To Die Fur (A Whiskey Tango Foxtrot Mystery)
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Authors: Dixie Lyle
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This is for my amazing editor, Monique Patterson, without whom the first WTF book would be missing its most important, heartfelt passage.
Thank you for the expert advice.
C
ONTENTS
C
HAPTER
O
NE
Lots of people talked to their animals. Mine talked back.
No, I’m not crazy—well, no more than anyone who did my job would be. My name’s Foxtrot Lancaster, and I work for an eccentric billionaire named Zelda Zoransky.
ZZ, as everyone called her, was an old ex-hippie who came from even older money; she spent most of her time (and a great deal of her money) on enjoying life, having adventures, getting into passionate arguments on the Internet, and philanthropy. She was heavily involved in animal rights; a big chunk of her family estate was dedicated to a private rescue zoo where she housed exotic animals that had no other place to go, until a permanent home could be found for them. Taking care of the menagerie was a full-time occupation … but that wasn’t my job.
Right next to the Zoransky estate was one of the largest pet cemeteries in the United States. It was the final resting place of more than fifty thousand pets, and held the cremated remains of over two hundred of their former owners as well. Looking after the graveyard was also a full-time occupation … but that wasn’t my job, either.
Not exactly.
Which brings me to my own animals. Whiskey’s a blue heeler, an Australian cattle dog that’s a mix of Northumberland drover’s dog and wild dingo. He’s medium-sized, with a white-and-black-speckled body and muzzle, tan legs, chest, and throat, one brown eye, and one blue eye.
Oh, and he’s dead.
Ghost-dead, I mean, not zombie-dead. Which is to say, he’s ectoplasmic in nature as opposed to staggering around with bits falling off, searching for brains to eat. Looks, feels, and smells like a live dog, but he can shape-shift into any other breed and has access to a supernatural library of scents that lets him identify almost anything. He communicates with me telepathically, has a British accent, and doesn’t require food for nourishment. Taking care of him was a breeze … but that wasn’t my job, either.
Then there’s Tango. Tango’s a tuxedo cat—you know, one of those elegant black-and-white ones—and most definitely is not dead. In fact, she’s alive for the seventh time—out of nine, naturally—and in one of her previous incarnations was my childhood pet. She also communicates with me telepathically, is friendly but sarcastic, and speaks over three hundred animal dialects. Her, I didn’t take care of at all—Whiskey lived with me, but Tango preferred the more palatial digs of the Zoransky mansion. So taking care of her
also
wasn’t my job. In fact, a lot of the time Tango and Whiskey wound up taking care of
me
.
Which brings me to my actual job. Or, more accurately, jobs.
The first was the one I got paid for. I’m ZZ’s executive assistant, which is a fancy title for running around fulfilling her every whim. She had a
lot
of whims, so I was always busy; but her whims also tended toward things that were fun, or interesting, or made the world a better place, so I couldn’t complain too much. She paid me well, I got to research and experience things most people never get near, and I met famous people from every walk of life at the regular salons she hosts. Rock stars, scientists, explorers, writers, artists … ZZ invited them all to spend a week at her estate. She lavishly pampered them during the day, then held long, fascinating discussions over gourmet dinners every night, while the booze flowed and no subject was taboo. Pretty great, don’t you think?
I’ll get to my other job in a moment.
So doing my pay-the-rent job currently involved me overseeing a very special delivery to a very special place. A place I was anxiously checking out with Caroline, our staff vet, minutes before the delivery itself was going to happen. Whiskey, as usual, was by my side, and Tango was watching from a nearby tree.
“Are you sure it’s big enough?” I said. Anxiously.
Caroline gave me an amused smile. She was short, blond, and very good at her job. “It’ll be fine. We’ve housed big cats in here before.”
“Not
this
big…”
I heard Whiskey’s cultured voice in my head, though Caroline of course didn’t. [I’m not sure the pool is really necessary. Or the waterfall.]
“The pool! Is the pool big enough?” I asked.
Caroline shook her head and laughed. “Yes, Foxtrot, it’s big enough. We’re all stocked up on meat, we’ve got a huge enclosure for him to roam around in, and there’s a very comfortable den if he wants some privacy. You’ve provided all the amenities; now let me do my job.”
Tango’s raspy, smoke-and-bourbon voice added her own telepathic comment:
You will,
I shot back mentally.
Any minute now.
The big tractor-trailer rig holding our newest guest came rumbling down the access road. It took some jockeying to get it properly turned around so the rear doors were aligned with the gate of the enclosure, but the driver was skilled and I resisted my urge to micromanage. I helped Caroline connect a kind of canvas air lock between the trailer and the enclosure, and when I’d checked and double-checked that—okay, triple-checked—it was time to transfer the cargo.
“Here we go,” Caroline said, and told the driver to open the trailer door.
It slid upward with a loud, metallic rattle. The canvas mostly blocked our view of the interior, so we couldn’t see much.
Then … nothing happened.
It kept on happening for a while, so I whispered to Caroline, “Is everything okay? Is there something we need to do to make him come out?”
“Nope,” Caroline said. She didn’t whisper. “We just wait. I put some fresh meat out, which I’m sure he can smell. I don’t think we’ll have to wait long—”
And then
he
appeared.
We hadn’t bothered with a ramp, so he just bounded from the trailer to the ground. He stopped, sniffing the air curiously and looking around at his new home.
His name was Augustus. He was twelve feet long from nose to haunches, weighed just over half a ton, and was the only one of his kind in existence. Augustus was a white liger, the result of a union between a white lion and a white tiger. His body was mostly white, with pale, tigery stripes and a silvery mane half the length of a normal lion’s. He looked … unearthly. Like some immense, phantom creature from myth or maybe another planet.
And then he farted.
[Well, he seems at ease,] Whiskey observed. [And I believe he had buffalo for lunch.]
“Amazing,” Caroline breathed. I don’t think she was talking about the buffalo.
I was pretty amazed, myself. As well as having one of those moments when I was incredibly grateful for having the job I did, with all the experiences that came with it.
Well, Tango?
I thought at her.
What do you think?
Silence. I was starting to wonder if she’d gotten bored and left when she finally replied.
[I think someone’s a bit intimidated.]
Augustus was investigating the pool and waterfall. Ligers behave like lions in some ways, and tigers in others. Tigers, for instance, love to swim; so do ligers.
Most domestic cats tend to side with lions.
[He’s simply cooling off. It is a rather warm day—I wouldn’t mind a dip myself.]
Tango may have been outraged, but Augustus seemed happy and Caroline was satisfied; therefore, so was I. Which I got to enjoy for all of two seconds, and then I had a hundred other things to do. Mostly, I had a bunch of last-minute details involving the upcoming salon to attend to, none of which was urgent but all of which still needed doing.
But first, I had to check in at my other job.
I said good-bye to Caroline as she locked up the enclosure gate and headed away from the menagerie and toward the house, which wasn’t far; the liger enclosure was at the edge of the zoo grounds. I followed the path to the house but didn’t go in, cutting around the side and past the swimming pool. I wound up at the opposite end of the property, next to a tall hedge with a large wooden gate in it. I pulled it open and went through.
Into the Great Crossroads.
That’s how its denizens refer to it. And by “denizens” I mean beings that often live in dens, only now they’re not living at all. Maybe I should call them deadizens.
Anyway.
What I’m talking about are ghosts. Animal ghosts—much like Whiskey—only these ones are invisible and intangible to most people. I can see them, though, as can Whiskey and Tango. And there are a lot of them to see, because the Crossroads is much more than just a graveyard; it’s a transition point, where dead pets can leave their own afterlife via an animal grave, then scamper, flap, swim, or trot over to a human plot, where they can cross over into the human afterlife to visit someone they miss. It’s sometimes referred to (by humans, anyway) as the Rainbow Bridge, though that always makes me think of Asgard and bearded guys with horned helmets drinking mead. The Crossroads is a lot more like Grand Central Station than a Viking overpass, with animals of every kind coming and going constantly.
The rainbow part is reasonably accurate, though; ghosts are a lot more colorful than you’d think, like they’ve been run through Photoshop and illuminated from within. Watching a flock of ghost parrots take flight is like seeing an animated neon sign launch itself into the air.
I used to come here for the tranquility, just to sit on a bench and maybe sip a mug of tea and relax. Now I come here to enjoy the spectacle; the brightness of the colors and the surreality of the action makes the whole thing feel a little like a Disney cartoon. Well, a Disney cartoon on serious hallucinogens, anyway.
Which brings me, finally, to my other job.
Every town needs a sheriff. Okay, this wasn’t a town and I wasn’t a sheriff, but …
I’ll start over.
Every mall needs a security guard. Even when there are no stores and the customers are all dead pets with no money … no, that’s not working, either.
Okay, to heck with the analogies. What I did was I looked after the place. Whiskey and Tango were my partners. Together, we fought … well, whatever needed fighting. The Crossroads was an important mystical nexus, and somebody needed to keep an eye on it. We’d already stopped a plot to murder ZZ so the killer could convince her son to sell the land, and apparently supernatural threats were also within our purview. I hadn’t had to battle any otherworldly nasties yet—well, I’d stood up to a ghostly bully, but that didn’t really count—which was good, because I was really more of a negotiator than a warrior. So far, that had been enough.