Tortoise Soup (32 page)

“Out of curiosity, when was it that Bill Holmes began working here?” I asked.

Charles stopped and thought for a moment. “I’d have to say two years ago.”

“And when was it that the staff first began to notice batches of tortoises were suddenly missing?” I inquired. I knew watching Court TV would pay off one of these days.

Charles jammed his thumbs inside his pockets, his ever-inquiring mind humming almost audibly. “Now that I think back, it had to have been somewhere around the same time.”

Biologists. You had to love them. I let Charles out of the witness box and headed to Holmes’s residence, eager to see what was cooking.

My Blazer nosed its way through one subdivision after another, passing modest ranch houses on toothpick plots of land, before turning into the upscale development where Holmes resided. Rounding the corner, I slammed on the brakes. For the first time, I noticed a sign partially obscured by transplanted palms. If you were daydreaming, it was easy to pass it by. I got out of the car and parted the fronds to make sure my eyes weren’t playing a trick. But the bold lettering left no doubt, proudly announcing, “You Are Entering An Alpha Development.” Uncle Ed must have offered Holmes a deal he couldn’t refuse.

I pulled up to the house, where all was quiet as before. I didn’t bother to ring the bell this time; instead, I headed straight for the front window, as eager as a voyeur on his way to a peep show. The purple bean bag chair and big-screen TV were gone, along with my personal favorite, the black velvet portrait of Elvis.

I didn’t need to jimmy the lock on the garage. It opened with an easy tug. Not surprisingly, the sporty red Miata was no longer sitting idle in its place. However, the can of neon-green paint had been left nestled in the coils of the garden hose, as if mocking my thwarted efforts to solve the case.

I was about to pull the garage door closed when something warm and furry brushed against my leg. Imagining a giant, mutant tarantula, I let out a screech followed by a high jump as I twisted around to view the demon behind me. Holmes’s tabby cat calmly stared at me, daintily licking its paw, then washing its face. When Holmes had hightailed it out of town, he’d left the tabby to fend for itself. It was obvious that the cat was hungry; there was no hissing this time. Instead, Tabby rubbed against my leg as if I were a walking can of tuna.

“All right, already!”

Scooping up the cat, I closed the garage door and headed for the Blazer, where I placed the feline on the backseat. Tabby immediately went to work digging its claws into the vinyl upholstery. Suddenly the cat got a whiff of Pilot. Arching its back, it hissed.

“Get used to it. He’s coming back,” I responded.

I backed the Blazer out of the driveway and headed for the nearest convenience store.

7-Eleven is about as gourmet as it gets along the side roads of Nevada. I stopped at the same store my high-energy breakfast had come from. This time I picked up two prepackaged tuna sandwiches, three cans of cat food, a pack of Ring Dings, a can opener, and a couple of Diet Cokes. The cashier looked at me and sneered, remembering my morning purchase.

“You must be on a health kick,” he noted, his pimply face a monument to his own highly disciplined diet.

I turned around, leaned down, and picked out a packet of Yodels, allowing him a view of the gun handle sticking out of the back of my pants.

“Let’s add this to the list.” I slapped the Yodels down alongside the Ring Dings, daring him to make my day. I figured if being a wildlife agent didn’t work out, I could always play Bonnie. I just needed a Clyde.

Being that it was lunchtime, I headed for the Clark County administrative building, where I pulled out my cell phone and gave Lizzie a call.

“Have you eaten yet?” I asked, knowing she wasn’t one to ever turn down food.

“Yeah. But I’m still starved anyway,” she informed me.

I would have killed for her metabolism. “Meet me down in the parking lot. I’ve brought lunch,” I told her.

“Why can’t you come up?” Lizzie asked petulantly.

“I’ve got Ring Dings and Yodels.” I knew the temptation would be too great.

“All right. I’m coming down,” Lizzie sighed.

Soon I saw the top of her dark curls bouncing and heard her feet tapping as Lizzie maneuvered her way between the rows of parked cars.

“What was so important that I had to come all the way down here?” Lizzie asked, holding her hand out for the pack of Ring Dings.

I pointed to where Tabby sat on the backseat, chowing down a can of cat food I had just opened.

“What are you becoming—a home for wayward strays?” Lizzie asked. She tore apart the cellophane packet of goodies with her teeth.

“Tabby belonged to Holmes. It appears he flew the coop and left the cat behind,” I told her, between bites of my dry tuna sandwich.

“What a guy. What a guy,” Lizzie mumbled. Polishing off the Ring Dings, she started on the Yodels. “But how’s Pilot going to feel about the new addition? A feline, no less.”

The dry bread caught in my throat. I took a swig of Diet Coke, silently convincing myself that Pilot’s disappearance was just a temporary situation.

“I was scouting outside Golden Shaft yesterday and let Pilot out of the car. He never came back.”

Lizzie stopped eating. “What do you mean, he never came back? How did he get lost?”

“He dug his way under the mine’s fence. He must have gotten onto their grounds,” I explained, working hard to maintain a calm exterior.

Lizzie breathed a sigh of relief. “Then it’s okay. Brian will find him for you.”

I looked at my friend and held back the urge to scream. “It seems that Brian is pretty busy at the moment.”

I filled Lizzie in on the arrangement between Alpha Development and Golden Shaft.

“What kind of deal is that?” she retorted. “It sounds like that scum Garrett is making out like a bandit, without Golden Shaft getting much in return.”

“I know, and it doesn’t make sense,” I agreed. “Do you think you can check if any record of sale has been officially logged in?”

“Sure,” she nodded. “We can do that right now.”

I left Tabby to another round of face-washing and followed Lizzie inside.

She quickly went to work punching in commands on her computer, where she scanned one record after another before finally giving up.

“There’s nothing here. It’s as if the exchange never took place.” She looked completely mystified. “What do you think’s going on?”

I had no idea. But I knew there had to be a catch for Golden Shaft to have given so much of their newly acquired land away.

I shook my head, feeling as puzzled as Lizzie. “I don’t know. But I’m stopping by Dee Salvano’s tonight and I’m willing to bet she’s got some of the answers. Can I leave the cat with you for the evening?”

Lizzie nodded, having moved on to her tuna sandwich.

“Sure. In fact, the cat can stay with me permanently. That way, Pilot won’t feel he’s been replaced when you get him back home.”

Lizzie spoke so matter-of-factly that I felt she had to be right. I gave her a hug and told her I’d call later on in the evening.

“You’d better,” she warned. “If you find anything we can bury that bastard Garrett with, I want in.”

I drove home and let Tabby play among the ruins while I made a half-hearted attempt to clean before heading out to Dee’s. No calls had come in on my answering machine. I checked the office, hoping for some sort of diversion, but all was quiet there as well.

I took Tabby over to Lizzie’s bungalow at six o’clock and let myself in. The cat acquainted himself with his new surroundings as I opened a can of mackerel and placed it in a dish on the floor. It didn’t take him long to discover the jeweled turbans that lined the bedroom bureau. But what really caught the cat’s eye was the colorful array of feathered boas nesting in the limbs of the coatrack. By the time I got to Tabby, he was poised to pluck the boas as bare as a flock of Perdue chickens.

I swooped down and picked up the cat as he let out a howl. Obviously Lizzie was going to have to rearrange her furnishings. I placed the cat in front of his bowl of food and locked the bungalow up behind me.

It was still too early to go to Dee’s, so I headed for the Mosey On Inn. The drive seemed endless tonight. Purple mountains popped out against a deep-tangerine sky, urging me to press forward as I chased the light of the desert. Finally Paul Bunyan loomed up ahead. Usually a comforting sight, there was something sinister about the statue this evening as he glared off into the distance. I tried to shake the mantle of gloom that had begun to descend, but I knew that my time was quickly slipping away.

I walked in to find Ruby at her usual spot behind the counter. But tonight her kewpie-doll face held an air of the grotesque, her ruby red lips more Bette Davis as Baby Jane than Bernadette Peters.

“Mosey on in here, sugar. You haven’t been around for a while,” she said with a smile.

Streaks of red lipstick were smudged on her teeth, giving her the appearance of a vampire that had just fed. A shiver ran through me as I sat down.

“What’s the matter? A ghost walk on your grave?” a voice croaked out from behind.

I had heard almost those same words from Noah only yesterday. Turning around, I found Cammo Dude ogling me, his one good eye jumping strangely back and forth inside its battered nest of scar tissue.

“Buy me a beer!” Cammo commanded.

I nodded to Ruby, who pulled out a Bud. Cammo aimed for what there was of his mouth, but the liquid squirted down the lower half of his face and onto his shirt.

“Shit. Give me a damn straw,” he ordered.

My appetite was gone, but I ordered Ruby’s special of the day, a bowl of chili. I immediately regretted it. The small chunks of ground beef were as hard as kernels of unpopped corn, and the beans tasted like metal. I felt Cammo Dude’s breath over my shoulder and thought about giving him my food.

“Your tortoises are all dead,” he cawed, like a crow announcing his presence. “But they sure do make damn good soup.”

A pink tongue waggled out of his mouth as he futilely attempted to lick his lips. I put down my spoon, the chili turning sour in my stomach.

“How do you know what happened to the tortoises?” I asked.

“ ’Cause I spoke to the fella who bought them over in Pahrump.” Cammo’s eye flickered with a hint of glee. “I know who he buys them from, too.”

“And who would that be?” I inquired. I tried to keep the edge of excitement out of my voice.

“I want that chili!” Cammo demanded.

I was more than happy to oblige.

“And crackers, too!” he barked, a dribble of saliva working its way into the crook of his chin.

Ruby pulled out a packet of Saltines and slid them down the counter. I watched Cammo slurp at the chili. More landed on his clothes than went into his mouth.

“Who did he buy the tortoises from, Cammo?” I asked again. I wondered if the old goat was pulling a fast one or if he really had something to sell.

Cammo Dude cackled. “You think you’re such a smart girl, doncha? But the whole time it’s been right there under your nose!”

He laughed again, this time choking on a kidney bean. His hand lashed out as he desperately searched for his beer. I picked up the bottle and handed it to him. His lips latched onto the straw. Cammo finally disengaged himself from the bottle and sighed in relief. I waited until I was sure he had caught his breath.

“So who sold the tortoises to Turley?” I asked, my voice taking on a harsh edge of impatience.

“How do you know about Wes Turley?” the Dude suspiciously countered.

“I’m psychic,” I shot back. “Now spill the beans.” I looked at the bowl of chili and hoped he didn’t take it literally.

“You never did get rid of those damn helicopters like you promised. How about that? Huh? That was part of the deal.”

By now I was ready to grab the Dude by his camouflage gear and shake the answer out of him if I had to.

“I’m working on it!” I spat between clenched teeth. Standing up from the stool, I stared him straight in what was left of his face. “Now, give me the answer, Cammo. Or I swear I’ll turn you in for squatting on public land.”

I wasn’t sure if I would have actually done so, but the threat worked like magic. Cammo backed away, the beer bottle quivering in his hand. His mouth gaped open and closed, like a fish in a life-and-death struggle to free itself from a hook. I felt so bad that I was just about to relent when Cammo beat me to the punch.

“All right. But you gotta swear you won’t turn me in,” Cammo blubbered.

I only wished I had this much power over all the men in my life. “I swear, Cammo. Now tell me who was responsible.”

The Dude slyly smiled. “What’s got a roof and four walls and is something you live in?”

A riddle. Even worse, it was a bad one.

“A home,” I automatically replied, and then realized what he was getting at. It was who I had suspected all along. “Bill Holmes?”

The Dude nodded his head. His lips sucked on the straw, drawing up nothing but air from the empty bottle.

“Give him another beer, Ruby,” I said.

The Dude eagerly plucked the straw out of the old bottle and plunged it into a new Bud, his face grimacing into what I chose to interpret as a smile.

“What better set-up, eh?” Cammo sniggered.

He was right. Ten to one, Uncle Ed had gotten Bill the job based on that very understanding. Holmes would reel in the bucks while helping his uncle fuel rancher paranoia. So far, it had proven to be excessively easy.

“You still haven’t found the poison though, have you?” Cammo quizzed, an impish tone to his voice.

“What poison are you talking about?” I asked.

The Dude simply stared at me, not bothering to answer.

“Was Holmes using poison for something?” I persisted.

“Tick-tock goes the clock. Find a way or there’ll be hell to pay,” Cammo recited in a singsong voice.

I turned to Ruby, who drew tiny circles in the air near the side of her head. I had little patience with Cammo’s new-found fondness for rhymes. If he wanted to play the prankster, so be it. I didn’t have the time to hang around for his games.