A Tiger's Tale (A Call of the Wilde Mystery, Band 2) - Softcover

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Spending the first years of her life on a Costa Rican coffee farm blessed Laura Morrigan with a fertile imagination and a love for all things wild. Later she became a volunteer at a Florida zoo, helping out with everything from “waste management” to teaching an elephant how to paint. Drawing from her years of experience with both wild and domestic animals and her passion for detective novels, Laura created the Call of the Wilde Mysteries, including Take the Monkey and Run, Woof at the Door, A Tiger's Tale and Horse of a Different Killer. She lives in Florida with too many cats, loves the Blue Angels, wearing flip flops in November, and thunderstorms.

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CHAPTER 1

The weathered sign on the gate read:

Happy Asses Donkey and Big Cat Rescue

Tours: Tues–Fri 1:00–dark.

Affixed below was a newer sign. The reflective white letters glowed in my headlights, and though the effect caused the words to blur, the message came across loud and clear.

ABSOLUTELY NO TRESPASSING!

We are not responsible for death

or injury due to your own stupidity.

There are wild animals inside this gate.

If one of them eats you, it’s your own fault.

~Ozeal Mallory, proprietress

I smiled. I’d never met Ozeal, but I liked her already.

From what I’d heard, Ozeal Mallory was dedicated, competent, and experienced at handling all manner of big cats. Judging from the sign, no-nonsense could be added to the list of her attributes. I wondered what had gone wrong.

The minute hand on my dashboard clock ticked to twelve past six. I was supposed to be attending a black-tie gala on Jacksonville Beach at seven o’clock. I was going to be late.

Usually, I’d welcome an excuse to avoid any event that had the words black-tie and gala in the title, but tonight’s fund-raiser was an exception.

A local animal charity had teamed up with the sheriff’s office to raise money to provide Kevlar vests for police dogs. As someone who felt the canine officers deserved as much protection as their handlers, I had decided to donate my services as an animal behaviorist to be sold in the silent auction. Unfortunately, this required I be present to smile, answer questions, and talk up what I do.

As much as I appreciated Ozeal’s signage, it was time to get the show on the road.

The problem was, there was no one on the road. Nor was there anyone in the parking area on the other side of the gate. I squinted against the dusky gloom of twilight and was able to make out the shape of a small building nestled in a clump of pine trees at the far end of the lot.

I stared for a few moments but detected no movement.

I knew there were animals just beyond the building. I could feel the low hum of their brains. Equine. Probably the rescued donkeys referenced in the sign.

Not long ago, I wouldn’t have been able to sense their presence, but my telepathic ability had taken a step forward recently. My range for connecting to an animal’s mind used to be limited to about twelve feet. But I’d been faced with a desperate situation and discovered you can accomplish a lot when you’re fighting for your life.

Not that my new, long-distance skill would help me get through the gate. Unless there was a Houdini donkey somewhere in the vicinity, I was out of luck.

I thought about honking the horn but not knowing the scope of the situation, I decided to eschew any loud, unexpected noises. I don’t have many friends—well, human friends, anyway.

Dr. Hugh Murray was one of the few. When he’d called to ask for help dealing with an angry tiger, he’d been in one piece. I wanted to keep it that way.

The thought made my gaze drift back to the warning sign and I noticed a faded arrow painted on the gate’s railing. Following its direction, I spotted what looked like an oversized doorbell with the words RING FOR DELIVERY written in block letters underneath.

Above it was a security keypad.

I cut my engine, pushed my door open, then stopped myself just as I was swinging my legs over the running board and caught sight of my new shoes.

My new high-heeled shoes.

I peered out at the muddy ground then glared at my inadequate footwear. After a moment’s consideration, I tugged off the heels and climbed into the backseat of my car, a vintage Skyline Blue Suburban named Bluebell. She’s big and loud and her cargo area is roughly the size of Rhode Island, so it took a minute before my fingers brushed over the hard rubber tread of one of my all-weather boots.

I fished out its mate, clambered into the front seat, shoved my bare feet into the boots, and hopped out of my Suburban, landing with a splat on the sodden ground.

The evening was damp and breezy, the temperature hovering in the mid-sixties, not unusual for October in North Florida. The rain we’d had in the past weeks, however, had been excessive, and I slipped and slid my way over the muddy drive.

I’d just pressed my finger to the buzzer when a four-wheeler appeared, skidding to a stop just on the other side of the fence. The driver, a young, willowy blonde, called out over the soft putter of the idling engine.

“Are you Grace Wilde?”

“Yep.”

The girl swung her leg over the seat and hurried to a post half a dozen feet inside the gate. She pressed something I couldn’t see, and, with a whirring click, the gate popped open.

“Ozeal said to come and get you as quick as I could,” the girl said as she opened the gate wide enough for me to walk through.

“What about my truck?”

She glanced up, eyes wide. If it hadn’t been for the numerous piercings dotting her pale skin, I would’ve said she looked like a typical girl next door. Big hazel eyes, a dash of freckles dusting her nose and cheeks.

“Oh—um . . . I guess you should pull in and park up by the office.”

I clomped back to Bluebell and hauled myself behind the wheel as the girl swung the gate open.

I drove through, parked, and grabbed the dainty beaded bag that was to serve as my purse for the evening.

A moment later the girl arrived on the four-wheeler. Her brows rose when she got a good look at my outfit.

Maybe she didn’t think the rubber boots went with the formfitting cocktail dress.

“Problem?”

“Um . . . I’m not sure you’ll be able to ride in that.”

I looked at the four-wheeler’s long, narrow seat and sighed.

“I’ll ride sidesaddle.” As we started off, I added, “Just try not to fling too much mud on me, okay?”

My sister would have a fit of apoplexy if she knew what I was doing. Emma had worked hard on putting me together for the evening. She’d chosen everything from my earrings to my underwear, and I was grateful.

It wasn’t that I lacked the ability to dress myself. The issue was dressing myself up. Every time I diverged from my standby jeans and T-shirt ensemble, I ended up looking like a clown in drag.

Really, I had to think of the children.

And my date.

Kai Duncan was a crime scene investigator for the Jacksonville Sheriff’s Office. I’d been surprised to learn he owned a tux, but I was looking forward to seeing him in it.

Aside from quick lunches here and there or meeting at the shooting range where Kai was teaching me how to handle a firearm, we’d had a hard time getting it together in the date department. Inevitably, one of us would have to cancel because of work.

I’d be damned if I was going to do it tonight.

“Pick it up, girl. I got someplace to be,” I called over the growling engine.

We zipped around a barn and turned onto a narrow road that most likely ringed the perimeter of the property to provide access to the buildings that housed the animals. We passed several enclosures as we went. Most were empty, their occupants secured in the adjoining houses for the night. Finally, we slowed to a stop when a figure came into view.

Trying not to flash anyone on my dismount from the four-wheeler, I walked to where the woman stood and introduced myself.

“Ozeal Mallory,” she said and gave my hand a firm shake. She didn’t so much as blink at my odd...