“I don’t even want to guess,” I said, watching Salome’s teeth.
“Eight pounds, in her case,” he said. “Not as much for the smaller cats, of course, like the servals and bobcats, but more, for some of the larger cats. And the sanctuary currently has thirty-seven big cats.”
“Expensive.”
“So we do educational and fund-raising events,” he said, pointing to a jar in the corner.
I walked closer to the jar—it took me farther from Salome as well. The jar contained a scattering of coins and one lone dollar bill.
“Doesn’t look as if it would pay for the gas to get here,” I said.
“This doesn’t seem to be a very generous crowd,” he said. “A shopping mall appearance does better.”
“So, if it’s not working out, do you take her home early?” I asked.
“I only hope I get to take her home at all.”
“Why wouldn’t you?”
“Mrs. Willner is negotiating to sell her,” he said. “The sanctuary’s having a hard time making ends meet as it is. If she sells Salome, she has one less mouth to feed, and the proceeds can support the others.”
“Sounds reasonable, I guess,” I said. “Sort of a bloodless way to let one tiger feed the rest.”
“If the buyer likes her, and the sale goes through, I’ll have to escort her to her new home.”
He stared mournfully into the cage. Salome stared back, looking equally depressed, though for all I knew she merely regretted that the bars prevented her from making him an hors d’oeuvre.
Maybe separation from Salome was exactly what this guy needed.
“So she’s going to another sanctuary?” I said.
“No. To a private owner.”
“Is that legal? I mean, can anyone just go out and buy a tiger?”
“In most states, perfectly legal,” he said. “And it should be illegal to own an animal unless you’re genuinely qualified to take care of it, and willing to take the responsibility.”
“If you tried to enforce that, half the cats and dogs in the country would be homeless.”
“Probably,” he said. “Certainly most of the people who own big cats wouldn’t be allowed to. And that would be just fine with me.”
He fell silent, and I decided that if he and Salome faced separation, maybe I should give them a little time together. I pulled out my camera and took a picture of the two of them, and then I fished into my wallet, plunked a ten dollar bill into the jar, and tiptoed out.
Mother had disappeared by the time I emerged, but I ran into Dad.
“Meg! Just the person I was looking for!” he exclaimed. “I want to hear about the body.”
“You generally do,” I said. “Walk with me.”
I told him the gist of what had happened while we waited in line at the hotel coffee shop’s carryout counter—our new room didn’t have amenities like a coffee pot. And then he peppered me with questions as we threaded our way through the crowd to the dealers’ room. He paid no attention, as usual, to who might overhear us. Of course, most of the people in the hotel already knew there had been a murder on the premises, but most of them still looked startled when they heard someone at their elbow asking questions like, “Had rigor mortis begun to set in?” and “Can you describe the head wound?”
The answers, incidentally, were “I have no idea; I didn’t touch her” and “No, because she was lying face up.”
“I wish I could have seen the body,” he said, with a sigh.
“I took pictures,” I said.
“Really?” Dad said. “How clever of you! Let me see.”
But, of course, the tiny camera screen was just as unsuitable for his study of the body as for mine of the paper scrap.
“Kevin’s having blowups made for me of a couple of the photos I took of the crime scene,” I said. “Call him, and maybe he can add in some blowups of the body.”
“Excellent idea,” Dad said, “and I should probably see if I can talk to the medical examiner.”
He didn’t mention the medical examiner by name, so I deduced that it wasn’t one of his old buddies.
“If you manage to talk to the M.E.,” I said, “see what you can find out about the paper she was holding in her hand.”
“What was it?” Dad asked.
I decided to evade that question. Not because I suspected Dad, but because I knew that his idea of keeping quiet would be to swear everyone he met to secrecy before blurting out everything he knew. And if too much information about the comic fragment got out, Detective Foley would know exactly who to blame.
“The police don’t seem to think it’s very important,” I said, shrugging. “Could there be a medical reason for that?”
“Possibly,” Dad said. “Of course, they would have to wait for the M.E.’s report to be sure, but a seasoned homicide detective would suspect if something had been staged—if someone placed the paper in her hand after death, for example. Do you think it’s important?”
“No idea,” I said. “Just curious.”
“Morning,” Alaric Steele said, falling into step beside us. “Rumor has it you had quite an adventure last night.”
“Adventure’s not the word I’d use,” I said, “but if you heard I was the one unlucky enough to find the QB’s body and spent the next hour getting interrogated, then you heard right.”
“I’ll let you know what I find out,” Dad said, “meanwhile, I’ll be following a line of inquiry of my own.”
With that, he trotted off.
Chapter 22
While Steele and I opened the booth, I wondered briefly what Dad’s line of inquiry was, and whether it would unduly annoy Detective Foley. And then I decided I’d have enough to worry about, trying not to annoy Foley with my own line of inquiry, whatever it turned out to be.
And what I’d overheard Foley saying bothered me. It sounded as if Foley didn’t plan to investigate the comic fragment seriously. I couldn’t help thinking that the fragment was more significant than he realized.
Of course, maybe I couldn’t help thinking that because it was the one genuine piece of evidence that I knew as much about as the cops. And it must be important if I found it, right?
I felt a renewed temptation to pull out the camera and study the photos, a temptation I resisted, partly because I knew there wasn’t much more I could learn from the tiny little screen, and partly because the dealers’ room had opened and customers were straggling in.
Steele didn’t badger me with questions about finding the QB’s body, which increased my appreciation of him enormously. Of course, he didn’t need to ask questions, just keep his ears open for the next half hour or so while everyone I knew and not a few total strangers plied me with questions. But still, I appreciated the restraint. Almost as much as I appreciated being able to say,
“I’m sorry; the police have ordered me not to discuss that with anyone.”
I was saying this for about the seventeenth time when Dad showed up again.
“Meg,” he said, “any chance I could borrow that little tape recorder of yours? Unless you’re going to use it in your sleuthing.”
“I’m not sleuthing and the tape recorder is Michael’s,” I said. “He uses it to study lines. I don’t even know if he brought it, but you could ask him.”
“Great!” he said. “Where is he?”
I glanced at the clock and then pulled my program out of my purse.
“He’ll be in the Ruritanian Room at eleven,” I said. “If you hurry over there, you can probably catch him.”
With half an hour to spare, but I didn’t want Dad hanging around talking about rigor mortis and alarming the customers.
“Wonderful!” he said, turning to leave.
“And Dad,” I said, “please don’t go around telling people that I’m sleuthing.”