Who's Kitten Who?

by Cynthia Baxter

  “He’s not my boyfriend!” I cried.

  “And at this rate,” Forrester muttered, “I never will be.”

  “I—I was driving by and I saw your van parked outside,” Sunny went on, still flustered. “I thought I’d pop in to tell you about this cool idea I had. But we can talk some other time. I could call you or—”

  “No! Let’s talk right now!” I said. “This is a great time. In fact, Forrester was just saying that he wanted to talk to you. Isn’t this a stroke of luck?”

  Forrester cast me a wary look. “You’re not making this easy, Jess.”

  I could see the disappointment in his face. For the first time, I felt sorry for him. I was struck by the fact that he was doing a lot more than flirting. He really did have strong feelings for me.

  And I certainly knew how it felt to want somebody who didn’t want you back.

  “Do you guys mind if I turn on some lights?” Sunny asked. “It’s so dark in here.” She made a beeline for the wall and flipped a switch. The entire theater was immediately as bright as day.

  Blinking, I turned to Forrester. “I’m sorry,” I told him sincerely. “I just can’t do this.”

  “Now—or ever?” he asked.

  “Look, how about if I give you a call later, Jessie?” Sunny still sounded breathless. “I can see you two are…have stuff to talk about.”

  “No, don’t go, Sunny,” I told her. But my eyes were still locked with Forrester’s. “I just need a minute.”

  “I think you need a lot more than a minute,” Forrester said somberly.

  He ambled back to the chair and picked up his jacket. “Jessie, the ball is now officially in your court. You know where I stand. Call me when—if—you change your mind.”

  “Okay,” I replied in a near-whisper.

  Turning to Sunny, he said, “I’ve been trying to track you down. My name is Forrester Sloan, and I’m covering the Simon Wainwright case for Newsday. Can I have a few minutes of your time?”

  “Sure,” Sunny replied uncertainly. “Just let me talk to Jessie for a second. I’ll meet you in the lobby, okay?”

  “I’ll be waiting.” Glancing back at me, he added, “That happens to be something I’m really good at.”

  As I watched him walk away, I wondered if there was even a chance for Forrester and me. At the moment, I knew I was still too much in love with Nick to consider anyone else. I had no idea whether he would ever want me back. But I knew with more certainty than I’d ever felt before that I wanted him.

  I took a couple of deep breaths and turned to Sunny. “So what’s up? What’s this cool idea of yours?”

  “That you let me come work for you on a trial basis,” she said excitedly. “We can pick a time period, like two weeks or something. I’ll come along with you on your calls and you can teach me stuff. After the two weeks, if you think it’s working out, then we can talk about maybe—you know, making it, like, a permanent thing.”

  “Let me think about it,” I told her. Right now I wasn’t in a state of mind to focus on my job. I was too overwhelmed by the chaotic state of my love life, not to mention the fact that, from the looks of things, a murderer had just sent me a no-nonsense warning, one that happened to involve rats.

  “Great!” she said brightly. “And, listen, I really am sorry that I interrupted you and that guy. Forrester, or whatever his name is.”

  “That’s okay,” I reassured her. “In fact, you did me a favor.”

  It was only then that I realized my hands were shaking. How much of that was due to falling through a trapdoor and finding myself locked in the basement of the theater and how much was due to fending off the unexpected advances of Forrester Sloan, I couldn’t say.

  Chapter 16

  “A boy can learn a lot from a dog: obedience, loyalty, and the importance of turning around three times before lying down.”

  —Robert Benchley

  As I turned off Minnesauke Lane late that afternoon, I jerked my van to a halt in front of the two mailboxes that poked out of the overgrowth lining the driveway. Before driving on, I leafed through the usual assortment of junk mail, marveling over how many banks I’d never even heard of in states I’d never even been to were eager to offer me credit cards. I was actually startled when I came across an envelope that didn’t appear to be just one more unwanted solicitation.

  It was a standard white business-size envelope, addressed by hand. There was no return address, and the handwriting in which my name and address had been carefully printed wasn’t familiar. Each letter had been meticulously formed, the way kids learn cursive writing in school, without any of the flourishes most people add over time. I wondered if whoever had written it had purposely disguised his or her writing.

  You’re blowing this way out of proportion, I scolded myself, putting the van into drive and continuing toward my cottage. It’s probably a check from one of your clients or even one of those personal thank-you notes you get from time to time.

  Still, as soon as I went through the usual welcome-home routine with my pets, I got a knife and carefully slit the mysterious envelope open. I found a single sheet of white 8½-by-11-inch paper inside, folded into thirds and again in half. Nothing too unusual there, aside from the fact that I still couldn’t figure out who’d sent it.

  As soon as I started reading, a chill ran through me. My dearest Simon, the one-page typed letter began. It ended, Love forever and ever, Lacey.

  My heard pounded wildly as I read the entire letter.

  My dearest Simon,

  I know you think I should just accept your decision to go back to that BITCH and crawl away. There’s probably nothing you’d like better than having me DISAPPEAR.

  But that’s not going to happen. It’s not only because you BROKE MY HEART. It’s because I know that you and I belong TOGETHER. You love me and I love you. SHE is just a distraction. It’s like she cast a SPELL on you.

  I will make you understand that it’s ME you love. I can’t STAND knowing you’re with HER.

  I would rather see you DEAD than with HER. That’s how deep my LOVE for you is.

  I will make you understand, my dearest Simon. No matter what it takes.

  Love forever and ever,

  Lacey

  The piece of paper in front of me was exactly what Aziza had described: a threat disguised as a love letter. The wording even included the exact same phrase she’d mentioned: I would rather see you dead than with her.

  Yet it wasn’t signed. The name Lacey at the bottom was typed, just like the rest of the letter.

  That meant that while it could have been written by Lacey, it could also be a fake.

  I sank onto the couch, still holding the letter and still unconvinced that it served as proof that Lacey had been stalking Simon. Obviously, that was exactly what the person who had sent it to me wanted me to believe. As for who that person was, there were at least two contenders: Aziza and Kyle, the two people with whom I’d discussed Lacey’s alleged stalking of Simon.

  But anyone could have sent me this letter.

  I decided I had no choice but to hand it over to Lieutenant Falcone. Maybe Norfolk County Homicide would be able to do more with it than I could. After all, the department had the tools required to dust it for fingerprints—other than my own, of course—and even to match it to the computer printers that Lacey had access to, as well as the other suspects’ printers.

  Which would hopefully help determine if Lacey Croft really had killed Simon—or if this was simply a case of the real murderer trying to set her up.

  While Lacey Croft held a prominent place on my list of suspects, she wasn’t alone. Thanks to my ongoing distrust of both Kyle and Ian, I remained anxious to find out everything I could about the threesome that had begun referring to themselves as the Three Musk-Actors after a close encounter with too much tequila. Heading off to the college at which they’d met seemed like an excellent way to start the next morning.

  “Office of the Registrar,” a female voic
e answered crisply after I dialed the number I’d found on Brookside University’s Web site.

  “Good morning,” I began. “I’m trying to verify that two students named Kyle Carlson and Ian Norman attended Brookside as undergraduates. I’m not sure of the exact year, but I believe they would have been there about fifteen years ago.”

  “I’ll check,” she replied. “Do you mind if I put you on hold?”

  “Not at all.”

  While I waited, I slipped the letter that Lacey had allegedly written into a large envelope, figuring I’d drop it off at the Norfolk County Homicide office the first chance I got. I’d barely had a chance to scrawl Lieutenant Falcone’s name across the front when the woman got back on the phone.

  “Thanks for waiting,” she said. “I can verify that Kyle Carlson attended school here. He graduated in 1991. But I’m afraid I have no record of anyone named Ian Norman graduating from Brookside. And according to the law, I’m not allowed to give out any information about a student unless he or she actually graduated.”

  “Really.” That was a technicality I hadn’t heard about before. My voice reflected my disappointment as I asked, “You mean you can’t even tell me what years he was there?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t tell you anything,” she replied, sounding genuinely apologetic. She hesitated, then added, “But you might try talking to someone on the faculty. Somebody is bound to remember something.”

  After I thanked her and hung up, I immediately headed back to my computer—and the school’s Web site. I deposited Tinkerbell into my lap, enjoying the show as she amused herself with the metal button on my jeans. Then I clicked around until I located the theater department’s home page.

  In addition to information about upcoming productions, audition dates, and requirements for theater majors, the home page had a link to the list of the department’s faculty. I read the biographies of all six members. Only one of them had been there for more than a few years. In fact, Professor Garth Hendricks had been there for over twenty.

  I jotted down his name and phone number, then dialed, even though I had yet to figure out exactly what I was going to say.

  After five rings, a tape came on. “This is Garth Hendricks, chair of the Brookside University theater department. I’m not in my office, so please leave a message after the tone. Cast and crew members of our current production, just a reminder that there’s a dress rehearsal this evening, Wednesday, at eight o’clock in Morgan Hall. Cast call is an hour before.”

  Since I couldn’t reach Professor Hendricks by phone, I decided to pay him a visit. After all, I was feeling pretty comfortable around theater folk these days. If there was a rehearsal that night, I’d be there.

  Once again, the theater beckoned.

  The few times I’d visited the Brookside University campus had been during the day. At night, the maze of roads, parking lots, and imposing buildings had an unfamiliar feeling. I kept checking the map I’d printed off the Internet, peering at the tiny print in the dim overhead light of my VW.

  Morgan Hall was located in the center of campus, a five-minute walk from the nearest parking lot. It was only seven-thirty as I trekked across the quad, and students were still streaming along the pathways that crisscrossed the stretches of grass. I kept checking their faces, both hoping and dreading that one of them would turn out to be Nick’s. None did.

  Reminding myself that I was here for a much nobler reason than staging an unexpected encounter with my former fiancé, I marched purposefully up the concrete steps that led to Morgan Hall. When I pulled open the heavy doors, I found myself in the lobby of the Michelmore Theater.

  I grabbed the first person I found, a young woman wearing jeans and a black turtleneck and clutching a clipboard.

  “Excuse me,” I said. “I’m looking for Professor Hendricks.”

  “Check the dressing rooms,” she answered automatically. “They’re down that hallway.” Then, peering at me, she added, “We’re doing a run-through in about twenty minutes. This isn’t the best time.”

  “I’ll be quick,” I assured her. I knew firsthand how raw nerves could be when opening night was getting close.

  I headed backstage, where people in costumes were dashing around. The atmosphere was frantic. Or at least that was my impression, now that I was able to appreciate everything that went into making the production onstage look seamless.

  “Is Professor Hendricks here?” I asked one of the few people who didn’t look overly harried. I figured that the young man, probably a student, was part of the technical crew.

  “Garth? He’s right in there,” he replied, pointing at one of the doorways.

  “Thanks.”

  But when I glanced inside, instead of Professor Hendricks, I spotted a woman. One who happened to be unusually unattractive, I couldn’t help thinking. Despite her large frame, she was wearing an unflattering dress splashed with huge flowers in clashing shades of orange, yellow, and green. The thick stockings that encased her beefy calves gave her skin an orange tinge, and her wide feet looked as if they’d been stuffed into her clunky-heeled shoes with a garden spade. Her large head of curly hair was the same brassy shade of orange as her legs. And while I was no expert on theatrical makeup, even I could tell she’d gone overboard with her thick false eyelashes, iridescent blue eye shadow, and bright red lipstick.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, backing away. “I was looking for Professor Hendricks. I don’t suppose—”

  “How can I help you?” the woman asked in a husky voice.

  “It’s actually Professor Hendricks I need to speak with.”

  “You’ve got him.”

  I blinked, not certain how to continue this conversation, which was starting to sound a lot like the famous “Who’s On First?” routine. Then, slowly, I figured out what was happening.

  “You’re Professor Hendricks, aren’t you.” It was a statement, not a question.

  “That’s right.” A look of amusement crossed his face. “My costume. Of course. That’s what confused you.”

  “Sort of,” I admitted.

  “Good heavens. Tonight’s the dress rehearsal for La Cage Aux Folles. I’m playing the role of Albin Mougeotte. My character’s in drag during the second act, playing his alter ego Zaza Napoli. That’s why I’m dressed like this.”

  Now that I knew I was actually speaking to the man I’d come to see, I didn’t know whether to be relieved or shocked. I decided to go with the former.

  “Professor Hendricks, I can see you’re busy, so I’ll be quick. I understand you’ve been on the faculty of Brookside’s theater department for a long time.”

  “Since it was founded,” he said proudly. “That was back in the mid-eighties.”

  “I wanted to ask you about a few theater students who were here at Brookside about fifteen years ago,” I continued. “Do you remember a student named Simon Wainwright?”

  “Of course I remember Simon,” he replied, his expression softening. “How could I ever forget him? Of all the students I’ve had, he was the one who impressed me most. He was incredibly talented, not only as an actor but also as a playwright. He also had amazing determination and drive.”

  Professor Hendricks frowned. “But you probably knew all that. At least, if you read the papers. What happened to poor Simon is an unspeakable tragedy.”

  “Yes, it is,” I agreed somberly. “What about a student named Kyle Carlson? He and Simon were friends.”

  “I remember him too. Kyle still had a lot to learn, but I remember that he had great potential. He didn’t exactly have what some people call star quality, and my feeling was that he’d never make it as a leading man. But he was quite good at playing character parts. I remember him doing a fabulous job as Alfred Doolittle, Eliza Doolittle’s humorously tipsy father, in My Fair Lady. He was quite convincing. In fact, I remember thinking he’d be able to carve out a decent career for himself playing secondary roles.”

  Professor Hendricks frowned. “He did have a bit of a t
emper, however.”

  My ears pricked up like Max’s did whenever I uttered the magic words, “Want to go for a ride?”

  “What do you mean?” I asked cautiously. I held my breath, hoping Professor Hendricks wouldn’t consider it inappropriate to divulge this type of information about a former student.

  Instead, his eyes glazed, as if he was drifting back in time. “I remember how he reacted when he tried out for a lead role in Waiting for Godot. You know, the Samuel Beckett play? As always, I posted the results of the audition on the bulletin board outside the department office. I happened to be in there when he came by, and when he saw that he hadn’t gotten the part of Estragon, he practically threw a temper tantrum.”

  “I see.” This was certainly a side of Kyle Carlson that I hadn’t seen. Then again, it was possible that by now he’d outgrown such childish behavior. Fifteen years was a long time.

  “What about a student named Ian Norman?” I continued. “I believe he was friends with both Simon and—”

  “Damn!”

  “What?” I asked anxiously. The fact that I’d obviously hit a raw nerve made my heart flutter.

  “There’s a run in my stocking!”

  “Clear nail polish,” I said automatically. “What about Ian Norman?”

  “Really? Nail polish?” Professor Hendricks sounded impressed. “That’s ingenious.”

  No, it’s something most girls learn while they’re growing up, I thought.

  “Professor Hendricks,” I tried again, “do you remember a student named Ian Norman?”

  He thought for a few seconds, then shook his head, sending his wigful of curls dancing. “Can’t say I do.”

  Confused, I said, “But you remember Simon and Kyle. And the three of them were close friends. They took acting classes together here at Brookside. They even called themselves the Three Musk-Actors.”

  “I’m sorry. The name doesn’t mean a thing to me.”