It was a relief to be back at work. Even the razzing I received in the employees’ break room as I helped myself to a cup of coffee felt good.
“Durango’s been asking about you,” Robin Chase, big cats, said. “He wants to take you out to dinner.”
“For dinner,” corrected Jack Spence, bears.
I drank my coffee slowly, letting them tease me all they wanted; in fact, it felt good. I was one of the gang again, back where I belonged. This time, fully clothed.
Some people dislike doing the same old thing day after day, but for me, it’s Heaven. Heaven to stop by the cafeteria to get my charges’ food. Heaven to see their excited faces when I showed up with their worms, monkey chow, or whatever. Heaven, even, to rake up their feces. A couple of times my llama friend Alejandro almost knocked me down in his desire to nuzzle me, but he eventually settled down enough for me to clean his Friendly Farm enclosure. Then he followed me happily as I raked the enclosure clean, stopping every now and then to pet an animal that needed petting.
The day couldn’t have been finer. Last week’s storm had cleared away the pollutants in the air, and the sun had driven back the fog that had earlier crept through the eucalyptus trees. Birds sang, wolves howled, lions roared.
I was so happy I felt like singing, but taking pity on the animals’ delicate ears, I didn’t. I am not Maria Callas.
When I showed up at the red panda’s enclosure, Poonya acted just as thrilled to see me as Alejandro had been. But maybe it was because of the armful of fresh bamboo shoots I carried.
“Yummies for my honey,” I announced, as the little red panda scampered down from her tree.
Tweet, tweet! She hopped up and down, twitching her fluffy tail back and forth.
“Missed me, didn’t you?”
Tweet, chortle, tweet!
“I missed you, too.”
After circling my legs several times to make certain I stayed put, she sat back politely and watched as I arranged her bamboo shoots in her manger.
“This one looks juicy,” I said, holding up an especially fat one for her to inspect.
She crept forward, and with a tiny paw, removed the bamboo from my hand. Sniffed it. Stripped it. Munched it. Twitched her little black nose in satisfaction.
I let her forage among the stalks for a few minutes, then produced her reward for being so non-skittish: a large ripe grape.
Tweet, huff, tweet! Her entire body trembled with anticipation.
“Chosen especially for you, Poonya.” I held the grape in the palm of my hand, whereupon to my delight, she clambered into my lap and nuzzled the grape into her mouth.
Squish, squish.
Smack, smack, as she licked the grape’s juice off her snout.
A grape-eating red panda is a happy red panda.
Tweet, chortle, tweet!
When I produced another grape, she tweet-chortled again, then settled herself down on my lap, allowing me to stroke her while I hand-fed her the others.
* * *
The rest of the day proceeded as happy as usual, with me feeding, raking, and hauling until my back ached. My weeks’ long time-out had softened my muscles, and I was paying the price. No matter. I was back to doing what I loved to do.
At break time, I was the first into the staff room, which gave me a few minutes to triple-check the notes I’d made yesterday and now carried in my cargo pants’ pocket. If I was right, no one else was going to be murdered. And actually, if Flaherty and Donaldson had played it straight with the staff of Tippy-Toe & Tinker, they might not have been murdered, either. But done was done, and now someone had to pay the price.
I was just about to call Joe when a voice behind me said, “What you doing there, Teddy? Writing a book?”
Robin Chase, big cats.
I covered my notes and smiled up at her. She hadn’t minded that I’d added a couple of rips to her spare uniform, or that my attempts to mend them were so amateurish. “Nah, I leave the book writing to my mother-in-law.”
She poured herself a cup of coffee, then sat down next to me. “How’s that going? Her book writing, I mean? Murder at the Zoo was soooo good!”
Robin was a longtime mystery aficionado, and was an expert on the genre and its subgenres. And while I wouldn’t divulge plot details to anyone, Colleen had given me permission to talk generalities. Such as the number of corpses per book.
“She told me she killed someone else the other day, which brings the current body count to three, I think.”
Robin frowned. “Three murders? For a cozy? Isn’t that a lot?”
“She said the third one is off-scene, whatever that means.”
“No blood, probably,” she nodded wisely.
“And she didn’t plan that one. It just happened.”
“Unplanned murders are the best kind. It means you’re so deep into your characters that they begin acting on their own.”
Just like real people.
I stuffed my notes back into my pocket, and continued discussing fictional killers with Robin until the other zookeepers filed in and demanded to know how it felt to have a whole week off. Most of them felt like me. A week away from our animals was Hell, unless that week was spent on an African photo safari or a South American birding expedition.
* * *
The Honorable Margo Allan Rossiter, governor of the great state of California, didn’t arrive at the zoo until three in the afternoon, two hours after she’d originally been scheduled. Dressed in a shell-pink suit with black Chanel trimming, she was trailed by a herd of wealthy supporters, political staffers, reporters, camera and sound people, and the Gunn Zoo’s official welcoming committee, which included a gaggle of moneyed contributors, the zoo’s director—a harried-looking Zorah Vega—and Aster Edwina, her implacable royal self.
I’d warned Zorah that a big crowd would make Poonya nervous, but she had thrown up her hands in a show of helplessness. “Tell that to Aster Edwina. Maybe she’ll listen to you.”
To quote the ever-cynical Jocelyn, “As if.”
Now here everyone was, crowded around the red panda enclosure.
First off—just so you know—I didn’t vote for Rossiter. The fact that she’d been the only female on the ticket meant nothing to me, and her constant harping on the important role stay-at-home moms played in the American social structure reeked of insincerity. Telling me water is wet and the sun is sunny has never swayed me in the voting booth. Life, not to mention a few murder investigations, had taught me to ignore what people say, and to pay close attention to what they actually do.
Upon the governor’s noisy arrival, an alarmed Poonya assumed her Eeek! position, standing straight up, furry arms in the air to make herself look as big and dangerous as possible.
“Oh, isn’t she just the cutest little thing!” Fine words for a governor who had three times vetoed legislative bills that would have increased funding for wildlife sanctuaries, and had twice vetoed bills guaranteeing jail time for animal abusers.
“All these people are making her nervous,” I growled.
It was as if I hadn’t spoken.
“So adorable!”
I clenched my teeth. “Maybe if you could step away from…”
“Teddy, let the governor into that enclosure right now,” Aster Edwina snapped. “I promised her she could meet Poonya up close and personal.”
Zora stepped forward. “I don’t think that’s a good…” she began, only to be shushed by Aster Edwina.
“Let her in, Teddy!”
Grinding my teeth, I unlocked the staff entrance to the red panda enclosure. Poor Poonya. After all my work calming her down, this would set her back considerably.
Not that Rossiter cared about any of that. She just loved the sound of cameras clicking.
As talking heads extolled Rossiter’s “courage,” I let the politician into Poonya’s enclosure.
Huff, huff, huff!
It wasn’t a happy sound. Even a fool would notice. But not Rossiter.
Or Aster Edwina. “Now show the governor how Poonya sits in your lap and lets you pet her.”
Feeling like a Judas, I settled onto the dirt. Believing she’d found a sanctuary in the midst of the human swarm, Poonya jumped into my lap and buried her head underneath my arm.
“It’ll be over soon,” I whispered, gently hugging her.
Then, too swiftly for me to stop her, Rossiter bent down, snatched Poonya out of my protective arms, and held the terrified panda against her chest.
Huff! Huff! Eeek!!! Poonya wailed.
A flurry of camera clicks, a yelping of reporters.
And Poonya’s bowels spoke to the occasion, sending a long dribble of diarrhea down the governor’s snazzy pink suit.
I smiled. Zorah smiled.
And somewhere, a sloth was smiling, too.