Who's Kitten Who?

by Cynthia Baxter

  “Then there are the hygiene issues,” Forrester continued.

  I stiffened. Bad breath? Body odor? I desperately tried to figure out what he might be referring to.

  “I guess you were so busy with your creative approach to footwear this morning that you forgot to brush your hair,” he said gently.

  “Is that all?” I was actually relieved that strangers on the street weren’t shrinking away from me in horror as I walked by. Aside from those who happened to be in the hairstyling business. “It’s possible,” I admitted. “I guess I wasn’t all that focused this morning.”

  “That would certainly explain why you’re not about to win the Good Grooming Award.” He had that annoying look of amusement on his face, as if he somehow found my personal failings charming.

  I realized I had to change the subject as quickly as I could. The last thing I wanted was for Forrester to start speculating about the real reason I was giving new meaning to the phrase dress-down Friday. Especially since it was only Thursday.

  “Can we please talk about the case?” I asked, sounding as businesslike as I could. “That is why I came. What’s the big news you wanted to tell me?”

  “The police have identified the murder weapon.”

  I gasped. That was big news.

  “What is it? A billy club? A metal pipe?”

  “Would you believe a ceramic Buddha?”

  I blinked. “You’re joking.”

  “I’m not. Apparently it was one of the props the Port Players used in last year’s production of The King and I. I hadn’t realized that Buddhism is the national religion of Thailand, where the musical is set. Anyway, somebody in the cast had noticed it in the props closet and thought it was cute. So she put it in the men’s dressing room, just to be funny.

  “According to Derek, the cast members were always messing with the props, using them for practical jokes or whatever. It wasn’t until the police figured out that the Buddha was the murder weapon that anyone even realized it had vanished from the dressing room.”

  “Where did the cops find it?” I demanded. “And how do they know it was used to kill Simon?”

  “It was way in the back of the props closet.”

  So Sunny was right, I thought. The murder weapon was one of the props—and the killer stashed it in the closet. That girl has a good head on her shoulders.

  However, my next thought wasn’t nearly as complimentary: What if Theater One’s unorthodox cleaning lady knew more than she was letting on?

  “As for how they know it was used to kill Simon,” Forrester continued, “they found blood, hair, and skin cells that matched Simon’s smeared on the surface. The shape of his head wound was also consistent with the contours of the statue.”

  “But no fingerprints?” I asked.

  “Not a one.” With a shrug, he said, “Okay, so it’s not cut and dried. That doesn’t mean you and I can’t put our two brilliant heads together and try to figure out who killed Simon. After all, now that we know the murder weapon, we’re that much closer to figuring out who the murderer was.”

  “Are we?” I countered. “Anyone could have smashed poor Simon in the head with that Buddha and then tried to hide it in the props closet. In fact, I have a list of people who could have done exactly that.”

  He laughed. “I thought you might.”

  Eagerly, I reached into my purse and pulled out the list I’d compiled. It occurred to me that it really felt good to have something other than Nick to think about.

  “I didn’t know you had an actual list,” Forrester commented. “I assumed you were talking about a mental list.”

  “I find it helpful to see the names right in front of me,” I explained. Glancing down, I told him, “Lacey Croft is first.”

  Forrester nodded. “The police have suspected her from the start. But that’s mainly because she found his body and called 911.”

  “She’s also the woman scorned.”

  “So I’ve heard,” he said. “What do you know about her?”

  I filled him in on what Aziza had told me about Lacey Croft’s brief affair with Simon, as well as the extreme reaction she claimed her rival had had when he came back to her. I also told him about the comments Kyle had made about Lacey and his unwavering insistence that she was the killer.

  “When you spoke to Aziza,” I asked, “did she tell you about Lacey stalking Simon?”

  “She did. She also admitted that she couldn’t prove it. I figured I’d ask around and see if anyone else knows anything about that.”

  “You might try Kyle Carlson,” I suggested. “I made a house call to treat his dog Monty a couple of days ago. But I hadn’t heard Aziza’s claim about the stalking business yet, so I didn’t ask him about it.

  “Of course, both Kyle and Aziza are on my list of suspects too,” I added. “That makes anything they say…well, suspect.”

  “Aziza is high on my list too,” Forrester said. Teasingly, he added, “My mental list, that is.”

  “Simply because she is—was—Simon’s girlfriend?”

  “It’s always a good idea to look close to home,” he replied. “Although I talked to her a couple of days ago and she seemed pretty broken up about Simon’s death.”

  “She’s an actress,” I pointed out. “Fooling people is something she’s particularly good at. She’s also a looker, which may have influenced you.”

  “Aw, my heart’s already been stolen,” he commented. “I’m not interested in other women.”

  I chose to ignore him. “Besides, there’s something about her I just don’t trust. Did you know Aziza isn’t her real name? Apparently it’s something much more ordinary, like Ann or Anna.”

  “Nothing wrong with changing your name,” Forrester said. “Especially if you’re in the thee-ah-tah.”

  “I suppose.”

  “What about Kyle?” Forrester asked.

  “He claims that he and Simon were best friends since their college days. But there’s something about him that just doesn’t ring true.” I thought for a few seconds before adding, “His roommate too. Ian Norman. It’s nothing I can put my finger on, but I can’t help feeling there’s something fishy going on there.”

  “Maybe Kyle and Simon were more than friends,” Forrester said. “Maybe Ian and Simon were more than friends. Who knows? Maybe all three of them were more than friends.”

  “All those possibilities have occurred to me too,” I said thoughtfully. “Although that raises the question of why Simon was involved with both Aziza and Lacey over the past few months.”

  “And don’t forget that Kyle has an alibi,” Forrester pointed out. “His roommate swears he was with him from late Friday afternoon until the following morning when Simon showed up dead.”

  “Maybe Ian’s just covering for him. Or maybe Kyle’s covering for Ian. Why couldn’t Ian be the murderer?”

  Forrester looked at me skeptically. “A long shot, Popper. What do you know about Ian Norman’s history with Simon?”

  “Apparently Simon, Ian, and Kyle were all buddies in college,” I explained. “Then Kyle and Simon paired off, probably because of their shared love of the theater. As for Ian, he seems to have dropped out of the threesome quite a while ago. But he’s back in the picture now that he and Kyle are roomies.”

  “If not lovers.”

  “Exactly. At any rate, he’s someone I’d definitely like to find out more about. Maybe some old feud from their college days resurfaced. Or maybe something more recent caused bad blood between them.”

  “Okay, so we’ll keep Kyle on the list of suspects, even with his alibi,” Forrester said. “Ian too, just in case we’re missing something. Who else is on that list? Anybody else from the Port Players?”

  “No, but that’s only because I’ve been focusing on people who were especially close to Simon. Do you think there’s anyone I’ve overlooked? The director, Derek Albright? Or Jill D’Angelo, the choreographer? Or anyone else in the cast and crew?”

  “Just a
bout everyone in the group who had any sort of relationship with Simon has a solid alibi. According to Falcone, Albright went to the opening of a new Off-Off-Broadway play Friday night. The cast party afterward too. The three people he drove back to Long Island with swear he didn’t get home until almost dawn.

  “And Jill D’Angelo was with about twenty members of her extended family, celebrating some great-aunt’s eightieth birthday. They have videos and everything. Any other ideas?”

  “What do you know about Sheldon and Gloria Stone?”

  He narrowed his gray-blue eyes. “I’ve heard of them. Big-time producers on Broadway, right?”

  “Exactly. From what I understand, they were getting ready to put Simon’s play on Broadway.”

  “Interesting.”

  “Very interesting. Especially if you’ve ever met them. Sheldon comes off as the sweetest, most charming guy you’d ever want to meet. Gloria, meanwhile, is brash, self-centered, and totally obnoxious.”

  Forrester laughed. “Don’t hold back, Popper. Tell me what you really think.”

  “She’s also the one who’s generally given credit for having an uncanny instinct for picking hits,” I added.

  “If they were interested in putting Simon’s play on Broadway, is there any reason they would have wanted him dead?”

  “I can’t answer that,” I replied. “But I’m going to try to find out. Simon apparently had a complicated love life. But money is just as likely to be the reason behind a murder. As producers, the Stones weren’t only putting their reputation on the line. They would also have been responsible for a lot of money—other people’s money. Millions, in fact. I learned that it costs at least ten million dollars to produce a musical on Broadway. Isn’t follow the money one of the first things you learn as a journalist? Strikes me as a wise thing to do in a murder investigation too.”

  “Makes sense,” Forrester agreed. “Let me know what you find out.”

  “Will do.”

  “Got any other suspects? How about someone who wasn’t connected to Simon’s life in the theater?”

  I sighed. “I’m convinced that whoever killed him was involved in that world. It was so much a part of him. In fact, I don’t think he had much of a life outside it. Betty told me herself that he was always at Theater One. Apparently he didn’t care about anything else, not even his day jobs. They were just a way to finance his passion for acting and writing.”

  “So that’s it?”

  “That’s all she wrote.” I folded up the list and put it back into my purse.

  As I did, Forrester reached across the table and grabbed my hand. “Hey, where’s the Hope diamond?”

  I could feel my cheeks reddening. “I took it off.”

  “Too heavy to drag around all day?”

  I tried to come up with a response. Something clever, or at least something evasive. Instead, I said, “You were right. My engagement didn’t last. It’s over.”

  “I see.” His voice remained calm, but there was definitely a glint in his eye I hadn’t seen before.

  Scowling, I added, “I hope you’re not going to say, ‘I told you so.’”

  “Naw. I’m much too classy a guy for that.” He hesitated before adding, “I’m not surprised, of course. I’ve sensed all along how ambivalent you were.”

  “It wasn’t me, okay?” I shot back, loudly enough for the entire clientele of the Spartan Diner to hear me. “It was Nick’s idea.”

  A look of surprise crossed his face. “No kidding.” I could practically hear the wheels turning in his head. “His loss. So this means it’s time for you to fulfill your part of the deal. You know, the one we made about—”

  “I know exactly what you mean, and I can’t believe you actually have the bad taste to bring it up,” I said crossly. “And here you were just telling me what a classy guy you are.”

  “Nothing classy about reneging on a deal,” he said. “And you and I made an agreement. One that I’ve been living up to. In fact, just by being here, I’m living up to it. Now it’s your turn.”

  “Forrester, the last thing in the world I want to do is go out with you.” Trying to be at least a little diplomatic, I added, “Or anybody else, for that matter.”

  “That may be true, but a deal’s a deal.”

  I just glowered at him.

  “C’mon, Popper. It’ll be good for you to get out. It might even be fun.”

  “I really can’t—”

  “You can get all dressed up, and I’ll take you to one of those fancy restaurants that serves weird food combinations like steak with peanut butter sauce. In fact, I’ll even call you Jessica instead of Popper. How does that sound?”

  “Like I’d much rather spend the evening with my animals.”

  He laughed. “We’re on for this Saturday night, Popper. I’ll pick you up at that little grass shack of yours at seven.”

  My head was spinning. It sounded like Forrester meant business. And he was right. I had made a deal with him. He’d lived up to its terms, and, at least in theory, now it was my turn.

  But Nick lived in that little grass shack with me—at least I thought he still did. If Forrester came to pick me up there…

  “Can’t I at least meet you at the restaurant?” I pleaded.

  “Nope. A date, by most people’s definitions, involves one party, usually the male, picking up the other party, who’s waiting anxiously at the door, all dressed up and ready to party. Seven o’clock, Popper. Sharp.”

  “Okay, okay,” I muttered.

  I didn’t have any energy left to protest. Not when Forrester had a perfectly valid point. I only hoped Nick would have found something else to do with his Saturday night besides hang around our cottage. I never thought I’d live to see this happen, but I actually found myself wishing his parents would have stayed through the weekend. That way, at least we’d have other people around as a distraction. And when Saturday night rolled around, I was sure they’d want to be out enjoying themselves—with their son.

  “And, Popper?” Forrester said, grinning at me as I picked up my fork and attacked my omelet.

  “What?”

  “Before we go out Saturday night—do me a favor and brush your hair, okay?”

  I just cast him the most scathing look I could muster.

  Even though Suzanne was one of my closest friends, I dreaded telling her about Nick and me. After all, the more I talked about it, the more real it became.

  But I needed her help with the investigation. Her veterinary practice was on Long Island’s South Fork, the bottom fin of what, on a map, looks like a fish tail. Poxabogue, where her office was, was one of the charming towns that made up the chic Bromptons. Because of its fabulous beaches and relative proximity to New York City, the area had been the summer playground of the superrich, the famous, and those who aspired to wealth, fame, or both for over a century. In recent years, more and more celebrities had begun making it their year-round home as well.

  Since Suzanne’s clientele included many key players in New York’s entertainment scene, there was a strong possibility that she was Sheldon and Gloria Stone’s veterinarian whenever they were staying at their weekend house on the East End. Even if she wasn’t, she was an integral enough part of the community that she was likely either to know where they lived or to know someone else who did.

  “Hi, Jess!” she said brightly when she found out who was calling. “It’s so great to hear from you!”

  “You might not think that once I tell you why I’m calling,” I replied. “I’m afraid I’ve got bad news and worse news.”

  “In that case, start with the worse news.”

  “You remember Betty Vandervoort, don’t you?” I began.

  Suzanne gasped. “Don’t tell me something’s happened to that lovely landlady of yours!”

  “She’s fine. She’s obsessed with planning her wedding. In fact, she’s probably driving the caterer crazy at this very minute, agonizing over which of eighteen different flavors of wedding c
ake to choose. The really bad news is about a friend of hers, someone who was in her theater group.”

  “‘Was’?” Suzanne repeated. “You mean he left?”

  “I mean he was murdered.”

  She gasped. “That’s awful! Who was it?”

  I filled her in on what I’d learned about Simon Wainwright, not only his death but also his life as a talented actor, singer, dancer, playwright, and lyricist.

  When I finished, she said, “That’s awful, Jess. I read about it in the paper, of course, but it never occurred to me that it was somebody Betty knew. If there’s anything I can do—”

  “As a matter of fact, there is,” I said. “I’m trying to find out whatever I can about a couple of theatrical producers who were apparently planning to back his show on Broadway. Their names are Sheldon and Gloria Stone. I don’t suppose they’re clients of yours?”

  She groaned. “They were. At least until Gloria drove me so insane that I told her to find another vet. And believe me, Jess, it’s not often that I turn away business. Do you have any idea how high the rents out here are?”

  “What was so bad about her?” I asked.

  “The woman has an incredible temper. Of course, I didn’t know that when she first started bringing her bull terrier here two or three years ago. What was his name? That’s right: Bullseye. I seem to recall he was a pretty nice dog.

  “Anyway, Bullseye developed severely inflamed skin, probably canine dermatitis. He kept chewing himself, poor guy. I’d treat it with antihistamines and he’d get rid of it for a while. But then it would come back and she’d get mad at me. I tried to explain that it could be an allergy to a certain food or dust or pollen—and that some dogs are even allergic to human dander. I told her that allergies are chronic, and that unless you address the source of the allergies, the problem is going to keep recurring.”

  She sighed tiredly, as though just thinking about her experience with Gloria Stone sapped her energy. “Look, you and I both know it takes time and effort to do the food allergy elimination trials and the blood tests that are required to find out what the dog is allergic to. But she refused to make the commitment to figure out the underlying cause. I don’t even think it was the money, because it’s not that expensive. It was more like she couldn’t be bothered. She wanted a quick, easy answer—and she was furious at me for not simply making the problem go away.