Dead Canaries Don't Sing

by Cynthia Baxter

  “There’s got to be a reason they’re freaking out.” I stuck my head out of the doorway and saw they were both standing at the front door: Lou with his nose pressed against it, growling, Max barking his head off.

  Sure enough, seconds later I heard a knock. I noticed a look of disappointment cross Nick’s face. Or at least I thought that was what it was.

  At any rate, I was glad for the interruption. Talk about protecting me from myself.

  But then I opened the door and found Betty Vandervoort. The distraught look on her face didn’t match the cheerful silk fabric of her flowing kimono, bright oranges and reds depicting fat Buddhas against a background of splashy, exotic-looking flowers.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked, scooping up Max and grabbing Lou’s collar.

  “Oh, good,” she replied, looking past my shoulder. “Nick is here.”

  I braced myself for the usual lecture on how the two of us belonged together, made all the more embarrassing by the fact that Nick would actually be present for it. But the annoyance swiftly passed. The expression on my landlady’s face told me she was upset about something a lot worse than the sorry state of my love life.

  “Jessica, I just got a very strange phone call.”

  “From whom?”

  She shook her head. “Maybe if I had some idea, it wouldn’t have been quite as frightening.”

  “What did the caller say?” Nick asked evenly.

  Betty took a deep breath. “He said to tell my nosy next-door neighbor to mind her own business or she’d be very sorry.”

  It took a few seconds for my initial shock to pass.

  “Come in,” I insisted once I had regained my composure enough to remember my manners. Besides, Betty looked as if she needed to sit down even more than I did. Her lipstick, the same electric orange as the kimono’s fabric, was actually smeared, and she had considerably more glittery green eyeshadow on one lid than the other.

  I freed the dogs and commanded them, “Lie down.” Max and Lou reluctantly hit the floor.

  I led Betty to my comfortable chair and sat down opposite her. “Tell me again, Betty. Tell me exactly what happened.”

  “I was standing in the kitchen, about to make myself a cup of herbal tea. It’s something I do before I go to bed every night. The phone rang, which I thought was kind of odd, given how late it is. And on a Saturday night, no less.

  “Anyway, I picked it up and said hello. At first I didn’t hear anything. Just some breathing, so that I knew someone was at the other end of the line. I said hello again. And then this gruff voice, very low and kind of muffled, said, ‘Tell your nosy next-door neighbor to mind her own business or she’ll be very sorry.’ By the time I said, ‘Who is this?’ he’d hung up.”

  “He? You’re sure it was a male voice?” I asked.

  “A hundred percent sure.”

  “And it wasn’t a voice you recognized?”

  “No. It was hard to tell, because it sounded as if something was covering his mouth. But I don’t believe it was a voice I could place.”

  “Oh, boy,” Nick breathed. He’d been standing a few feet away from the two of us, leaning against the wall with his arms folded across his chest. “Are you okay, Betty?”

  She smiled up at him fondly. “I’m fine, Nick. And by the way, it’s good to see you.”

  “Good to see you, too, Betty,” he said sincerely. “It’s been a while.”

  “Too long.” Her smile faded. “I just wish it weren’t something like this that brought us together again.”

  Both of them turned to me. Their expectant looks worked like a truth serum.

  “There’s something I guess I should have mentioned before . . . I’m not sure about this, and in fact the more I think about it the more I think I’m just being paranoid—”

  “What?” Nick demanded.

  “I think that maybe—maybe—somebody’s been following me. I noticed a black Jeep behind me when I left Merrilee’s house, the day of the wake. I took kind of an unusual route from her house to your office, but the car stuck with me the whole way.”

  “And you didn’t think that was worth mentioning?” Nick snapped. “Even when you came into my office on Thursday, admitting that you’d been following Frack’s ex-wife around as if you were the Mod Squad or something—”

  “I didn’t follow Merrilee. She invited me.”

  “Under false pretenses, since you didn’t exactly—”

  “Would someone mind telling me what on God’s green earth you two are talking about?”

  Betty’s question shut both Nick and me up.

  “Our favorite veterinarian here has taken it upon herself to play Miss Marple.”

  “With a little help from a professional,” I couldn’t resist adding. “Isn’t that why you came here tonight? To offer your services?”

  Betty flashed me a meaningful look.

  “As a private investigator,” I added.

  “Jessie stumbled across a dead body a few days ago,” Nick said, “and for some reason that’s impossible for me to understand, she seems to feel it’s her responsibility to find the murderer.”

  “Yes, yes, I know all about that.” Betty waved her hand in the air. “And I told her from the start that I thought she should concentrate on more productive things.”

  “Why are you suddenly talking about me in the third person?” I interjected.

  “So you’re going to give all this up, Jessica, right?” Betty reached over and took my hand.

  “No.” I sat up a little straighter. “In fact, I’m going to put even more effort into finding out who killed Tommee Frack. I don’t like being threatened. Before, it was kind of like a game. A challenge. But now, it’s personal.”

  Betty cast Nick an exasperated look. “We’re not going to change her mind,” she told him.

  He groaned. “I know. Believe me, I know.”

  “In that case, Nick, I want you to promise me you’ll do everything in your power to keep her safe. I want you to follow her around as if you were her shadow and make sure she doesn’t do anything that will get her into trouble.”

  While I didn’t doubt that she was truly concerned about me, I also knew Betty well enough to suspect she had an ulterior motive for her request.

  “Don’t worry,” Nick assured Betty. “I’ll make sure she stays safe. Even if I have to follow her around twenty-four hours a day. Even if I have to sleep on her couch.”

  I couldn’t help wondering if he, too, had an ulterior motive.

  Chapter 7

  “If you play with a cat, you must not mind her scratch.”

  —Yiddish Proverb

  I’ll be fine,” I promised Nick and Betty as I shooed them out the door twenty minutes later. I appreciated their concern, but at the moment my head was so clouded from fatigue, wine, and drama that all I was interested in was a good night’s sleep.

  Maybe this whole detecting notion really is insane, I thought before drifting off. I burrowed beneath my cloud of a comforter, warmed by the cat curled up at my shoulder, the Dalmatian crushing my feet, and the Westie glommed onto my thigh. And remembered that life didn’t have to be so complicated.

  Maybe it was time to forget all about Tommee Frack. Even though I was finding the investigation of his murder the first interesting thing that had come into my life since—well, since Nick had exited from it—maybe the fact that one of my dearest friends was getting creepy phone calls late at night was a good enough reason to call it quits. The prospect of returning to what, in my case, passed for normal life, suddenly had a certain appeal. Like the animals beside me, I could go back to focusing on the things that really mattered: eating, sleeping, and occasionally nestling beside someone in bed.

  I still felt the same appreciation for my simple, unencumbered life two days later as Max, Lou, and I piled into the van and headed for my first Monday morning appointment. Lindsay Weinstein was a new client, one I’d spoken to on the phone but never met.

  I understood her int
erest in a mobile veterinarian’s services as soon she answered the door. She looked as if she were at least seven months pregnant. Behind her, I could see a pair of twin boys about three years old watching cartoons on television. The living room carpet was littered with tiny plastic cars, puzzle pieces, Legos, Lincoln Logs, and a package of Oreos that looked as if it had exploded. The TV’s volume was turned up so high that the sounds of thundering engines and ear-splitting machine-gun fire shook the room. The boys were arguing viciously over a grotesque plastic action figure that looked like something out of a nightmare. Somehow, their behavior didn’t quite mesh with their thick golden curls, cherubic features, and innocent blue eyes.

  “Mrs. Weinstein?”

  “Please call me Lindsay. Thanks so much for coming, Dr. Popper. I . . . Boys, will you please turn down the TV? I’ve told you at least a dozen times . . .”

  “It’s mine!” one of the pint-sized angels squealed, completely ignoring his mother’s request.

  “Anyway,” she continued loudly, distractedly pushing back a limp strand of blond hair that had come loose from her ponytail, “I used to go to the vet right here in town, but these days, it’s—”

  “Give it back!” the other boy yelled. “It’s my turn! Gimme that!”

  “I’m telling Mom!” his twin brother whined. “Mo-o-o-om!”

  “Jason, give Dr. Destroyer to Justin. Let him have a turn. And please, turn that TV down!” She laughed self-consciously. “As I was saying, between having two little ones at home and the fact that I can hardly fit behind a steering wheel, it’s next to impossible for me to get out of the house.”

  “You said on the phone your German Shorthaired Pointer seems to have pulled a muscle?”

  “Mo-o-om! Jason won’t give it to me! Let go, you stupid jerk! Mom said!”

  Lindsay just let out a deep, tired sigh. “What I wouldn’t give for a nap right now! Anyway, King’s in the kitchen. It’s back here.”

  As we passed the TV, she turned down the volume. I wasn’t surprised that little Jason and Justin instantly began to wail.

  I found the pointer curled up in his dog bed. As we approached, he wagged his tail halfheartedly but barely lifted his head.

  “He’s just not himself,” Lindsay told me. “He’s usually so active—it’s like he can’t get enough exercise. My husband jogs three miles every morning before work, and King is always right beside him. But lately, he won’t run at all.”

  “Hey, King,” I greeted him softly. I slowly extended my hand, palm out, for him to sniff. He didn’t even raise his head. “Mrs. Weinstein, does King spend any time in the woods or open fields?”

  “Sure. You’re thinking Lyme disease, right? We also thought of that, but he’s had his Lyme shot.”

  “Unfortunately, they’re only about eighty-five to ninety percent effective. I’d like to take him into the van and have a look.”

  As I started out the front door with the dog in tow, I heard a loud crash behind me in the living room. I didn’t even turn to see what it was.

  When I examined King, I found he had a high fever, as well as swollen lymph nodes behind his knee and ankle. This was one sick animal. Lyme disease was a definite possibility, as was another potentially serious tick-born disease, ehrlichiosis.

  I pulled a foil packet out of the Styrofoam ice chest. For a mobile unit like mine, Snap Tests are a godsend, an easy way to check for the organisms that cause Lyme, ehrlichiosis, and heartworm. I drew blood and added a couple of drops to the activator in the package, then poured the mixture into the small plastic device, pressing down until I heard a snap.

  During the eight minutes it took for the results, I ran my hand over King’s smooth brown head and talked to him softly. “You’re going to be fine,” I assured him in a gentle voice. “You poor thing. I wish I could just make it all go away. . . .” The pointer just looked up at me sadly. Even Max and Lou kept their distance, sensing this was one dog who was in no mood to play.

  Given the severity of King’s symptoms, I wasn’t surprised that he tested positive for both ehrlichiosis and Lyme.

  “Okay, King,” I said softly. “Now that we know what’s wrong, we’ll have you chasing rabbits again in no time.”

  I found Lindsay hovering near the front door, waiting for me. “Is he okay?” she asked anxiously.

  “King tested positive for Lyme, along with another disease dogs get from ticks, ehrlichiosis.”

  She frowned. “I never heard of that second one. Is it serious?”

  “It can be. If it’s left untreated, it can cause neurological disorders, kidney disease . . . and in some cases it can even be fatal. Fortunately, we caught it in time.”

  “That’s a relief! King is part of our family! The kids are so attached to him. . . .” A look of alarm suddenly crossed her face. She gasped, placing both hands on her belly protectively. “Oh, my God. It’s not contagious, is it?”

  “No, you have nothing to worry about. And while King is seriously ill, the treatment is extremely effective. I’m going to put him on an antibiotic, doxycycline, for two weeks for the ehrlichiosis, then a month of amoxicillin for Lyme. I’m also going to give you an antitick collar. . . .”

  “Mom, Justin took my cookie! Make him give it back! Mo-o-o-om! ”

  I helped King back into the house and left feeling pleased that I was able to help Lindsay Weinstein’s dog. I wondered what it must have been like for animals and their owners in the days before we had access to all the treatments we took for granted these days. As heartbreaking as it was to see a dog as sick as King, I knew that, thanks to the antibiotics, he’d be his usual self in just a few days.

  Seeing Lindsay’s situation also made me appreciate my own freedom. The thought of being homebound the way she was, even for a short time, made my skin crawl. Little kids are cute, I thought as I drove away, but I’ll take a puppy or a kitten any day.

  By the time I returned home late in the afternoon, tired from a long day of back-to-back calls that had me zigzagging all over Norfolk County, I’d all but forgotten about Tommee Frack. A strong hot cup of coffee was a much higher priority.

  The blinking light on my answering machine caught my eye as I made a beeline for the kitchen, nearly tripping over Cat, who was crouched on the floor intently watching a dust bunny skip across the room. I pressed the button and kept walking.

  The sound of a familiar voice, one I hadn’t heard in some time, stopped me in my tracks.

  “Good afternoon,” a woman said crisply. “I’m calling for Dr. Jessica Popper. This is Vanda Jackson of the New York State Department of Agriculture and Markets. I’ve managed to obtain the information you requested. Please call me at your earliest convenience.” The message ended with a phone number.

  Forgetting all about my need for caffeine, I grabbed the receiver and dialed.

  “My, my! Aren’t we getting formal!” I teased Vanda after she answered her phone with the same businesslike tone.

  “It’s my work voice,” she returned. “When I left you that message, my boss was standing right behind me.”

  “Hey, this is legitimate business. I assure you that any information you give me will be used in a productive way. I personally guarantee that the taxpayers of New York State will sleep a whole lot better.”

  “Sounds mysterious. I don’t think I want to know any more.”

  Like me, Vanda was a native Long Islander. But when she was in the ninth grade, her family moved upstate to a suburb of Albany. We’d kept in touch ever since. First we’d written each other long letters on flowered stationery, pouring out every detail of our current crush. Then we became E-mail buddies. Even though we hadn’t actually laid eyes on each other in years, I still considered her part of my Active Friend file. It was pure luck that she ended up working in the New York State government office whose functions included handling dog licenses.

  “Did you find out anything about those names I gave you?” I asked eagerly.

  “A few turned out to be regi
stered dog owners. Why don’t I just E-mail all the information?”

  “Perfect. And thanks, Vanda. You are such a doll.”

  “Forget that. Tell me what’s going on with you and Nick.”

  Et tu, Vanda? I was tempted to cry. Maybe I was the victim of a statewide conspiracy, designed to throw me into the arms of one Nick Burby. Not that I could blame her for asking. Nick had been the subject of so many E-mails and phone calls that I suspected he was one topic of conversation I’d never be rid of.

  “No news on that front,” I told her firmly. “At this point, he and I are just good friends. We talk now and then. That’s it.”

  Up in Albany, Vanda sighed. “It’s your decision, Jess. But I can’t imagine him not being an important part of your life anymore.”

  I hung up the phone and logged on to my computer, determined to concentrate on the information Vanda had gotten for me instead of on her well-meaning advice concerning my lack of a love life. As Cat leaped into my lap for her usual ear scratching, I scanned the list of new E-mail messages. Sure enough, there was an E-mail from Vanda.

  “Yes!” I breathed after clicking on it. The phone numbers and registration details that she’d sent were exactly what I needed.

  I clicked “Print,” meanwhile studying the names and phone numbers on the screen. As I did, I remembered an idea that had popped into my mind once or twice in the past couple of days. Something about abandoning the investigation, some wild ruminations about Just Saying No to snooping around.

  What could I have been thinking?

  Still carrying Cat, I snatched the list out of the printer and headed straight for the coffeepot. My head spun as I worked out a strategy. I now had a whole list of people to question, each of whom could be considered a prime suspect in Tommee Frack’s murder.

  And I already knew who headed the list.

  A dozen butterflies played tag in my stomach on Tuesday afternoon as I veered off Old Oaks Road and onto the street that led to Barbara Delmonico’s home. I’ve never been very good at telling even white lies, and up until this point, I hadn’t had to. True, I’d allowed Merrilee to assume that I’d taken care of her ex-husband’s Dobermans, but that was as far as my need for deception had gone.