”

“
Let
?” I shook my head. “Oh, please. I stopped asking for permission two decades ago.”

“Still…” He looked off toward the channel, where a whale-watching excursion was just returning. “Promise me you’ll be careful.”

While it was flattering to know a handsome billionaire worried about me, it was also annoying. But to keep the peace, I nodded. “Will do.”

Satisfied, he jogged off.

Once back aboard the
Merilee
, I changed into my sweats and settled down with the first of Kate’s files to work on
ZooNews
. I’d done the bulk of the rewriting the evening before, so I had just finished when Joe called to make certain I’d arrived safely home. I assured him I had.

“It’s just as well you caught a ride with your mother, because I didn’t get away until a few minutes ago,” he said. “The deputy was right. That domestic was one of the hairiest I’ve ever experienced.”

“A fatal?” So many domestic disturbances turned tragic these days.

“Not at all. Just…complicated.”

“That’s what you said at the zoo.”

“That’s all I’m going to say, too. How’d things go with the dog?”

We both had a good laugh as I described the “séance.”

“Sounds like Speaks-to-Souls or whatever her real name is performed a public service,” he said, when I’d finished. “But she’d better watch her step. Our White Collar Crimes Division has started cracking down on fraudulent psychics.”

I smiled. “How can you tell if a psychic is fraudulent?”

“The amount of money they charge for a reading is a good tip-off.”

Remembering the large check Caro had written to the San Sebastian No-Kill Animal Shelter, I didn’t say anything. As far as I was concerned, any money donated to an animal shelter was clean money, even if procured in a liquor store holdup.

“So what’s your evening look like?” he asked.

I told him I’d almost finished rewriting the zoo’s newsletter, and after that, I would work on Kate’s blog. In a meeting between Zorah and Aster Edwina, the two had decided to change the online diary’s name from
Koala Kate’s Outback Telegraph
to
Tiger Teddy’s Telegraph
. Since I rarely worked with tigers, the name wasn’t all that appropriate but it would have to do.

“I’m not looking forward to it, because you know how I feel about more paperwork,” I said. “But at least I’ve found all of Kate’s files…” Oops. I’d found most of them during my break-in at the
Nomad
, but he didn’t need to know that. “…uh, at the zoo, so I’ll go over them and try to match her style. By the way, I noticed that the
Nomad
’s gone.”

“Yeah, they winched it out around noon. Not that I think we’re going to find anything helpful. Judging from where you found her and which way the tide was running, it’s probable that once she left the party she never made it back to her boat.” Then he abruptly changed the subject, and we talked about more personal things for a while.

When we rang off, I went back to work.

Once I opened the second of Kate’s manila files—the thickest one—I received a surprise. The printouts inside weren’t from
Koala Kate’s Outback Telegraph
after all; they were printouts of a blog I’d not seen before:
The
Tasmanian Devil.
Curious, I began to read. Halfway through the first page, I began to understand the skeptical looks that had passed among the other zookeepers when I had talked so blithely about how much “fun” Kate’s blog was.

The Tasmanian Devil
was just the opposite.

Koalas enjoyable as usual, B annoying as usual. What’s up with men, anyway? Considering their own non-monogamous natures, isn’t it rather hypocritical of them to demand fidelity from their girlfriends? Like male lions, men want mating rights with every female around, but woe betide a lioness who casts come-hither glances at the new stud on the block. You know what I have to say about that, Dear Readers? ROAARRR!!!

Stunned, I took out my laptop and signed on to the Internet. Typing in the URL for
Koala Kate’s Outback Telegraph
, I found it no different than I remembered: a field of warm beige headed by a picture of Wanchu at the top. Colorful Aboriginal designs trailed down the right side of the copy, which contained nothing but cute stories about some of the zoo’s most popular animals. I saw nothing even faintly derogatory, either of animals or humans. In short, the blog read nothing like the printouts I’d found in the folder.

Checking the folder more carefully, I found something I had missed earlier. Written under the URL for the blog I was looking at now was another URL. When I typed that one in,
The
Tasmanian Devil
popped up.

This blog was not only darker in tone, but darker in design, too. At their best, Tasmanian devils, an Australian mammal about the size of a small dog, are rather unattractive, but the one gracing the site’s menacing gray background looked positively repulsive. Its fangs had been lengthened in PhotoShop, and blood dribbled down the side of its mouth.

The
Tasmanian Devil
’s posts were bloody, too.

After describing koalas’ mating ritual in blunt words—sometimes the females darn near rape the males—Kate segued onto the mating rituals of the human species.

Yes, Dear Readers, it’s mating time at the zoo and not just for koalas. Cat Girl has fallen hard for B, while Rhino Man has the hots for Our Glorious Leader. Nothing like a little unrequited mating to liven things up, is there?

After my experience at the jail the other night, I realized “Cat Girl” was Robin Chase, observed by Kate in Robin’s first swoonings over Bill. But if “Rhino Man” was Buster Daltry, surely Kate hadn’t been under the assumption that he’d fallen for Zorah! From what I’d been able to see, our zoo director’s love life was about as titillating as a nun’s.