Chapter 18: CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Montelier had two corpses on his mind. That old actor, the one playing Benita’s father, had come to him, and told him about Bill Tallard’s indiscretion. So he wanted to see the cub’s vulva, what was wrong with that? How many times had he seen the males with their cocks out, dangling in the air like a free spirit, for everyone, young and old, human and alien, to see. That would make them animals, wouldn’t it? No modesty. Animals had no sense of modesty, no sense of decency.

Bill Tallard must have felt so guilty, it was eating at him like sulphuric acid. He had wandered deeper into the forest, away from the others, then climbed one of the trees. Climbed up high enough, jumped off like a bird learning to fly, and splat, landed face down on the forest floor, bones shattered, wings clipped.

Montelier shrugged. What a waste, what a goddamn waste.

The office in the diner that Arak had used when he wasn’t using the one in his home was now his. He had walked in, told the owner of the diner... what was her name, Alice Bum.. Bom... something, that he needed it for his investigation. She told him Arak had a small office in his home, but he’d use that one another time. This office at the back of the diner came in handy when he wanted something to eat while contemplating the possibility of suspects. Sure, Harold Creighton was numéro un, but others needn’t think they were off the hook.

The phone rang, continued to ring two, three more times before he picked it up. “Montelier.”

“The furry bitch is going to ask questions.” The voice was definitely feminine, angry, like she was pissed off at something.

“Who...?” That was the extent of his question. The caller had already hung up.

What furry bitch? What questions?

Unfortunately, the phone didn’t have caller id.

He had told no one about the suicide and the murder outside the village, so it had to be someone here. The voice did sound familiar, but he couldn’t place it. English, with a slight accent. Female, young, which didn’t help much. Of the cast and crew involved with this film, quite a few were younger than thirty. Four were female: Benita Corovelli, the actress, and three members of the crew.

A knock on the door. When he called, “Enter,” one of the Tereskàdian females walked in. Chandrha. Of all the Tereskàdians she was the one most interested in what these humans were doing.

“What can I do for you, Chandrha?” he asked, smiling.

“You can stop showing me your deception.”

The smile faded. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“You’re a bigot, Sen Montelier,” she said. “I read you the moments you walked into this village. You remind me a lot of Alharhanians back on my world. You humans look a lot like them, and there isn’t much difference in your prejudices.”

“Should I be flattered?” he asked.

“I’m going to ask the humans some questions,” she said. “I’m going to find out who killed Arak.”

“And what are you going to do when you find out?”

“Tell you. Make your job easier.”

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Was this the ‘furry bitch’ the caller meant? “It’s my job to ask questions,” he said. “Stay out of my way, or...”

“Or what? Don’t forget, Sen Montelier, this is my village. It was sanctioned to us by the Canadian government. You have no jurisdiction here.”

“Fine,” he said. “I’m rather busy right now.”

A moment later he looked up, but she was gone. So quiet, with those velvety pads at the bottom of their paws.

The phone rang again, the sound rather ominous. He was reluctant to pick it up, but when he did, the same voice rang in his ear, a voice that sounded so familiar, and yet not familiar. “I told you, Creighton.”

“Who are you?”

“A friend.”

There were three phones in the village, one on the counter in the diner, one in the office in Arak’s home, and the one he was holding now.

“That doesn’t tell me much.” He rose, tried to look into the diner.

“Are you with the film crew?”

“You don’t expect me to tell you that.”

“You’re not one of the aliens.”

“I know what you’re asking, but I can’t tell you.”

The connection was broken before he could ask more questions.

As the afternoon shifted into evening, he was still sitting in his chair, trying to piece things together. Someone here had killed Arak, and someone, either the same person, or a totally different person, was calling him, telling him about one of the Tereskàdians asking questions. If she was asking questions someone had something to fear.

She had called him a bigot.

He’d have to do something about that.

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