Who's Kitten Who?

by Cynthia Baxter

Aziza was tucked away in the corner. I was glad her desk had a plaque with her name on it, since it was hard to believe this ordinary-looking woman was the same individual I’d seen dressed like Morticia Addams at the theater and again at Simon’s wake. While that Aziza Zorn had filled the room with her presence, adorning herself with feathers and capes with the same ease most of us wear Nikes and jeans, this Aziza Zorn blended into her surroundings with the finesse of a chameleon.

  She was wearing a nondescript dark blue suit and an off-white blouse, and her wild black hair was pulled back into a severe bun. As I got closer, I saw that her eyes were a pale gray-green this morning, rather than the brilliant green I’d noticed the first time I’d seen her. And the only makeup she wore was a slash of dark red lipstick that made her look like a little girl playing dress-up.

  Her desk was as neat and as serious-looking as she was. There were two silver picture frames on it, placed at different angles. I could see that one contained a photograph of Simon Wainwright, smiling warmly at whomever was taking the picture.

  “Aziza?” I asked hesitantly as I walked toward her desk, exercising the same caution I’d use in approaching a Rottweiler.

  “Yes, I’m Aziza Zorn,” she replied, looking puzzled. “Do we know each other?”

  “I know you, but there’s no reason for you to know me.”

  She blinked. At that point, she was probably trying to decide whether to call security.

  “My name is Jessie Popper, and I recently joined the Port Players,” I explained. “It’s kind of a long story, but basically I went to one of the rehearsals with my friend Betty Vandervoort. Even though I’ve never been in a play before, much less a musical, the next thing I knew I was part of the cast.”

  “I know Betty,” Aziza replied guardedly. “She’s very nice.”

  “Betty’s the best.”

  Aziza studied me, frowning. “So you’re in the play? I don’t remember you.”

  “I’ve taken over the role of Anita Snook,” I replied. “Elena Brock took over the role of Amelia, so Derek needed someone to play Anita.” I hesitated, then added, “I hope you won’t hold it against me that I’m in the play. Since you didn’t think the production should continue, I mean.”

  “Not at all,” she replied stiffly. “I understand that Derek felt the need to go on.” She hesitated before adding, “I don’t happen to agree with him, but he’s entitled to do what he thinks is right.”

  She glanced around nervously, as if she’d suddenly remembered she was at work. “Maybe you’d better sit down. I don’t want to get in trouble.”

  I lowered myself into one of the two chairs opposite her desk. My new location afforded me a good look at the second silver picture frame on her desk. When I saw the photograph in it, my heart skipped a beat.

  “I don’t blame you for not having the heart to continue with the play,” I said. I took a deep breath, wondering how far I dared push this. “But I guess I don’t really understand why you’re so against the production continuing.”

  “Simon was killed just days ago!” she exclaimed, her voice tinged with bitterness. “It seems so…so callous to go on as if nothing happened. If Derek and everybody else have any feelings at all, I don’t see how they can continue.”

  “I didn’t actually know Simon,” I said. I was trying to keep her from lumping me in with the other Port Players who’d stuck with the production, since she clearly saw them as disloyal. “But it sounds as if a lot of people really cared about him. Admired him too.”

  “That’s certainly true. But I’m sure you didn’t come here to talk about Simon or his play,” she said impatiently. She sat up straighter and folded her hands on her desk. “Are you here to open a new account?”

  “I’m thinking about it,” I replied, hoping I sounded convincing. “I wanted to get some information about fees and interest rates, things like that. I’m shopping around for a new bank, and I want to visit a few and compare their services.”

  “Very wise,” she said, nodding. She opened the top left drawer of her desk and pulled out several glossy booklets. Each one featured pictures of people who were smiling, presumably because they were so delighted to be customers of the Bank of Long Island.

  For the next five minutes, I pretended to listen with interest as Aziza explained all the different checking and savings account plans to me. I nodded and said “Uh-huh” a lot, but, frankly, the experience made me glad that I was satisfied with my present bank.

  “Thanks for all the information,” I told her when I was pretty sure we’d covered all the options, including the one that would afford me an attractive plastic travel mug with the bank’s logo on it as soon as I signed on the dotted line. “Like I said, I’m going to be looking at a few banks, so I’m not ready to make a decision yet.”

  “Of course,” Aziza replied woodenly. “But if I were you, I’d think carefully about the Savvy Savings Plan. It’s perfect for you.”

  We’d exhausted the topic I’d been pretending had brought me here in the first place, which meant it was time for me to strike. So after stuffing the pamphlets into my purse, I gestured toward the second photograph on her desk.

  “I see you have a cat,” I said in what I hoped was a friendly manner. “Looks like a purebred Persian.”

  Aziza’s eyes narrowed. “What about it?”

  “I’m always interested in people’s pets,” I replied. “I’m a veterinarian.”

  “Really?” For the first time since I’d spotted her, I could see her letting her guard down. “Ophelia is an absolutely amazing cat. She’s so smart. Her vocabulary is incredible. She knows the names of different kinds of food, the names of the different rooms in my apartment—I swear she even knows the days of the week. Monday through Friday, when I have to go to work, she comes into my room at seven to wake me up. But then, on Saturday and Sunday, she waits in the living room or the kitchen until I get up!”

  She was smiling as she studied the photograph of her cat. But her expression suddenly tightened. “I should bring her in for a checkup. It’s been almost a year since she’s been to her vet. It’s just so hard when you work a nine-to-five job. I’ve been busy with the Port Players, and of course Simon and I spent every spare minute we could find together.”

  “Has Ophelia experienced any health problems?” I asked.

  “She’s fine,” Aziza insisted. Then her forehead tensed. “Except for this one thing. I’ve noticed a few white scabs on her skin lately. I suppose it’s just dry skin.”

  A warning bell instantly sounded in my head. Ophelia’s white scabs could indicate ringworm, since the condition was particularly common in Persians. Ringworm caused skin lesions, itching, and hair loss, and it was nothing to fool around with. Not only was it difficult to treat in long-haired cats; the fungal infection could easily be transmitted to both other animals and humans.

  “Actually, it could be a sign of something more serious,” I told her. “Maybe even ringworm, which is a common problem in Persians.”

  “Really?” She sounded alarmed.

  Even though I’d reacted to her cat’s skin problem the same way I would have with anyone else, I was secretly pleased that I’d gotten a rise out of her. I was hoping to be invited to Aziza’s home, since it would undoubtedly help me get a better sense of her. I was still disturbed by Lacey’s claim that Simon’s announcement that he was breaking up with Aziza could have driven the woman to violence. Then again, something else might have pushed her over the edge—like learning that Simon was involved with Kyle or Ian or both.

  “I’d be happy to take a look at Ophelia,” I volunteered. “I have a mobile services unit—a clinic-on-wheels—instead of a regular office. I make house calls, which saves my clients time and travel. It also makes the treatment much less stressful for the animal. And I’m pretty flexible about hours.”

  “Could you really?” Aziza asked, her eyes widening. “I live pretty near here, in Pond Grove. My apartment is only about a half mile off the Expresswa
y. When would you be able to come?”

  We agreed on five-thirty that evening, right after she got home from work. I wrote down her address and phone number in my appointment book.

  “Thank you so much, Doctor—Pepper, is it?” she said as I stood up to leave.

  “It’s Dr. Popper, but you can call me Jessie. And you’re very welcome.” I hesitated, then said, “You know, when I first came in here today, I didn’t recognize you at first.”

  She offered me a weak smile. “This isn’t really me. Whenever I’m here, I just pretend I’m in a movie, playing the role of someone who works in a bank. It helps me get through the day.”

  Glancing around with a forlorn look on her face, she added, “Sometimes I feel like it’s the best acting I’ve ever done in my life.”

  Mission accomplished, I thought with satisfaction as I left the bank, loaded down with pamphlets but, alas, no plastic travel mug. I hoped I would do as well at what would be my second stop of the day related to my investigation of Simon Wainwright’s murder.

  I’d planned that one for much later, however. Close to noon, in fact. After studying the schedule Derek Albright had given me when I’d first signed on with the Port Players, I decided that late morning looked like a good time for a freelance cleaning person to descend on Theater One. It was right after a group of high school students would have gathered there to watch a play about drunk driving and a few hours before Jill had scheduled a special choreography rehearsal with the show’s two principals, the actors playing Amelia Earhart and George Putnam. From what I knew about high school students, the gum wrappers alone undoubtedly warranted a thorough cleansing before grown-ups would be able to use the space.

  When I stopped by, I found that, as usual, the front door of the theater was open. I walked right in and wasn’t surprised to see someone standing on the stage, sweeping.

  Bingo, I thought.

  Then I did a double take. Sunflower McGee wasn’t exactly what I’d imagined when I heard the term cleaning woman. She certainly wasn’t the apron-wearing, Windex-wielding type. She was tiny, barely five feet tall, and looked as if she hadn’t yet celebrated her twenty-first birthday. Her outfit consisted of a black T-shirt printed with the words If You Can Read This, You’re Too Damn Close, baggy black jeans studded with way too much metal, and a pair of heavy black boots, footwear that, by comparison, made my chukka boots look like ballet slippers.

  Not that she was completely without splashes of color. Her short black hair was highlighted with a single brilliant blue streak. She wore it in a deliberately disheveled bed-head style, with bangs that nearly obliterated her eyes. Gold stud earrings curved around her entire left ear like a constellation. They occasionally glinted in the light, as did the silver rings she wore on each finger, including both thumbs.

  She didn’t appear to notice that I’d come in. That was probably because a pair of earphones was clamped around her head, with the music turned up loud. So loud, in fact, that even before I reached the stage, I was able to identify the group as the Red Hot Chili Peppers.

  I stepped onto the stage and waved until I caught her attention. She immediately pulled off her earphones.

  “Sorry about that,” she said with a grin. “Are you looking for somebody?”

  “You, I think,” I replied. “Are you Sunflower McGee?”

  “Sunny,” she said, grimacing. “Hardly anybody calls me Sunflower.”

  “It is kind of an unusual name,” I commented.

  “My parents were hippies,” she explained matter-offactly, leaning her broom against the wall and wiping her hands on the front of her T-shirt. “Sometimes it seems like they still are. They’re always listening to these old guys like James Taylor and the Who and Crosby Stills and whoever else. And they listen to records! I mean, they’re like the only people in the universe who still own a turntable! Can you imagine?”

  I had to smile. Nick was such a fan of classic rock, including the performers whose names Sunny had just rattled off, that I’d grown to appreciate the oldies almost as much as he did. He also owned a few vinyl versions, although in most cases he had the CD as well.

  “If you have a couple of minutes,” I said, “I’d like to ask you a few things about the night Simon Wainwright was murdered.”

  Sunny’s big brown eyes widened. “Are you a cop?”

  “No.”

  “But you work with the cops.”

  “Not exactly. I’m just trying to help a close friend of Simon’s figure out exactly what happened.”

  She nodded. “Yeah, I don’t blame people for being upset. The whole thing is pretty creepy. Well, ask away. Anything to break up the monotony of chasing down dust bunnies!”

  I sat down on one of the wooden chairs that edged the stage. “I understand you were here at the theater last Friday night, cleaning.”

  “Yup.” She dropped into the chair closest to me. “That’s one of the things I like about this job. The fact that I can work weird hours.” Sounding a bit defensive, she added, “See, I’m not your normal cleaning lady. I’m just doing this until I find something more interesting to do with my life.”

  “Sounds like a good plan.”

  “What about you?” she asked, studying me. “What do you do when you’re not trying to find murderers?”

  “I’m a veterinarian.”

  “No way!” Sunny’s face lit up like one of the spotlights up above. “That is, like, the coolest thing ever. How long did you have to go to school for that?”

  “Four years. After four years of college, that is.”

  “Whoa, that’s a long time. Where’s your office?”

  “I don’t have an office. I have a mobile services unit, which is basically a clinic-on-wheels. I travel all over Long Island to treat my patients.”

  “Wow! That is beyond cool!” she exclaimed. “Taking care of animals must be so great. Do you absolutely love it?”

  “I do. Sunny, what time did you hear Simon and the woman he was arguing with?”

  “Do you use the van for regular driving too? I mean, like when you drive to the library or the supermarket or someplace like that?”

  “I use the van only for business,” I explained. “I have a little red Volkswagen I use for regular driving.”

  “Those are so cute,” she commented. “Hey, what school did you go to? To learn how to be an animal doctor, I mean?”

  “The College of Veterinary Medicine at Cornell University. It’s upstate, in Ithaca.”

  “Do you need to take a ton of science courses to be a vet?”

  “Yes,” I replied as patiently as I could. “Sunny, would you mind telling me exactly where you were when you heard Simon quarreling?”

  Instead, she said, “I was never that good at science. In school, I mean. But I love animals. It would be amazing to work with them. I can’t think of a better career.”

  “I can’t either.” As frustrated as I was about her reluctance to focus on the important issue at hand, I couldn’t hold it against her. Not when she was clearly interested in the vet biz—and as enthusiastic as I was about the notion of working with animals.

  “Do you ever need help?” she asked suddenly. “When you treat animals, I mean.”

  Her question gave me pause. Sure, I needed help on occasion. But that didn’t mean I actually had any. Hiring a vet tech seemed far too expensive at this point in my career. So far, I’d managed on my own.

  Still, sometimes I had to ask owners to help, usually by restraining their pets. And every once in a while, especially in an emergency, I really could have used a second pair of hands.

  Before I had a chance to answer, she said, “Because I could help out. With your practice, I mean. I’m really good with animals. And I’m very reliable. You can even ask the people at Home Maid. They’ll tell you. All my clients love me. I’m always on time, I always get the job done…”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” I told her sincerely. “But for now I’m curious about what you told the police.
I believe you said you couldn’t identify the woman you heard arguing but that you’re sure the man was Simon. How can you be so certain?”

  “Because I knew Simon’s voice,” she replied matter-of-factly. “I didn’t overlap with the people in the theater company very often, but whenever I did, Simon was one of the few people who bothered to say hello to me. In fact, he’d take the time to chat with me every now and then.”

  “Did the two of you talk about anything in particular?”

  Sunny shrugged. “Not really. Just the usual stuff about the weather and how bad traffic’s gotten, that kind of thing. But he was always so nice, you know? When you’re a cleaning lady, most people treat you like you’re a bug on the wall. They just pretend they don’t see you.”

  That, I knew, was probably true.

  “Sunny, if you don’t mind me asking, why were you here on a Friday evening? I know you like working at odd hours, but isn’t that an unusual time to be cleaning? I mean, wouldn’t you rather go out with your friends on the weekend?”

  “Like I said, this job gives me a ton of flexibility,” she explained. “That’s the best thing about it. We can pretty much work on our own schedule, once we’ve been assigned certain clients. As long as the clients are okay with it, of course. This Theater One gig is really easy, since this place doesn’t get very dirty.

  “Not unless they’re putting on special performances for high school kids, like this morning.” Rolling her eyes, she commented, “If I were you, I’d stay out of the bathrooms until I get a chance to clean in there. But normally, when they’re in rehearsal the way they are now, it only takes me a couple of hours to clean the entire place. So I can sleep late, do a couple of jobs in the afternoon, come here after dinner, and be done by nine. That gives me plenty of time to go out with my friends afterward.”

  I suddenly felt very old. For me, nine o’clock was time to think about climbing into bed with a good book—and Nick.

  “What about the female members of the cast?” I asked. “How well do you know them?”

  “Which ones?” she asked. “There’re a lot of them, and they change all the time, depending on who’s in which show.”