To Die Fur (A Whiskey Tango Foxtrot Mystery) (3 page)

Shondra gave me an incredulous look. “And you agreed to that? Foxtrot, this guy could be any random lunatic—”

I returned her look and added just a trace of friendly backspin to my reply. “Give me a little credit, okay? His employer is a billionaire with a keen interest in the welfare of animals. Luis couldn’t provide his identity, but he offered to donate a hundred grand to any charity of ZZ’s choice for the opportunity to attend.”

“And?” said Shondra skeptically.

“And,” said ZZ, “the World Wildlife Fund is now a hundred thousand dollars richer. Not many random lunatics are willing to pony up that kind of entrance fee.”

Shondra still didn’t look happy, but she nodded. “I suppose. Any idea whom he’s representing? Seeing as how you’re the one who talked to him.”

“He was cautious, but I got the impression it might have been someone based in Dubai. Oil money is my guess.”

“Sure. A fat cat looking to acquire another fat cat.” Shondra shook her head. “You’re not seriously considering this guy, are you? He just wants an expensive toy.”

“We don’t know that for sure,” said ZZ. “Mr. Navarro will have the chance to make his employer’s case to me, just like the others. A one and five zeros earns him a listen, don’t you think?”

“That’s your call. Just remember, there are rich lunatics in the world, too. I’m going to be keeping my eye on him.”

“That’s fine, dear,” said ZZ. “Try not to shoot him until after dinner.”

At that moment the doorbell rang. “Ah, they’ve begun to arrive,” ZZ said. “Shall we go see who it is?”

“I’ve got work to do,” Shondra said. I knew she just wanted to go upstairs and monitor everything from the security feeds in her office, but that was probably better than having her scare the guests.

ZZ, Whiskey, and I met the first arrival in the foyer, where he was waiting after Consuela let him in. He was a tall, regal-looking Indian in a bright-red turban and a dark-gray suit, with a neatly trimmed beard. He had a single rolling suitcase that stood upright next to him, handle extended, its posture as straight as his own.

“Good afternoon,” he said as soon as he saw us. He gave us both separate and very formal nods. “You must be Ms. Zoransky. I am Rajiv Gunturu.”

“Mr. Gunturu,” said ZZ warmly. “So glad to see you. Call me ZZ, please—and this is Foxtrot, my personal assistant. If you need anything at all while you’re here, please let her know.”

“Hello,” I said.

“A pleasure, Miss Foxtrot. Thank you so much for all your hard work in arranging this meeting.” His accent was strong but perfectly understandable.

“Just Foxtrot is fine. I’ve put you in a bedroom on the second floor, if that’s all right?”

“That is fine. If you would excuse me, I would like to refresh myself.”

“I understand—long flight from India. Consuela will show you to your room.”

He nodded once more, grabbed his suitcase, and headed upstairs behind the maid.

“Remind me again,” said ZZ. “Which one is he?”

“From an Indian casino. Not the Native American kind, the Taj Mahal kind. Apparently his bosses think a white liger would be a big draw.”

“Ah. And why are we considering that?”

“Their brochure was very persuasive. Also, they pledged to donate a percentage of the casino’s profits to Greenpeace.”

“Oh, that’s right. I was mixing him up with that conservationist group for some reason.”

“The Nigerians? It’s probably the name of their representative—Abazu. As opposed to Gunturu. Though Abazu is a first name and Gunturu is a surname.”

“What’s the Nigerian’s last name?”

I smiled. “Chukwukadibia.”

ZZ blinked. “You’re making that up.”

“No, it’s his name. Try to keep a straight face when I introduce him, all right?”

[That’s not a strange name. I knew a terrier once named Princess Boopsie Loopsy Quimbasket Biscuit Barrel the Third.]

Quiet, you.
“I was just going to go over the menu for tonight with Ben. Any last-minute requests or changes?”

“No, no, I’m sure he’ll do his usual amazing job. So, when are you and he going out again?”

My turn to blink. “Me and he what now?”

She gave me a look. “Going out. As in, you went out once and he likes you and you like him and why haven’t you done it again?”

“I just—he doesn’t—so there’s not—”

“Yes, yes. You’re very busy and you work together and you’re worried it’ll be awkward if it doesn’t work out. Nonsense. You’re both adults and life is too short. Work it out—that’s what you’re good at, are you not?”

Leave it to ZZ to cut right to the heart of the matter. “Um, it’s not quite that simple—”

Thankfully, we were interrupted by the doorbell again. This time ZZ opened it herself.

“Hello!” said the barrel-chested man with the bushy blond mustache. He had two large suitcases with him, one on either side. There was a taxi parked in the turnaround behind him, with the driver and an Asian woman hauling more luggage out of the trunk. “You must be ZZ. I’m Jaro Karst—nice to meet you!”

He stuck out a large hand, and ZZ took it. “Hello, Jaro. Do you need help with your bags?” She glanced over at the woman, who was struggling with numerous satchels and suitcases.

Jaro followed her look. “Oh! Sorry—let me give you a hand, love.” He trotted over and grabbed one of the larger bags. The woman nodded and said, “Thank you.” I grabbed two more, leaving her able to at least move. She marched up to ZZ and said. “Greetings. I am Zhen Yao, representing the Wuhan Zoo. You are Mrs. Zelda Zoransky?”

“Call me ZZ, dear.”

Zhen Yao was dressed mostly in black, and seemed a little nervous. “Ah. Zee-zee Deer. Yes. I am very pleased to be here.”

“Zhen Yao and Jaro Karst?” I said. “I didn’t expect you two to show up together.”

“Ran into each other at the airport,” said Jaro. “Complete coincidence. Wound up sharing a cab—funny how life works, eh?”

“He recognized the logo of the Wuhan Zoo on my luggage,” said Zhen. She sounded a little defensive. “It seemed the reasonable course of action.”

“What a place!” declared Jaro, looking around. “You know how to live, Ms. Zoransky, I’ll give you that!”

“Thank you, Mr. Karst,” ZZ replied. “Consuela will be back in a moment to show you to your rooms. Dinner is promptly at six, but we’ll be meeting for drinks in the sitting room at five thirty. If you need anything before then, let Foxtrot know—you all have her number, yes?—and she’ll do her best to meet your needs. Ah, here’s Consuela.”

“Let me give you a hand,” I said.

“No need, no need,” said Jaro. “Me and Ms. Yao and Consuela can manage between the three of us, right?”

“Certainly,” said Ms. Yao. “Although I would like to take this opportunity to say—”

“Come on!” boomed Jaro, grabbing the bags I’d just set down. “Can’t wait to see the new digs!” He charged through the door with Consuela in tow, and after a second a flustered Zhen followed.

“Interesting,” ZZ murmured. “He reminds me of a boat salesman I knew once. Delightful, but only in small doses. Don’t let him run you around too much, dear.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. It’s funny, he’s not at all what I imagined from his emails.”

“No? How so?”

“Well, he came across as very serious. Very dedicated to the wildlife preserve he runs.”

ZZ smiled. “He seems quite passionate to me. A man who takes life in big bites, I’d say. But there’s often quite a difference between someone’s online persona and what they’re like in person; that’s why we have these salons, after all. As good as the Internet is at connecting people, it’s still no substitute for being in the same room as the person you’re talking to.”

“Also, it’s easier to serve drinks.”

“That, too. Speaking of which—”

ZZ’s son, Oscar, was strolling toward us along the path that led from the guesthouse he lived in. Oscar was a paunchy, middle-aged man, with a wide friendly face and a tan he worked on whenever possible. He dressed well, did as little as possible, and enjoyed the occasional drink—in the sense that fish enjoyed the occasional swim. He liked his wine as dry as his wit (which was considerably) and had the ethics of a hungry eel. Despite all this, ZZ loved him; she gave him a generous allowance, did her best to keep him in line, and bailed him out when he got in trouble.

Which, sadly, happened far too often. Oscar was clever, bored, had low moral standards, and lived on a fixed (though impressive) income. Combining these qualities with a steady diet of alcohol tended to produce a variety of less-than-legal plans to fatten his wallet, though I suspected he got more enjoyment out of the scheming itself than any potential profit. If Higgins from the old TV series
Magnum P.I.
had a boozy, sleazy twin brother, Oscar could have played him with no effort at all.

“Good morning, all,” Oscar said. “I see the guests have begun to arrive. Please tell me they aren’t all vegetarians.”

“Don’t worry,” said ZZ. “Your intake of red meat won’t suffer—though you could do with a salad now and then.”

“As long as it arrives in the company of a tenderly cooked filet mignon, I’ll happily partake. I heard a large truck a while ago, too—does this mean our newest feline resident has also shown up?”

“Go see for yourself,” I said. “He’s quite impressive.”

Oscar nodded. “I believe I will. I’ve always identified with the lion as a personal totem; proud, majestic, fearless…”

“Spends most of his time sleeping?” I added.

“I prefer to think of it as conserving my strength. Good day, ladies.” He turned and headed off in the direction of the zoo.

“He’s in a cheerful mood,” ZZ said. “Keep an eye on him, will you?”

“Duly noted,” I answered.

Next to arrive was Abazu Chukwukadibia, a short, beaming man from Nigeria with curly gray hair, steel-rimmed glasses, and skin as dark as licorice. He wore a tattered, dark-blue suit and a white shirt with frayed cuffs, and carried a single overstuffed duffel bag slung over his shoulder. He walked from the front gate, and I got the impression he’d taken public transit from the airport.

“Hello, hello!” he said as he bustled up. “I am Abazu Chukwukadibia. A beautiful day, is it not?”

“It is,” said ZZ. She introduced herself, stressed that he should call her ZZ, and didn’t embarrass herself by attempting to pronounce his last name. He shook his head when ZZ tried to show him to his room, placing his duffel bag gently on the ground.

“Thank you, but I am fine,” he said. “Has Augustus arrived yet?”

“Yes. He’s just settling in,” I said.

“May I see him, please? I promise to be unobtrusive.”

I glanced at ZZ. She nodded. “That would be fine. Foxtrot, will you show him?”

“I’d be happy to,” I said.

Whiskey, meanwhile, had begun sniffing at Abazu’s dusty shoes. “Whiskey!” I said. “Leave the man alone, will you?”

In my head, though, I said,
Smell anything interesting?

[Mmm. Yes. A species of herb indigenous to southern Africa. An industrial cleaner used by many airlines. And quite a wide array of spices, oils, and chemicals common in starchy, deep-fried snacks such as potato or corn chips, which I surmise is from crumbs caught in the cuffs of his pants.]

I wondered sometimes about the olfactory library Whiskey could access. How was it organized? What did it look like? Was it ranked from most stinky to least, or by some other factor? I always wound up picturing a huge room with floor-to-ceiling shelves and rolling ladders that went right up to the top, filled with slender volumes that emitted wavy smell lines when you opened them. And down below, dogs sat in overstuffed chairs with their legs crossed, books propped open in front of them, tiny smell-spectacles—smellacles?—positioned over their nostrils—

[Foxtrot. Focus, please.]

What? Oh, right. Sorry.
“Follow me, please, Mr. Chukwukadibia.”

“I shall.”

“I’ll have your things put in your room,” said ZZ. Abazu nodded and smiled, but he was already moving.

Whiskey kept pace with me, as he usually did. “Did you have a pleasant flight?”

“Oh, my, yes. To see the sunlight on the tops of clouds is both humbling and amazing. I could watch it for hours.”

“I know what you mean.”

[I don’t. Birds are fundamentally insane.]

“How is Augustus?” Abazu asked. “Did the journey upset him? Is he eating well?”

“He seemed very calm when I saw him. Our vet, Caroline, was about to feed him when I left—we can see how it’s going for ourselves.”

It wasn’t a long walk from the house to the liger enclosure, but Abazu peppered me with half a dozen questions before we got there: How long had Augustus been on the road? What was he fed while traveling? Had he had a bowel movement since he arrived? I did my best to answer the ones I could and told him Caroline could probably give him information on the rest.

Then we arrived, and Abazu stopped talking.

Augustus’s appetite hadn’t suffered from the journey; he was tearing into a haunch of beef in one corner of the enclosure, trapping it between his paws and ripping great chunks of it out with his mouth. He glanced over at us casually, then went back to his meal.

Abazu had come to a dead stop, about ten feet away from the enclosure. The look on his face was one of wonder. “Oh, my,” he whispered. “He is …
magnificent
.”

“He is that,” I agreed.

[Hmmph.]

Oscar was nowhere in sight, but Caroline was still there. She walked up to us and said, “He’s settling in well. Went for a swim, checked out the pool.”

“Caroline, this is Abazu Chukwukadibia. He’s one of our guests.”

Abazu tore his gaze away from Augustus. “A pleasure, madam. You are in charge of his well-being?”

“That’s right,” Caroline said.

“He is healthy? Free of parasites, not injured?”

“I haven’t had a chance to give him a full physical, but he appears to be perfectly healthy.”

“Very good. Very good. A tremendous responsibility. You know this, yes?”

Caroline nodded. “I do, Mr. Chukwukadibia. I take it very, very seriously.”

He studied her for a second, then broke into a wide grin. “Yes, I can see that you do. That is most fine. I shall return later, yes?”