Endangered: A Zoo Mystery Part 4

The house I grew up in had never seemed nicer. My parents trended toward comfortable and practical rather than elegant, a house full of places to set a coffee cup and turn on a reading light. My father's sign painting magazines had a dedicated shelf within reach of his recliner. Often a gardening book lay on the kitchen counter, sometimes held open with a muddy hand trowel. Winter was a frustrating time for my mother, the season of not-gardening. In the living room, a handsome toy-box my father had constructed held educational toys guaranteed to produce a genius. My mother worked part-time as an elementary-school math specialist, and she knew her toys.

They both adored Robby, probably seeing him as a second chance to rear a child that would turn out the way they had expected back when I was two. My schedule required working weekends, when the day care center was closed. I was fortunate to have them take him on Sat.u.r.days and Sundays and the rare times, like tonight, when I worked late.

"You look so tired," my mother said. "I saved you a lamb chop. How about a gla.s.s of wine?" Gray threaded through her hair and a wrinkle showed here and there, but she still seemed tireless, two women's worth of energy in one short package. Tonight she wore her yellow sweatshirt with wildflowers, an old favorite.

My father was immersed in a basketball game, the reason my mother hadn't seen the news and wasn't full of alarm about the Tiptons. That would happen tomorrow.

"I wish I could. We stopped for pizza and I don't dare drink when I'm this beat. Robby's asleep? I'm sorry I'm so late."

"He was fine. How did the animal rescue go?"

"We had a few setbacks. I have to go back tomorrow. I'll give you the full story when I can think straight." Telling her about a dead girl and failed CPR would keep me there all night.

"We'll take Robby to the Children's Museum this Sat.u.r.day. That is, if it's all right with you."

"That would be awesome."

My mother's focus on toddler enrichment had my full support. Robby benefited and so did I, since that left her with less energy for nudging my life into shape.

My father was the calm center of our small family. He was tall and quiet. I inherited only the tall part, that and his dark hair. His hands were skilled and sure, trained by a lifetime as a sign painter and home handyman.

I climbed the stairs to my old room, where Robby was curled asleep around his stuffed armadillo. Seeing my child did much to set my world to rights again. He was an unlikely gift to my life, conceived by accident just before my husband Rick died. I inhaled his baby scent as I leaned over to pick him up.

I needed this day to come to an end, to go home. To sleep. But Robby woke up cross-wise and pitched a fit. I hugged him and explained and did my best, but he wanted...I couldn't tell what he wanted, but being awakened was not it. Finally I gave up on sweet reason, wrestled him into the car seat, and waved good-bye to my parents, who stood watching my failings with concerned frowns.

Pete and Cheyenne's car was in the driveway, but they were upstairs in their room. I lugged Robby up to his room and tucked him in. Thankfully, he collapsed back into slumber.

My dogs, Winnie and Range, were thrilled to have me back. Range was mostly black Lab, Winnie was part German shepherd. I sat on the floor and stroked the dogs, apologizing for coming home late again. They did their best to heal the day's misery with doggy affection, and their best was quality work.

I was able to buy this house because of Rick's life insurance, but that edge of discomfort had mostly worn off. Like my parents' home, it smelled of good food-Pete's spicy cooking-and the kitchen was neither beige nor worn out. The house still had some of the "new-on-the-market" glow from when I'd bought it two and a half years ago.

Why had the Tiptons lived in such a barren house? They must have had drug profits to spend.

I pushed away recollections of the Tiptons' kitchen by calling Marcie, my best friend, for a quick check-in. She wanted to talk, but I was too exhausted. We settled for dinner on my next day off. I felt bad about that-she needed me and I'd made her wait. Denny had backed away from their three year relationship and she wasn't taking it well.

A quick shower and I was in bed.

The deep comfort of domestic routine didn't survive the darkness. In the quiet, unsettling images intruded and pushed sleep away-Liana's pale, vacant face, Tipton's collapsing body.

Tomorrow was a work day-insomnia was not an option.

Better to think about the birds I wanted for the new walk-through aviary featured in the zoo's master plan. Lady Amherst pheasants with their green and blue backs and long barred tails. Temminck's tragopan, a gorgeous red and orange pheasant. My hands on the warm bodies of parrots with broken feathers, the stab of blackberry thorns pulled aside to show a slender muzzle pressed to a b.l.o.o.d.y sweater.

I concentrated harder. Laughing thrushes in the bushes. Maybe Asian Fairy bluebirds, gorgeous. Green magpies, if Neal could find any. A wisp of detail intruded: My palms on Jerome Tipton's chest had shoved on an expensive Filson jacket like the one my mother gave my father for Christmas. His sons' jackets were cheap denim.

Demoiselle cranes. He'd worn a fancy watch, the kind with many b.u.t.tons and functions. Red-breasted geese...sleep.

Chapter Six.

Under thin wintery sunlight, the farm looked less desolate, transformed from squalid to merely rural. Clear sky equals cold in the Northwest in January. Frost outlined tall gra.s.s stalks along the road and rimmed the hog-wire around the vegetable garden.

I ran the van up to the house and shut it off. Denny and I emerged blinking in the unaccustomed light, grateful for air that wasn't tainted with disinfectant fumes from decontaminating the van. The Tipton place and toxic air would be forever linked in my mind. We had a solemn agreement to get in and get out-load the macaws and split.

Mud crunched underfoot, icy on top and gooey underneath. Creme brulee of muck. I grumbled to Denny, "If I had to live here, I'd order a truckload of fir bark on Day Two and make some decent paths."

My arms ached from the night before. The black Boxer mix that had been so aggressive circled in a live trap under the eaves, barking dutifully at us. The Chow, still loose, loitered next to him and raised his nose to emit a woof now and then. No half-grown Doberman.

As the first order of business, we checked that The Law was on duty. We found Deputy Gettler amid a group standing in the dining room giving each other instructions about wrapping up the crime scene. When he confirmed that the Tipton brothers weren't back in custody, I said, "We are not facing those guys again without serious firepower on our side. I left my nets in the parrot barn, so we need someone to go with us."

Gettler seemed insulted that we asked for security he'd a.s.sumed he would provide. He led us outside. "You're not supposed to park here. That's why everyone else is parked by the gate."

"We're going to load the macaws," I said. I pointed to the VW van. "You guys checked that out? The Tiptons might have left a gas receipt or something from where they picked up the parrots and tortoises."

"We checked it."

"What did you find?"

A shrug. "I wasn't there."

He led us across ice slicks to the closer barn, clouds of our breath drifting ahead, and removed the padlock from the hasp on the door. It was dark and cold inside. He flicked on a flashlight.

"Did a huge electric bill give them away?" I asked.

"Nope. Tom Tipton sold meth to the wrong guy. That's what we came out for. The gra.s.s was a surprise."

"Like the animals," said Denny.

The deputy looked defensive. "We knew about the dogs, just not the rest. Not until we had a chance to look around."

I'd left the nets leaning against the wall in the back room. Now they lay on the floor. The night before, Denny and I had been the last ones out of the building. "Did you dump them here?"

Denny shook his head.

"Who's been in here? I thought this was locked up at night."

Gettler said, "Only one entry and you saw it was padlocked."

I looked around the back room. "That bag of parrot food was moved. I didn't leave it there."

Denny shifted from foot to foot. "Who cares? Grab the nets and let's go."

I was just as eager to leave this place behind, but he wasn't in charge, and I ignored him. Something had been bothering me for two days. "Only one exit," I said to myself.

"Yeah. Maybe not the brightest plan," the deputy agreed.

If I were growing dope in a barn, I'd have a back door as an escape hatch. We could spare five minutes to put that itch to rest. I looked around, remembering what I'd seen when the lights were on. No loft above. No possible place to hide. Experts had been over every square inch of the building.

The back room was better lit. Sun filtered through knot holes and narrow gaps between the boards. With no birds to distract me, I stopped and for the first time gave my attention to the room itself. The exterior wall that was part of the parrot cage was insulated and sheathed in plywood. But that was only two-thirds of the back wall. The rest was the only part of the barn not lined in fibergla.s.s batts. Fir studs darkened by age supported the rough exterior boards, the barn as it was before the Tiptons tricked it out for their cash crop. I took a close look, finger tips exploring the boards. The deputy said, "Wasting your time. We checked."

"Skip it. It doesn't matter," Denny said.

"Someone's been in here messing around." If the Tiptons were using this barn for shelter, I wanted to prove it. I wanted them caught. I wanted them to explain how Liana died and then tell the law who they got the parrots and tortoises from. A girl was dead, animals had suffered, and n.o.body shoves me in the mud without consequences.

It took more than a few minutes and Denny was about to mutiny. What I found was simple and well done. A section of wall framed by the old studs on all sides moved a tiny bit when I jiggled it with finger in a knothole. I finally lifted just right and the section disconnected from the wall and fell outside. Bright sun and cold air streamed into the back corner through a gap that would have been a tight fit for the heavy father. A hint of a path disappeared through the blackberry vines outside. Denny and the deputy stooped and followed me out. They stood aside so I could push the panel back in place. It was invisible from inside because the cut lines were all behind studs. It was barely visible from the outside. I said, "I bet the other barn has one of these, too."

Gettler put a hand on his gun and told us to stay where we were. He vanished into the brambles, returning in a few minutes. "The path disappears in the woods. I'd guess those boys came in here last night to get out of the weather."

We slipped back into the barn and shut the hidden door. Gettler turned the electricity on and we looked around in better light. The deputy thought the buckets of potting soil had been moved and the dirt pawed through. He unlocked the other barn, and we found a duplicate door at the back. Again, the trail petered out.

We all looked around the meth barn with fresh eyes. Denny was sure someone had disturbed the straw in the tortoise corral. It was heaped up in the middle. The deputy had frown lines on his forehead that hadn't been there before. He said, "I'll be back in a few minutes," and left toward the house. My guess was that he had a few people to consult with about access to the supposedly-secure barns.

"Now can we load those birds and go?" Denny asked.

"d.a.m.n straight."

We followed Gettler outside.

I glimpsed a human shape emerging from the trees behind the barn. My muscles were set to "flee," but my brain identified the woman before I bolted. It was the neighbor I'd seen before.

Today she looked less like a woods witch and more like an aging woman worn down by a hard life. Her gray hair was still wild, and again she held the shotgun in lumpy fingers, the barrel pointed down. A brown wool shawl was draped over her shoulders. Her eyes were cautious in a soft, lined face. "We met before. I'm Pluvia. I was hoping you might have learned how Wanda is getting along. Wanda Tipton." She had a nice voice, a little hesitant but clear.

"I'm Iris. This is Denny. I haven't heard anything more. Her husband died last night. A heart attack, we think."

"In prison?"

"No, here. He was released on bail."

She didn't react to the death, but her eyes widened with the news the Tiptons had been released. "I heard the ambulance. I wondered..." She scanned the yard behind us. "Tom and Jeff were released also?"

I hoped Denny would keep quiet and not scare her off. She knew more about this farm than anyone alive except the Tipton brothers. "That's the sons, right? They were here last night. Scary guys."

"Jeff can be. Neither one will pee without the father's permission. They're probably watching us. I do wish I could find out about Wanda."

She confused me-the shotgun, the mix of boldness and fear, her concern about a difficult neighbor. I wouldn't have wanted anything to do with any of the Tiptons, no matter how charming and innocent Wanda might be. "That friendship must not have been easy."

She nodded. "Jerome and the older son, Jeff, were unpleasant. But Wanda would walk to my place and we would visit. Liana brought her. Wanda stopped coming a few months ago, and I... I wasn't going to come here." She looked around the farmyard.

"You could talk to the deputies," I said. "They could tell you where she is."

"Oh, I don't think so. They came to my home. I found their questions very unpleasant."

I wanted to know much more about the Tiptons, and she looked about to take flight. "I could let you know if I hear anything about Wanda. If you gave me your phone number."

She stepped back and studied us both. "You'd be wise to stay clear of Jeff. Tom is a different story." She looked toward the house and back to us. After a hesitation, "I'm worried about Liana, too. I thought if she escaped, she'd come to my place. If you see her, I live north..." She raised her head, looking beyond us. I turned and saw the deputy approaching at a fast walk.

Denny said, not harshly, "Iris found Liana's body yesterday. She was shot during the raid."

Pluvia's eyes went distant, and she stood motionless for a few seconds. Then she walked back the way she'd come, threading her way among the blackberries, her shawl snagging a little. I could see only the top of her head when she made it to the little trail behind the parrot barn and disappeared toward the woods.

Denny said, "This is so not a good place."

The deputy arrived and demanded to know who we had been talking to.

"A neighbor dropped by," I said. "She's a friend of the mother."

The deputy was not mollified. "This is a crime scene, and people can't go wandering around ignoring the tape and breaking into the barns, poking their noses in everywhere. She comes back, I'm going to arrest her."

He was mad at her? "It could have been the brothers." I didn't add, "while we were out here alone and you were in the house," but he got my point.

Pluvia lived to the north and it was within walking distance, but what were the odds of finding her house in the woods? Not good, but no matter. We wouldn't be back after today. I'd lost my chance to learn more about the Tiptons, such as their car trips to pick up animals.

Time for the macaws. I'd brought the biggest animal carrier we had. Denny and I carried it into the dining room. I handed the birds broccoli spears and spinach leaves, which did not appeal, and more carrot sticks, which did. Their hooked beaks reminded me of a description of their genus, Ara, that I had once read: "can openers with feathers." I had the feeling that my bird mojo was insufficient to allow me to grab them and stuff them into a carrier without losing a finger.

I hated situations where animals had to be moved in a hurry. Given time, I could train the macaws or almost anything to shift to a smaller cage in exchange for treats-no stress or excitement. The rushed alternative was to cowboy the critter-grab it or net it or throw a towel over it-and hope that no legs or wings were broken and no one was bitten. I wasn't looking forward to grabbing the macaws, for their sake or mine. Another way finally came to me.

Denny said, "Can't we just put the whole cage in the van?"

"That's what I'm thinking." I found a piece of string and used it as a tape measure to get the width and depth of the cage. We checked the dimensions. It looked tight, but do-able.

We'd need to put the cage on its side, and then the macaws wouldn't have anything horizontal to perch on. I found a branch and stuck it through a corner of the cage at an angle. The macaws objected at volume.

Together we tipped the cage over, with me apologizing to the birds for the disruption. They hit new highs in decibels, clinging to their old perch until gravity and good sense sent them scrambling to the branch. The cage was heavy and we were leery of the birds chopping our fingers off so it was hard to know how best to grip it. Denny nicked his thumb on a projecting metal stub and stopped to wrap a handkerchief around it. Ken from Animal Control showed up and stepped in without a word, hefting my end as though I were too frail for the job. Which I had to admit, I was. I moved to Denny's end. The electrician and various agency staff offered conflicting advice and annoying opinions. We three animal pros wrestled the cage out of the house and into the van. I shut the tail gate, and we shared high fives.

The excitement over, the agency people drifted off toward the barns or inside the house. The photographer in the wool cap took pictures of us standing by our zebra-striped van. "Would you mind answering a few questions?" he asked. "It won't take long. I'm writing an article on this arrest, and I'd like to include the zoo perspective. Let's start with your names." He smiled, expectant.

I looked up and met intelligent hazel eyes. A stray shaft of sunlight lit his face and faded. I glanced away from that perceptive gaze. "The names you want are Neal Humboldt, the curator, or Dr. Crandall, the director. We can't talk to you without their okay."

He looked unsurprised. "I'll see to that. I'm Craig Da.r.s.ee."

He seemed fit and competent despite the limp. In his thirties. Narrow nose, a mouth ready to smile. If he shed that cap, he'd be good looking. His clipboard was at the ready and the long-nosed black camera hung off his chest. "I should ask about talking to ...."

"Iris Oakley. This is Denny Stellar."

He studied me, ignoring Denny. He reached out his hand. "Iris. Very glad to meet you." I shook it. He turned and Denny shook it. He said, "I'll be in touch" and stepped back, still looking at me.

While Denny and Ken tied the unused animal carrier to the rack on top of the van, I went back to the living room for the bag of parrot food. It's best to transition to a new food gradually, so I'd need the old food. The cage had been set tight in a corner. Left behind was the inevitable residue of spilled birdseed, peanut sh.e.l.ls, feathers, and dried bird p.o.o.p that had drifted down and stacked up between the cage and the wall. It was a sprawling pile now that the cage wasn't supporting it. It had been out of sight behind the metal skirt around the bottom of the cage, and the tidiest housekeeper couldn't have reached it.

I wanted to leave, but I was more or less responsible for this. Out of a dim sense of respect for Liana or whoever had toiled to keep this sad house clean, I searched out the broom and dustpan. My first pa.s.s uncovered ...what? I grasped a corner and shook the detritus off. It was a quart-size plastic bag, the kind with a seal you press shut along the top. Inside was a small water gla.s.s and inside that was a wadded up tissue. I opened it and looked closer. The tissue was dirty, a smear. Something put down and forgotten when the cage was originally set up?