Who's Kitten Who?

by Cynthia Baxter

  “But there’s more. It turns out that Simon wasn’t only the playwright; he was also the lyricist. Because, believe it or not, She’s Flying High is a musical. A musical! Do you know what that means, Nick? It means that before I had any idea what I was getting into, I agreed to go onstage and sing and dance in front of a real live audience!”

  I was so focused on the horror of what I’d gotten myself into that it took me a few seconds to notice the expression on Nick’s face, which had morphed into a look of utter fury.

  “You’re investigating another murder?” he asked in a strained voice.

  “That’s right,” I replied, nodding. “I’m doing it for Betty. She’s totally distraught over Simon’s death, and she begged me to look into it, since I have some experience in that area and the police apparently aren’t giving out much information. It’s so important to her that she even asked me to make it my wedding present to her. Of course, I had to say yes.”

  “But what about my parents?”

  I looked at him and blinked. “Do you think they’d like to help?”

  “No, I don’t think they’d like to help! What I meant is that you’re spreading yourself a little thin, aren’t you? Here’s your big chance to spend some quality time with my mother and father, and…and instead of looking forward to getting to know your future in-laws, you’re making plans to traipse around Long Island, trying to solve the murder of someone you don’t even know!”

  I had to admit, I hadn’t seen this one coming.

  “Nick,” I said, making a point of keeping my voice as calm as if I was talking to a frantic pet owner, “don’t you remember how supportive you were in Hawaii? And how rewarding we both found it solving a murder case together?”

  “Yes, but that was different,” he insisted. “We were on vacation—and you were in danger. Now we’re back to real life.”

  “What difference does that make?” I demanded.

  “Jessie, what are my parents going to think if it turns out you’re too busy to, I don’t know, have dinner with them because you have to go talk to some murder suspect? You’re a veterinarian, not a homicide detective!”

  By this point, the concept of controlling my voice in the name of maintaining harmony had completely flown out the window. Nick’s parents hadn’t even arrived yet, and they were already causing problems. “If you mean I’m going to be too busy to spend every moment of your parents’ unplanned visit playing dutiful daughter-in-law to be, you’re absolutely right. I am a veterinarian, and I have a veterinary practice to run; I have a TV show on Friday that I have to prepare for; I have a life!”

  “Exactly. So why clutter it up even further by taking on one more thing to do?”

  “I’m sorry, but I don’t see helping out a dear friend who’s grieving over the death of someone she really cared about as ‘one more thing to do.’ Especially since Simon’s killer could turn out to be the person who’s been standing onstage right next to Betty during all these weeks of rehearsal!”

  “Yes, but…”

  I could see we weren’t going to get anywhere with this. And I wasn’t in the mood to argue. I much preferred to take advantage of a Saturday night when, miraculously, neither of us was swamped with work or a zillion other responsibilities. Renting a DVD, ordering in some Chinese food, and opening a nice merlot sounded like a lot more fun than spending the evening trying to convince Nick that what I was doing made perfect sense.

  “Trust me,” I said, leaning over and nuzzling against his chest. “I won’t let doing a favor for Betty get in my way. I’ll find a way to make it work. In the meantime, what do you say we order up some garlic triple crown and a couple of spring rolls?”

  “Okay,” he agreed, only a little bit begrudgingly.

  There, I thought with satisfaction. Mission accomplished, at least for now.

  I only hoped I could manage to live up to the promise I’d just made.

  Chapter 3

  “To his dog, every man is Napoleon; hence the constant popularity of dogs.”

  —Aldous Huxley

  That night I kept having the same nightmare over and over again. It was one I’d had before, but this time it took on new meaning.

  In my dream, I was standing in the wings of a theater only minutes before I was supposed to go onstage. But I was perfectly aware that I hadn’t learned my lines or gone to a single rehearsal or bothered to get a costume….

  I was relieved when I woke up, although I was bathed in sweat. It didn’t even matter that the cottage was so cold it felt like December, not April. The alarm clock told me it was nearly nine. Beside me, Nick was sleeping peacefully with Tinkerbell curled up on his chest and Cat stretched out next to his leg, resting her chin on his ankle.

  Since Sunday morning was the only day of the week he allowed himself to sleep late, I climbed out of bed as gently as I could. Fortunately, my dogs limited their early-morning activity to staring at me expectantly, as if worried I might forget that letting them out was always the first order of the day. They both wagged their tails furiously, although Max, having only a stub left, actually wagged his whole butt. How the two of them managed to do that with full bladders, I couldn’t imagine. It was some canine secret that hadn’t been revealed to us in vet school.

  As quietly as possible, I let them out the back door, checked the water bowls for all my winged and four-legged loved ones as I gave each of the others a pat and a cheerful “good morning,” and headed straight for the coffeepot. While my good pal Mr. Coffee gurgled away, working his usual magic, I stuck an English muffin into the toaster oven and hunched over the tiny kitchen counter, watching the peaks and valleys on the surface darken.

  You have a friend in need and a murder to solve, I reminded myself firmly. No matter what Nick thinks, no matter how busy you are this week being welcomed into the Burby clan, no matter how many clients you have to see, and no matter how far behind you are in coming up with a topic for Friday’s Pet People spot on Channel 14, you made a promise to Betty.

  I tried not to dwell on the fact that the first step I was going to have to take was contacting one of my least favorite people—a vain, self-centered man with a Napoleon complex. After all, Lieutenant Anthony Falcone, Chief of Norfolk County Homicide, was most likely the best source of information about what the police were doing to solve Simon Wainwright’s murder. Even if I was sure he wouldn’t be inclined to share very much of it with me.

  I hoped Falcone would be working despite the fact that it was Sunday. I was pretty sure that the Norfolk County Homicide Department, like the Big Apple, never sleeps.

  I waited until after nine, which seemed like an appropriate time to begin conducting business on a weekend morning. By that point, my two cups of coffee and my two halves of an English muffin had brought me fully into consciousness.

  But even a healthy dose of caffeine can only do so much. I was still filled with dread as I punched in the familiar number.

  “Homicide. Officer Delaney speaking.” Not surprisingly, the officer who answered the phone sounded less than cordial. I figured he probably wasn’t very happy about having to work on a Sunday morning.

  “I’d like to speak to Lieutenant Falcone,” I announced confidently.

  “He’s not here,” the crusty officer at the other end of the line informed me. With a great deal of satisfaction, it seemed to me. “Want his voice mail?”

  “Where is he, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  “Actually, I do mind. But since he just left for a ten o’clock press conference, that’s not exactly top secret information. Anybody with a TV or a radio will be able to figure out where he is.”

  “May I ask where it’s taking place?”

  “You’ll probably see it in the background when you turn on your TV.”

  “Thanks for all your help,” I replied dryly before hanging up.

  I coudln’t be positive, but I had a feeling that if Lieutenant Anthony Falcone was holding a press conference, it was almost certainly r
elated to Simon Wainwright’s murder—and that he’d be sure to stage it at a place that would provide him with the greatest possible sense of drama. I was beginning to suspect there were a lot of actors out there who had never set foot in a theater.

  Adrenaline surged through my veins as I wriggled into an outfit that was more or less respectable, depending on how high your standards were, and jumped into my red VW Bug. Sure enough, as I pulled into the parking lot of the Norfolk County Courthouse less than half an hour later, I saw two Channel 14 vans, along with vehicles from three Long Island radio stations. I wasn’t surprised that the murder of an up-and-coming actor–playwright who was headed for Broadway was big news in Norfolk County. I also wasn’t surprised that I’d been right about Falcone intending to squeeze every possible ounce of publicity he could get out of it.

  I parked and ran up the steps of the large, imposing building, whose facade boasted more columns than the Parthenon. Inside was a cavernous lobby, complete with a shiny marble floor, more columns, and a large statue of Lady Justice. Way in back, I saw a camera crew setting up. Lieutenant Falcone was nowhere to be seen. But my eagle eyes zeroed in on a pair of shiny shoes poking out from behind one of the columns at the lobby’s edge. I was pretty sure I’d seen them before.

  However, the two feet that wore them were separated from me by a large police officer who looked as if he was no stranger to the weight room.

  Nevertheless, I strode confidently toward what I surmised was a makeshift dressing room. I did my best to appear much too busy and much too important to engage in any chitchat, even with a cop who, at the moment, was playing the role of guard dog.

  “I need to speak to Lieutenant Falcone,” I said breathlessly, as if the mere act of bothering to explain was a waste of my time.

  “He’s kinda busy right now,” the burly brute announced, folding his arms across his chest in a manner that most people, including me, would interpret as menacing.

  “That’s okay,” I assured him. “The lieutenant and I are friends.”

  “Friends?” I heard a familiar voice repeat from the other side of the column.

  I cringed over the way that voice pronounced the word, stretching it out to at least three syllables and using a tone that was so dry we could have used a humidifier in there. But at least I’d gotten his attention.

  Lieutenant Falcone popped his head out from behind the tall marble structure, which suddenly seemed embarassingly phallic, and scrutinized me with the dark piercing eyes of a bird of prey. Even though he had a jockey’s build, the man carried himself like a four-star general. In honor of this morning’s press conference, he was decked out in a gray suit that had the distinctive sheen of polyester. His blue-black hair was just as shiny. In fact, it looked as if it had been spiffed up for the occasion with a thick coat of shoe polish. Today there was one unusual addition to his outfit: a small white towel draped around his neck.

  “Well, well, well. If it isn’t the famous—or should I say infamous—Dr. Popper.” As usual, Lieutenant Falcone pronounced my name without the Rs, so it came out sounding like “Docta Poppa.” I wondered if somewhere out there, there was also a “Docta Mama.”

  “See?” I told the guard, forcing myself to smile. “We really are friends.”

  He just grunted. Falcone didn’t help much by growling, “Whaddya want, Dr. Popper?”

  I blinked in surprise as I suddenly noticed something else about Falcone.

  Makeup. He was wearing makeup.

  Not the Alice Cooper variety. This was more subtle. A thick layer of foundation that was a tad too orange for his natural olive skin tones had been smeared all over his face. And, I couldn’t help noticing, not exactly blended along his jawline.

  If I wasn’t mistaken, he also had a faint dusting of pink on each cheek, just enough color to give his cheekbones definition—and to make him resemble a Swiss milkmaid posing for a hot chocolate ad. It was even possible that the reason the lashes framing his piercing eyes looked especially dark today was that they, too, had been chemically enhanced.

  In a way, the attempts at subtle improvement were even more shocking than if he really had ringed his eyes with thick black circles à la Alice Cooper.

  “You look…different,” I couldn’t help blurting out.

  “Hey, welcome to the media age,” he replied defensively. He stood up straighter, puffing out his chest like a rooster intent on proving who was king of the barnyard.

  “That’s something I happen to be familiar with,” I replied cheerfully, recognizing the need to stay on his good side. “A few months ago I started doing a weekly spot on Channel Fourteen TV—”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know all about that.” Eyeing me warily, he added, “I’m kinda busy here, Dr. Popper. I’m goin’ on camera in about five minutes. What can I do for you?”

  “You want her outta here?” his beefy bodyguard offered gruffly.

  “No, we’re okay.” He hesitated before adding, “So far.”

  I decided to jump in before I was muscled out. “Lieutenant Falcone, I’m trying to find out whatever I can about Simon Wainwright’s murder. You see, I’m—”

  “Then you’re in the right place at the right time,” he returned with a smug smile. “I’m about to go on TV to tell the people of Norfolk County that we’ve got this investigation under control.”

  “So you know who the killer is?” I asked hopefully.

  His smile vanished. “I didn’t say that, did I?”

  “Well, no, but you implied that you—”

  “I can assure you, the same way I intend to assure all the county’s residents, that Norfolk County Homicide is doing everything in its power to find out who was responsible for the death of Simon Wainwright.”

  In other words, I thought, reading between the lines, he didn’t have a clue.

  “How was Simon killed? Who are you questioning?” I asked. “Do you have any suspects?”

  “You got a TV?” he shot back. “Go home and turn it on.”

  I decoded his response to mean that the answer was no.

  In other words, at this point Falcone and his posse of homicide detectives didn’t know any more about Simon Wainwright’s murder than I did.

  “Thanks for your time,” I said, recognizing a dead end. “If you don’t mind, I’ll call you in a few days to see how the investigation’s going.”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Falcone protested. “Whaddya talkin’ about? The investigation of Simon Wainwright’s murder’s got nothin’ to do with you.”

  “I’m just a concerned citizen,” I assured him. “And I happen to be particularly interested in this because Simon was a friend of one of my dearest—”

  “Madonn’,” Lieutenant Falcone muttered. “Here we go again. Dr. Popper, don’t tell me I’m gonna be running into you at every turn. I hope this isn’t gonna be another one of those murder investigations where you’re gettin’ in my way every time I try to do my job.”

  My eyebrows shot up so high they nearly collided with the dome-shaped ceiling. Rather than “getting in his way,” as Lieutenant Falcone characterized our past interactions, I had actually solved several of the crimes that were part of that job he alluded to so proudly. But instead of getting any appreciation, aside from the occasional begrudging acknowledgment, all I got was attitude.

  Fortunately, I had other options. In fact, I was contemplating the best way of taking advantage of them when I noticed the most obvious one entering the lobby of the courthouse, looking as if he’d received a personal invitation to be there.

  “If it isn’t the very person I was hoping to see!” I called out to Forrester Sloan.

  Turning my back on Lieutenant Falcone, both literally and figuratively, I strode across the tremendous lobby. As I did, I wished I were wearing shoes with heels that clicked loudly. Somehow, trying to make a statement with rubber soles just didn’t cut it.

  As soon as Forrester glanced in my direction, his face lit up. “He-e-ey!” he greeted me. “If it isn’t my
favorite vet and amateur sleuth. How’s it goin’, Popper?”

  He did indeed look glad to see me. Too glad. While I’d always done my level best to keep our relationship professional, the Newsday reporter didn’t exactly see things the same way I did.

  Still, that didn’t keep me from picking his brain every time he happened to be covering a homicide investigation I was interested in.

  “What brings you here?” he asked jovially. “You’re not on trial, are you?”

  As usual, Forrester looked remarkably cool, calm, and collected. It wasn’t just his natural good looks, his gray-blue eyes, and his thick blond hair that softened into a mass of curls at the back of his neck. It wasn’t his preppy style of dress either—the khaki slacks, white button-down shirt, and loose-fitting tweedy jacket that hung from his broad shoulders as if he’d thrown it on as an afterthought. Even more than his appearance, it was the easy self-confidence he naturally exuded. He always looked as if he’d just sailed in from his summerhouse on Nantucket and, underneath his leather Top-Siders, still had sand between his toes.

  “Actually,” I replied, “I’m trying to find out whatever I can about Simon Wainwright’s murder. Which I understand is the topic of Falcone’s press conference today—and which I assume is a story you’re covering for Newsday.”

  “Right on both counts. I guess you didn’t see my article in this morning’s paper.”

  “Sorry. I didn’t have time to pick it up.”

  “No problem. We don’t know much yet, aside from the fact that the poor guy turned up Saturday morning stuffed into a trunk full of costumes as if he were a toga left over from Antony and Cleopatra.”

  I cringed at the image. Forrester didn’t seem to notice.

  “The results of the autopsy aren’t in yet,” he continued, “but the police think the murder occurred sometime Friday night. There was no rehearsal that evening, so the theater would have been empty.”