He hurried over, just in time to catch Molina’s “Who is this guy again?”
Temple was shaking her little red head like the little red hen.
“I just can’t believe it. The last person in the world you’d suspect. Maybe it’s a mistake. But why else would he be trying to kill the panther. You’re going to need to talk to animal trainers on this one.”
“I am an animal trainer,” Molina retorted in a harassed tone. “This is a zoo. Okay, we’ve got the guy in custody. Now you give us a reason why. Shooting at a panther on a canned-hunt ranch isn’t reason enough.”
Matt joined the pair and Molina frowned at him. “This is an official interview, Devine. Butt out.”
“I haven’t said a word.”
“Keep it that way.” She let him stay and focused again on Temple. “Just tell me the facts.”
Ma’am.
“His name is Kirby Granger. He runs the Animal Oasis for confiscated, lost, and abused animals of all kinds, domestic or exotic. That’s why I can’t believe—”
“The hunt breakers have already said they saw him aiming at the panther.”
“But that’s…heresy for someone like him. He wasn’t even working with performing animals anymore, like he used to just a couple of years ago when…”
“When?” Molina asked.
Temple glanced at Matt.
“No side consultations,” Molina said. “You distract the witness again, Devine, and you’re walking home.”
“Oh.” Temple was very interested. “Matt came with you?”
Molina’s blue eyes flashed with wicked humor. “I take the Fifth on that, Miss Barr. Now. Answer my questions. You can ask your own later. Why would an animal-rights advocate shoot at a virtually helpless animal?”
“I don’t know,” Temple admitted. “I can see why he might kill Cyrus Van Burkleo—”
“I am so glad that you can. Because I can’t. And if I can’t, I can’t arrest him, much as whoever wrapped him in Armani and left him here to dry might wish. You know anybody with a size thirty-two Armani waist, hmmm? Can’t be a bleeding-heart animal lover. It was a leather belt.”
“You’ll just have to ask the suspect, Lieutenant.”
“He isn’t a suspect on your say-so. I’ll have to let him go.”
“Don’t.”
They turned at the interjection of a fresh voice. A husky, shaky voice.
Leonora Van Burkleo stood on wobbly heels by herself, having hiked in from Temple’s car.
“I…I found them.”
“Found?” Molina asked.
“Them?” Temple asked.
Molina gave Temple a quelling glance. “Found where?” Molina asked more gently, sensing Leonora’s fragile state.
Leonora shrugged, looked to the side as if envisioning a scene from a movie. “In Cyrus’s office. That man had…pushed Cyrus. The…horn was sticking out of his chest. A big dark point like a thorn. Giant thorn. It looked like the oryx had done it. So odd. After seeing all those horns on the wall, seeing one…going through Cyrus like a rifle barrel.” She shivered, though the day was at its hottest.
“She’s not a well woman,” Temple said. Cautioned.
Molina gave her a look that could kill. She made cases on not-well women and men. Murder revolved around not-well men and women.
Temple glanced at Matt, who grimaced his sympathy. The law on the trail of a vulnerable witness was not a pretty sight.
“So,” Molina said with satisfaction. “The leopard was set dressing. I thought so.”
“I thought of it,” Leonora said, lifting her mishapen face, tossing her leonine mane.
“You?” Molina hesitated, no doubt thinking of Miranda warnings. “You could be an accessory to murder,” she said, spewing the ritual faster than a TV huckster.
Leonora, having abandoned fear, was unstoppable. “I don’t care. I let him into the animal area, punched in the security code. He did the rest. Brought the leopard along, brought it inside. Didn’t need anything but his voice. And then he left. That’s a crime? Letting a man release a leopard?”
Molina looked at Leonora for a long moment.
“There are extenuating circumstances,” Temple blurted.
Molina did not look at her. “Call a lawyer,” she advised Leonora softly. “Meanwhile, I’m taking you all in.”
“All?” Temple asked.
Molina still did not look at her. “I assume you can drive Mr. Devine home, Miss Barr.”
When Matt made a move in protest, Molina answered it, edging near so Temple couldn’t hear. “I’ll give you a police-car escort. That ought to keep the bogeywoman away. Now.” Her voice escalated to public level for Temple’s benefit. “Off with you. I want to do my job.”
Temple gave Leonora a thumbs-up as she edged over to Matt.
He put an arm around her. Her bare arm was cold and goose-pimpled.
It was getting dark. No self-respecting stalker, he was willing to bet, was hanging around this headache-bar-lit crime scene.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“No. And I don’t understand any of it, except poor Leonora.”
“What happened to her?”
“What didn’t? If Molina—”
“I think she gets the message. She’ll treat her with kid gloves.”
“Since when has she treated anyone with kid gloves?”
“How about her own kid?”
“You think so?” Temple glared at him, an aftershock of the evening, then her expression softened. “Matt, what on earth were you doing with Mother Macabre anyway?”
“I had a confession to make.”
“Oh! Joke your way out of it! All right, I give up. Take me home.”
“I’ll have to stop to pick up the Vampire at Our Lady of Guadalupe.”
“You weren’t kidding about the confession,” Temple said.
“I never kid.”
She paused in stomping off the overlit scene to smile at him. “I wish you did. Sometimes.”
Two officers in summer khaki examined their IDs before they were allowed to get in the Storm and drive away.
Chapter 52
AnticliMax
“I hope it’s not too late,” Matt said.
“For you, never.”
Sister Seraphina swung the convent door wide, but Matt still checked his watch as the hall light fell on the dial. Ten-thirty. He’d been taught not to inconvenience the good sisters since he was six years old.
Old nuns had placid, plain faces, most of them, and Sister Seraphina’s was as honest and perceptive as ever.
“Want a snack?” was all she said though, leading him toward the building’s rear kitchen.
“I’m terribly sorry about standing you up for dinner. It was…well, a police emergency.”
She stopped and spun to face him, the small gold crucifix at her breastbone glinting spanglelike for a moment. “Police emergency?”
“Not mine,” he reassured her. “I just happened to be along for the ride. I don’t suppose I can explain too much.”
“Of course not. Police business. Besides, mystery becomes you. You always were too honest.”
She turned and led him on.
Too honest? Funny thing for a nun to say. Maybe she meant people who seemed to live in broad daylight all the time were less interesting than people with hints of shadow, as in Janice’s sketches. Janice always sketched shadows behind her portraits of perps. A shadow that put their faces in the spotlight and made them look more substantial, if sinister.
The deserted kitchen, brightly lit by an overhead oval of milk glass, felt as utterly functional as a school cafeteria. Maybe it was the blond Formica table-and-four-chairs units dotting the floor like bastard Swedish modern flotsam on a vinyl-tile sea.
Sister gestured him to an empty table and had whisked cotton place mats and sets of plain stainless steel silverware onto the bland Formica before he could sit down.