Who's Kitten Who?

by Cynthia Baxter

  After signing in at the front desk, I dashed into Studio A. It was actually a pretty misleading name, considering the fact that the station had only one studio. The large room, its walls painted black, housed three different sets. One featured a big, important-looking desk at which two anchors sat and delivered the news. A second set was much homier, with two upholstered chairs and a table for more casual interviews.

  My set consisted of a counter that was elevated by a platform, with a wall of animals along the back. They happened to be stuffed animals, most of them in garish colors. I took my place on the stool behind the counter, positioning myself between a fuzzy pink elephant and a zebra with rainbow stripes.

  “Did you get the mannequin?” I asked anxiously as soon as Patti, the show’s producer, and Marlene, the production assistant, strolled in. “The one I need to demonstrate CPR?”

  Patti turned to Marlene. “Marlene, where’s our demo dummy?”

  Marlene grabbed a big black plastic bag, which I took as a good sign. So they had remembered. But then she pulled out a large, fluffy, orange stuffed animal with black stripes, huge eyes, and the biggest, cheesiest smile I’d ever seen. “Here you go, Jessie.”

  I blinked. “You expect me to perform CPR on Garfield?”

  “He’s big enough, isn’t he?” Marlene asked with concern. “And his orange fur will look great on TV.”

  “But it’s—it’s Garfield!”

  Marlene looked indignant. “Garfield is entitled to the same high-quality medical care as any other animal, isn’t he? I mean, he is a celebrity.”

  “But that’s the problem!” I insisted. “He’s—”

  “He also happens to be very comfortable appearing on television,” Marlene continued. “How many cats actually have their own TV show?”

  I can’t believe I’m having this discussion, I thought, trying not to panic. I wondered why on earth I had entrusted this task to people who saw the world only in terms of teasers and sound bites.

  But there was no time to agonize over the situation. As seemed to be the case all too often lately, it was showtime. The cameras were pointed right at me and the bright lights flashed on. I stashed Garfield under the counter as Patti began counting down the seconds before we went on the air live.

  “Five, four, three…” She held up two fingers, then one, as she mouthed the rest of the countdown.

  “I’m Dr. Jessica Popper,” I said brightly, reading the show’s scripted introduction from the teleprompter. “Welcome to Pet People, the program for people who are passionate about their pets.” Patti the perky producer was plainly passionate about the letter P.

  “Today I’d like to talk about CPR—cardiopulmonary resuscitation,” I went on. “I’m sure most of you have heard about using this valuable lifesaving technique on humans, but you may not realize it can also be used on animals. In fact, it’s a good idea for cat and dog owners to familiarize themselves with this technique in case they ever run into an emergency situation.

  “First, exactly what is CPR? It’s a way of helping an animal breathe in the event that his normal respiration fails and to keep blood circulating through his body if his heart stops doing its job. It’s important to note that CPR is performed on animals only when they’re unconscious and have little chance of survival, since there’s a risk of breaking their ribs while performing the procedure.”

  I did my best to maintain a dignified demeanor as I pulled Garfield out from under the counter.

  “I’d like to demonstrate how it’s done on this, uh, cat,” I continued.

  I held Garfield in front of the camera as if I was introducing him. Glancing up at the monitor, I saw that he was grinning at the folks out in TV land, looking as if he was loving all the attention. “As you can see, our, uh, patient looks as if he’s in pretty good health. So we’re going to have to use our imaginations and pretend he’s in respiratory or cardiac arrest. To help determine that this is the case, check for pale gums and dilated pupils.”

  I glanced at Garfield, noting that his pupils and gums looked just fine. But at least he wasn’t breathing, as far as I could tell. I laid him down on his back, so that his four fuzzy orange paws stuck up in the air.

  “Okay, the thing to remember is A, B, C,” I went on. “The first step, A, stands for airway. Start by pulling out the animal’s tongue and looking for obstructions. If there are any, remove them with your finger. The next step, B, stands for breathing. The technique I’m going to demonstrate is often referred to as ‘mouth to snout.’ Hold the animal’s mouth closed, inhale, and place your mouth over his nose and exhale. Then remove your mouth to give his lungs a chance to deflate.”

  As I put my mouth over my patient’s hard plastic nose, it collided with his large plastic teeth. But that wasn’t half as bad as getting a mouthful of fake fur. I wondered exactly where Marlene had gotten this particular Garfield, since he was molting like a canary.

  I finished my demonstration, then focused on the camera once again. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed that Patti was gesturing wildly, brushing her top lip. It took me a few seconds to figure out that she was trying to tell me to do the same. When I did, I discovered my own top lip was covered with orange Garfield fur.

  So much for maintaining my dignity, I thought.

  Still, I forged ahead. “Uh, next comes circulation, which is what the letter C stands for. Place both hands at the fourth through sixth rib, which is the area about a third of the way up the chest, starting at the sternum. Push downward firmly and steadily, like this….”

  At least Garfield’s overstuffed chest gave way, enabling me to show how quickly the technique needed to be done. Still, I could imagine the response we’d get from viewers during the show’s call-in segment. I could practically hear the disgruntled moms calling to complain about how traumatized their children were over seeing a vet performing emergency procedures on their beloved cartoon cat.

  What else could possibly go wrong? I wondered.

  I had to remind myself that that question was always dangerous to ask.

  With that week’s TV spot out of the way, the next major hurdle in my life—my upcoming date with Forrester—hovered over me like a rain cloud. As if I wasn’t already upset enough about what had happened between Nick and me, I now had to endure an entire evening with another man.

  At this point, I didn’t even want to think about it. In fact, I was glad I’d scheduled a bunch of appointments on Long Island’s South Fork for that day. Not only was work one of my favorite distractions; spending Friday afternoon on the island’s East End put me conveniently close to the Stones’ East Brompton home.

  I decided to use their dog, Bullseye, as my excuse for popping over. My cover story would be that I was soliciting new clients. I hoped that using the bull terrier’s name would be enough to get me in the door.

  It was mid-afternoon by the time I turned onto Parrish Avenue. Finding the right street turned out to be the easy part. Locating the actual numbers on the mansions, meanwhile, was a much bigger challenge than I’d anticipated. The people who lived in this neighborhood hadn’t exactly put out welcome mats. In fact, the houses were all hidden behind tall hedges or even taller chain-link fences that looked like overstock from Leavenworth.

  Even so, when I spotted the house at the end of the street, I had a feeling I’d found the right place. Given the Stones’ reputation as two of the brightest lights on Broadway, I pegged the largest, showiest house on the block as theirs. Of course, it didn’t hurt that the front gate’s design incorporated a swirling wrought-iron S.

  I couldn’t believe my luck when I saw that the gate was open. I drove through, parked in the semicircular driveway, and rang the doorbell. While I waited, I surveyed the tremendous, modernist residence, which was made of up several different levels that jutted out in what struck me as the strangest places. The front lawn was like green velvet, and there was a large fountain smack in the middle. Not my taste, but I could see how it might be Gloria’s.

>   The door was opened by a very tall, very lean African-American man. He was dressed in slacks and a pale blue V-neck sweater with nothing on underneath. If I had to venture a guess, I’d have said the sweater was cashmere and the pants were Armani or some other equally expensive designer.

  I did a better job of identifying the spunky bull terrier standing at his side. True to his breed, Bullseye had tiny brown eyes deeply set at the end of his long curved nose, perfectly erect ears, and a sturdy, muscular body. While many bull terriers are white, this one’s back, legs, and ears were brindle, a mixture of gray and brown. The breed is known for its ability to fight other dogs, but most bull terriers are extremely playful when they’re around people. From the way Bullseye was wagging his tail, I got the feeling this was one dog who knew his way around a Frisbee.

  “Is Sheldon Stone here?” I asked politely.

  “Sheldon’s not here. Neither is Glo, in case she was your second choice.” The man sniffed, then muttered, “Although it’s hard to imagine why she would be.”

  My ears pricked up like Max’s when he hears the hrmph, hrmph of a box of Milk-Bones being shaken. Still, I knew I had to proceed with caution. This gentleman appeared to have useful information about Gloria, and it was information he wasn’t shy about sharing. I didn’t want to scare him off before I’d even found out who he was.

  “I’m Jessie Popper,” I said. “I’m a veterinarian, and I’m here about Bullseye.”

  He stuck out his hand to shake. I noticed his fingernails had been carefully filed and buffed, and they appeared to be coated with clear polish. “I’m Cecil Callow, the Stones’ assistant. Is there anything I can help you with?”

  I handed him one of my business cards. “I have a mobile veterinary unit—a clinic-on-wheels,” I explained. “I have a number of clients in the area, and since the Stones have a dog, I thought they might want to consider using my services.”

  Cecil glanced at the card. “Reigning Cats and Dogs,” he read aloud. Peering over my shoulder at my van, he asked, “Is that your clinic?”

  “That’s right. It has everything I’d need to treat Bullseye right inside. A mobile office like mine doesn’t only save the client time; it’s also less stressful for the animal. A lot of dogs and cats find the experience of going to a vet’s office frightening, so having me come right to their home makes it a lot easier.”

  “How absolutely fabulous!” Cecil exclaimed. “And lately I’ve been getting stuck bringing Bullseye to the vet. I’ll be sure to tell them about you. Not that I have any power. Like I said, I’m just the assistant. And believe me, Gloria Stone isn’t big on taking advice from underlings.”

  Cecil was vocal enough about his attitude toward his employer that I decided to take a chance. “It doesn’t sound as if you’re experiencing a very high level of job satisfaction.”

  “Which is the main reason I’m only going to be here until I can find something else,” he replied sharply. “I’ve been working for the Stones for less than three months, but frankly, it’s been the longest three months of my life.”

  “I guess that’s not surprising,” I commented. “I’ve heard that Gloria—Glo—isn’t the easiest person in the world to get along with.”

  He snorted. “No kidding. Why do you think people call her Glo-Worm? It’s not exactly meant as a term of endearment.”

  From somewhere inside the house, the phone rang.

  “I really have to get that,” Cecil said, grimacing. “Glo has a hissy fit if I miss a single call. I’m hardly even allowed to go to the bathroom. You’d think no one had ever invented the answering machine. Look, why don’t you come in for a minute?”

  Before I had a chance to respond, he hurried off. As I stepped inside, I saw that the interior was just as modern as the outside. The tremendous living room was furnished with stark, uncomfortable-looking furniture like angular couches and chairs upholstered in white and small, oddly-shaped tables on spindly legs. The tall glass sculpture looming in one corner looked as if it would break into a million pieces if you dared walk by it, while the oversize coffee table book on Provence was probably too heavy for anyone actually interested in looking at pictures of the south of France to lift. The huge fireplace that covered one wall had clearly never been used. Either that or whoever cleaned it had worked in a hospital before coming to the Stones’.

  Through the sliding glass doors that ran along the back of the house, I could see a large turquoise swimming pool. The water on two sides seemed to disappear, cascading over the side of the pool like a waterfall. Thanks to the Home & Garden Channel, I knew they were called vanishing edges—and that “infinity pools,” as they were known, were currently all the rage.

  While I waited, Bullseye and I became buddies, mainly because I’m such an expert at scratching dogs in all the right spots. After a minute or two, Cecil came striding back into the room, grumbling, “That stupid phone hasn’t stopped ringing all week. Everyone’s anxious about the Stones’ latest production.”

  “Which production is that?” I asked, putting on my innocent act.

  “A new musical they’re producing on Broadway.” He lowered himself onto one of the snow-white chairs, then gestured for me to do the same. “It was written by an unknown, which makes it riskier than usual. But it also makes it more exciting. The theater world is totally psyched about this show. A lot of people expect it to be the biggest hit since Cats. The usual fat cats have been lining up to invest, certain they’re going to make a ton of money.”

  He sighed tiredly. “That’s why they keep calling here every five seconds. They’re dying to know what’s going to happen with it.”

  “Why is its future suddenly in question?” I kept stroking Bullseye’s ears, hoping to give the impression I was more interested in the Stones’ dog than in the information I was pumping out of their assistant.

  “The person who wrote it, Simon Wainwright, just died,” Cecil explained. “There’s a lot of concern that his death might bring it to a halt. You see, Simon didn’t just write it; he was also supposed to star in it. Now that he’s gone, people are wondering if Gloria’s lost interest.”

  “Has she?” I asked.

  “Au contraire,” he replied with a haughty toss of his head. “The Glo-Worm is absolutely thrilled that Simon is suddenly out of the picture.”

  “Why?” I didn’t even try to hide my surprise.

  “Between you and me?” Cecil replied, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “Gloria had had second thoughts about Simon. Big time.”

  Once again, my ears pricked up like Max’s.

  “When negotiations began,” he continued, “Simon insisted on playing George Putnam, the male lead. Glo was so convinced she had a surefire hit on her hands that she was willing to agree to anything in order to make a deal. But as soon as the Stones signed on the dotted line, big name Broadway actors started coming out of the woodwork, begging for that role.

  “Gloria began to wonder if she’d made a mistake in agreeing to let an unknown like Simon Wainwright star in the show. She decided it was safer to go with a name. Chucky Winthrop, in fact. Not only had she and Shel worked with him before; he also won two Tony Awards, one of them for their production of The Hottest Summer.”

  “When did she have this change of heart?” I asked.

  “A couple of weeks ago. And once she’d decided she didn’t want Simon in the show, she and Shel argued about it nonstop. He kept insisting that Simon was perfect for the part. But eventually the usual thing happened: Glo worked on her poor husband until he finally agreed with her.

  “The problem was, they had a contract with Simon that specified he’d play George Putnam. They couldn’t get out of it unless Simon agreed. So Gloria came up with the bright idea of inviting him to the house, allegedly for a nice sociable dinner. But the real purpose was to drop the bomb about wanting to eliminate him from the cast.”

  “Were you at that dinner, Cecil?”

  “Unfortunately, I was.” Rolling his eyes, he sa
id, “Believe me, I took plenty of antacids before I sat down to that meal.”

  “What was Simon’s reaction?” I asked.

  He looked at me as if I’d just asked the stupidest question in the world. “Are you kidding? Simon had been trying to make it as an actor for years. There was no way he was going to walk away from an opportunity like this!

  “He and Glo ended up having a horrible fight. Sheldon didn’t get involved, of course. He’s one of the least confrontational people I’ve ever met. But Glo threw a major temper tantrum. By the time the entrées were served, she was screaming and pounding the table and threatening to sic her lawyers on him.”

  Not unlike her reaction in Suzanne’s waiting room, I reflected. “How did the evening end?”

  “With Simon stalking out of here in a rage,” Cecil replied. “It was a total nightmare. Glo didn’t calm down for days. In fact, she did nothing but stomp around the house, fuming. Sheldon tried to calm her down, of course, but she kept insisting she’d find a way to keep Simon out of the show.” With a shudder, he added, “She said horrible things like, ‘I’ll see Simon Wainwright dead before I see him in any production that’s got my name on it!’”

  “Cecil,” I asked, my heart pounding, “when did this dinner take place?”

  “Hmm, let me think.” Cecil grasped his chin with his hand, doing an impromptu imitation of the great Rodin sculpture “The Thinker.” “Not this week. It was the week before. Wednesday, I think. No, Thursday. It must have been Thursday.”

  Thursday, I thought. The night Simon had called Lacey, desperate to talk about something he was extremely upset about. It was also the night before he was murdered.

  “It sounds as if Gloria is really as nasty as people say,” I observed, straining to sound matter-of-fact. Cecil clearly knew the Stones a lot better than I did. So I was anxious to find out whether he felt that in addition to having an instinct for theaterical hits, Gloria Stone also possessed a killer instinct.