Who's Kitten Who?

by Cynthia Baxter

  The light in Dorothy’s eyes had faded. In fact, she looked as deflated as a balloon the day after the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade.

  “Nicky, dear,” she said, pointedly changing the subject, “would you mind passing the rolls?” She tried to force a smile but didn’t quite manage it.

  I, however, had to hide my smile behind my napkin.

  “That was fun,” Betty said brightly as the six of us walked out of the restaurant. “We’ll have to do it again.”

  Not in my lifetime, I thought—then immediately realized that, as Nick’s wife, having dinner with his parents would be a regular part of my life.

  I was wondering how he’d feel about practicing law in Alaska as we all branched off and headed toward our respective cars, calling, “Good night!”

  After Betty and Winston had gotten into his cream-colored Rolls-Royce and Dorothy and Henry had climbed into their car, Nick followed me to my VW.

  “What was all that about?” he demanded.

  “All what?” I asked, frowning in confusion as I unlocked the car door.

  “You and Betty ganging up on my mother.”

  My mouth dropped open. “What are you talking about? Betty and I did no such thing!”

  “Oh, no? You mean you didn’t pull a fast one by dragging Betty along to help put my mother in her place?”

  I could feel anger rising in my chest like a bad cold. “First of all, I didn’t ‘drag Betty along.’ It just so happens she invited herself.”

  “Why? Because she felt sorry for you, having to put up with your witch of a mother-in-law?”

  “Future mother-in-law,” I corrected him. “And keep in mind that the rest of that sentence consisted of your words, not mine.”

  “But I bet you gave Betty a real earful before tonight. All about how hard it’s been, entertaining my parents for a few days, putting up with your in-laws—even this ridiculous business about Mitzi stealing Max’s toy.”

  “As a matter of fact, I did have a chat with her about it. I needed to vent a little, mainly because your parents are such poor guests!” I hesitated, wondering if I should continue. But the words just kept coming. “And you haven’t been much help, catering to your mother’s obnoxious habits, not to mention her constant need to insult me.”

  “They’re staying in our house, surrounded by our possessions and your animals and our daily routines—of course they’ve been finding it stressful!”

  “Hey, I’m not the one who insisted they move into our phone booth of a house,” I pointed out. “What’s wrong with a hotel?”

  “Oh, that’s really hospitable, isn’t it?” Nick retorted. “‘Sure, Mom and Dad, we’d love to have you come visit. But don’t think for a minute that you’re welcome to stay with us. We’d much rather you check into an impersonal hotel that’s miles away from where we live…’”

  “Would that have been so terrible?” I asked. “Instead of expecting four adults to share one bathroom? Not to mention crawling all over one another every minute of the day—”

  “‘Every minute of the day?’” Nick repeated. “You’ve hardly been home since my parents got here! You’ve been too busy running around investigating the murder of someone you never even met!”

  “I explained the reason for my involvement in investigating Simon Wainwright’s murder, and it’s a very good one,” I returned. “I’m doing it for Betty.”

  “As if you’ve ever been able to resist poking your nose in where it doesn’t belong. Or maybe it’s just an excuse to distance yourself from me.”

  That last comment threw me. “What are you talking about, Nick?”

  “Haven’t you noticed that every time you and I have a chance to spend some time together, you sabotage it by getting involved in a murder investigation?”

  “That’s not true!”

  “Oh, no? What about Hawaii? What about the time you were in the charge of the Ask-the-Vet booth at that charity dog show in the Bromptons, and we had a chance for a romantic little getaway? But oh, no. You were too busy interviewing suspects to do any of the things normal couples do on vacation, like go sightseeing or snorkeling or—or—”

  “Both of those were just a coincidence,” I insisted.

  “And what about our regular life, when we hardly have any time together at all?” he continued. “With me in law school and you working crazy hours, it’s hard enough for us to have much of a life. And then you have to go and complicate things even further by taking on one more thing to do!”

  “Nick, that’s absolutely not the case!”

  “Well, it certainly seems that way to me. And this Simon Whatever-his-name-is is one more example. If you ask me, it’s a great way for you to distance yourself from me.”

  I just stared at him. These accusations were coming from out in left field. I couldn’t begin to process them.

  Yet as hurt and angry as I was, I couldn’t help wondering if maybe there was some truth to them.

  I was still trying to run through all the different scenarios that had drawn me into murder investigations in the past when Nick let out a long, deep sigh.

  “Look, I’ve been thinking,” he said, slumping against the side of my car. His voice suddenly sounded lower and much more controlled, and he was staring straight ahead so that his eyes were no longer locked on mine. “Maybe you and I should put our engagement on hold for a while.”

  I stiffened. “What?”

  He was still gazing off into the distance as he said, “I can see you’re not comfortable with it. Maybe you’re just not ready.”

  I was stunned. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.

  “I feel like a coerced you into this whole engagement thing,” he continued.

  “You didn’t coerce me.” My voice sounded weak and not particularly convincing. All the anger that had gripped me moments before had dissipated.

  “Well, it sure seems that way to me. And I think that maybe you need more time. That we need more time.”

  A tidal wave suddenly seemed to be rushing through my head. I felt dizzy and nauseous and, even worse, horribly alone.

  Swallowing hard, I said, “Okay, Nick. If that’s what you want.”

  I couldn’t be certain, but I thought a look of relief crossed his face. “Yeah,” he said. “It is.”

  By that point, I felt like Dorothy at the beginning of The Wizard of Oz. Not only was my house spinning through the air; all the wind had been knocked out of me because of it.

  In fact, as I watched Nick stride toward his car, acting as if walking away from me like this was the easiest, most natural thing in the world, I had to remind myself to breathe.

  Chapter 11

  “What if it was cats who invented technology…would they have TV shows starring rubber squeak toys?”

  —Douglas Coupland

  Early Thursday morning, I sat at the table—alone—forcing down a third cup of coffee without tasting it. My hope was that an extra large dose of caffeine would diminish the feeling that my head was stuck in a big, thick rain cloud. I also hoped that, somehow, all that coffee would magically infuse me with the energy required to get myself through the day.

  “Knock, knock!” Betty called cheerfully, opening the front door a few inches and poking her head inside. “Are you busy? Nick’s parents’ car isn’t here, and I figured he’d already left for school. I thought I might catch you alone.”

  “Nick’s parents are gone,” I replied, barely glancing up. “He talked them into staying in New York City for a few nights, then driving home from there. He even found a hotel on the Internet that takes dogs. They left last night.”

  “You must be happy about that!”

  I didn’t think I looked happy about that or anything else, but I let her comment pass. “What’s up?”

  “I’m afraid I have something rather sticky to discuss with you. Is this a good time, Jessica?”

  “Come on in,” I said dully, even though I wasn’t exactly in the mood for company.

&nbs
p; “It’s so dark in here,” Betty commented as she came inside. “Why don’t you turn on a light?”

  “Is it dark?” I said, without raising my eyes from the rim of my coffee mug. “I hadn’t noticed.”

  As soon as she flipped on a light switch and got a good look at my face, I guess she could tell that this wasn’t even close to “a good time.”

  “Jessica, what’s wrong?” she demanded. She sat down at the table and reached for my hand.

  As soon as she did, she gasped.

  I knew why. I’d taken off my engagement ring. “Nick broke off our engagement last night.” I choked out the words. “In fact, he didn’t sleep here last night. I guess he stayed in the city with his parents.”

  Betty’s mouth dropped open. “What happened?”

  I described the scene that had taken place in the restaurant parking lot the night before, after she and Winston had driven off. When I finished, she shook her head, meanwhile stretching her lips into a thin, straight line.

  “I don’t believe it,” she said staunchly. “It’s just a lovers’ quarrel. When people get engaged, they have arguments all the time. In fact, I’ve often wondered if it’s simply a way to reinforce their relationship, to demonstrate that even though there are rough patches, they still love each other and will somehow find a way to get through whatever adversity arises.

  “Besides,” she continued with the same vehemence, “having Nick’s parents here put a tremendous strain on you. It put pressure on Nick too, whether he’s aware of it or not. Goodness, that Dorothy Burby is enough to make anybody want to move to a deserted island. But this little spat of yours will blow over. I promise. Before you know it, Nick will be standing at the front door with a big bouquet of red roses in his arms.”

  “Thanks, Betty,” I said sincerely. Even though I didn’t believe her, it was nice to know that somebody thought our broken engagement was just a glitch, the result of nothing more serious than prewedding jitters.

  “So what did you want to talk to me about?” I asked. “You said it was something sticky.”

  “It hardly seems important right now,” she replied.

  “Try me. My brain could use something else to think about.”

  She hesitated for a moment. “It’s Chloe, Winston’s daughter.” Just then, Cat wandered over to say hello by rubbing against Betty’s leg. Betty picked her up and put her in her lap. “I’m afraid she’s decided that she wants to be my maid of honor. In fact, she was quite insistent when I spoke to her on the phone last night.” Stroking Cat distractedly, Betty added, “She practically threw a temper tantrum.”

  A wave of disappointment swept over me. But it took only about four seconds for me to realize that Chloe’s hissy fit meant I wouldn’t have to wear the green monster of a dress that was hanging in my closet. The same went for the dyed-to-match high heels that I knew were just waiting to trip me and maliciously break a few bones.

  “Betty, the last thing I want to do is make this wedding more stressful for you than it’s already turning out to be,” I said. “If you want Chloe to be your maid of honor instead of me, I understand completely. After all, she is Winston’s daughter.”

  “But his son James is the best man!” Betty cried. “It only seems fair that if Winston gets to choose his best man, then I should get to choose my maid of honor. And I want you!”

  I sighed, contemplating what a stroke of luck it was that both Winston’s children happened to live across the sea, far, far away. I only hoped that once the ceremony was over, they’d go back to being completely absorbed in their own lives, the way they usually were, and leave my poor friend alone.

  “How does Winston feel about this?” I asked.

  “Winston’s much too smart to get involved,” she told me. “He said he’ll leave it up to me to decide.”

  “Maybe you can have two maids of honor,” I suggested. “Or how about having none at all? Maybe we could all just be regular bridesmaids.”

  Or better yet, I thought, maybe you and Winston can sneak away to Hawaii and get married on a beach—alone.

  “No, I feel strongly about this,” Betty insisted. “I want you to be my maid of honor and that’s that.”

  “However it turns out, it’s fine with me,” I assured her. “Planning your wedding should be fun. This is supposed to be a happy time for you. I’ll go along with whatever you think is best.”

  “Thank you, Jessica.” Suddenly her facial muscles tensed. “On a much darker note, have you made any headway concerning Simon?” With a sigh, she added, “Winston may be steering clear of my conflict with his daughter, but he certainly hasn’t stopped pressuring me to quit the Port Players. As you know, I have my own concerns about there being a killer in our midst, but I’m finding that much less stressful than all the tension Simon’s murder has created between Winston and me.”

  I didn’t have the heart to tell her that while my list of suspects and their possible motivations was growing, I had yet to figure out who had actually killed Simon. It could have been Aziza Zorn, his possessive girlfriend, who might have flown into a rage Friday night because he announced he was ending their relationship. Or Lacey Croft, his jealous ex, who could have finally snapped after weeks of stalking him. Kyle Carlson, his longtime friend, could have been part of a love triangle with Simon—a triangle that was exclusively male and included Ian Norman, who could have been guilty as well. Then there was Gloria Stone, the Broadway producer with a nose for hits and flops, who might have murdered him for reasons that were related to money, rather than passion.

  “I’ve made some progress,” I replied. I kept my response intentionally vague, not wanting to add to her worries by naming some of the people she regularly saw at rehearsals. “Simon seems to have been one of those individuals who elicited strong reactions from whoever was around him. From what I can tell, people were just naturally attracted to him. And if they weren’t getting enough of him, they felt shortchanged.”

  “It certainly sounds as if you’ve gotten a good sense of who he was,” Betty commented, “even though you never actually knew him.” She shook her head slowly. “I don’t mean to pressure you, Jessica. I know you’re doing your best. I just thought that maybe you had some idea.”

  She stood up and carried Cat over to the couch, then deposited the feline on her favorite cushion. “I’m afraid I have to get going. I have an appointment with the caterer this morning.” Eyeing me critically, she asked, “Are you sure you’ll be okay here all by yourself?”

  “I’ll be fine,” I said. “Besides, I’ve got some calls to make.”

  “And we have rehearsal tonight,” she reminded me. “I’m sure you’ll be feeling better by then. In fact, you’ll probably be wearing one of those red roses in your hair.”

  “Maybe,” I said. But I wasn’t nearly as optimistic as she was.

  As soon as she left, the cottage felt horribly empty. So I was glad when I heard my cell phone calling to me.

  My heart thumped wildly as I grabbed it and glanced at the caller ID. But it wasn’t Nick. In fact, it was someone I didn’t feel much like talking to at all.

  I answered anyway.

  “Hi, Forrester,” I said, trying not to sound glum. “What’s up?”

  “Nothing much,” he replied. “Just a major break in the case.”

  Despite my gloom, he had definitely caught my attention. “What is it? What happened?”

  Instead of answering my question, he asked, “Have you had breakfast yet?”

  “Not exactly. Just too much coffee.”

  “In that case, let’s get together and talk. I know a terrific diner that’s only about two miles from where you live. I can meet you there in twenty minutes.”

  “Forrester, this isn’t a great time for me. If you could just tell me what—”

  “Come on, Popper,” he urged. “This is a good excuse for us to spend some quality time together.”

  Frankly, I wasn’t in the mood for spending quality time with anybody, muc
h less Forrester. Still, what difference did it make if I was miserable at home or sitting in a diner? Especially since consuming some so-called “comfort food” might actually turn out to provide me with some comfort?

  “Okay,” I agreed. “Where should I meet you?”

  My reluctance was already fading. Maybe distracting myself with something other than my failed love life would be good for me. Even if that distraction happened to be murder.

  “This is fun,” Forrester commented, glancing around the Spartan Diner as he stirred his coffee. “Kind of like a dress rehearsal for our first date.”

  Startled, I glanced up from the cheese omelet I was doing my best to force down my throat. “What date?” I asked.

  “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten our deal. Which, I’d like to point out, I’m living up to even as we speak.”

  His words were a powerful wake-up call, doing more to yank me out of my dazed state than all the caffeine I’d consumed. Our deal. Of course. I’d forgotten all about it.

  I suddenly understood how foolhardy I’d been.

  “Of course, in all my fantasies about the aforementioned first date, you look a lot better than you do right now.” Frowning, he looked me up and down, even though doing so required that he stick his head under the table to survey my bottom half.

  “What’s up, Popper?” he asked, sounding concerned. “You look like something the cat just dragged in—if you don’t mind me using a pet-related phrase.”

  “What’s wrong with the way I look?” I shot back.

  Grinning, he replied, “Nothing, really, if you happen to be one of those out-of-the-box thinkers who sees no reason for a person’s shoes to match.”

  Horrified, I glanced at my feet. He was right. I was wearing two different shoes. True, they were both black loafer-style shoes. But they weren’t from the same pair. When I’d dragged them out of my closet that morning, I hadn’t bothered to check.