Dead Canaries Don't Sing

by Cynthia Baxter

  I’d felt the same nervousness the day before when I first called Barbara.

  “Ms. Delmonico?” I began. “My name is Jessica Popper. I’m a veterinarian based in Joshua’s Hollow.”

  At least that much was true. But as I muddled through the next part, I was certain I could feel my nose growing longer.

  “A client of mine owns two female Tibetan Terriers. She’s interested in breeding them, and she asked me to help her find a possible stud here on the island. I understand you own a male with quite an impressive pedigree . . . Karma Kai Li of Shangri-La Kennels?”

  “Oh, yes,” Barbara replied enthusiastically. “Karma is a beautiful animal. He’s registered with the American Kennel Club and the Tibetan Terrier Club of America.”

  “Would you consider breeding him?”

  “Certainly! I mean, I owe it to all the other people who love the breed the way I do. Karma is exceptional. Everybody tells me so.”

  As I’d suspected, the way to get to this woman was through her designer dog. But pulling off a charade like that over the phone was one thing. Now, it was time to try it out in person.

  Barbara’s condominium complex, Edwardian Estates, was a community of luxury town houses designed for the discriminating resident. I knew that because the sign out front told me so. As I drove up to the guard whose job it was to decide who was permitted to enter the gated community, I realized that every one of the dozen or so buildings was identical. They were all outfitted with gabled roofs, oval windows, and other architectural details I’d always associated with the Victorians, rather than the Edwardians.

  Somehow, the overall effect reminded me of Disneyland. Everything was too perfect, giving the impression the place was trying just a little too hard. Even the bushes were precisely manicured, as if renegade branches that took it upon themselves to grow faster than the others would not be tolerated here.

  Barbara answered the door seconds after I rang the bell.

  “Ms. Delmonico?” I said, acting as if I’d never seen her before. “I’m Dr. Popper.”

  “Come in,” she insisted, holding open the door. I was immediately surrounded by a cloud of pungent perfume. “Thank you so much for coming to the house. It’s so much more convenient than bringing Karma to your office.”

  “There’s my office, right there.” I pointed to my van, parked in the visitors section between a Jaguar and a Lexus. I figured it lent legitimacy to my visit.

  Up close, I could see she was a bit older than I’d assumed she was the first time I’d seen her, when she’d made her dramatic entrance at Tommee’s funeral. The tiny wrinkles around her eyes added at least a decade to my original estimate of her age.

  Barbara gestured toward a sparsely furnished living room. “We can sit in here.”

  She was dressed in black again, but this time she wore a sleek pantsuit. It looked expensive, even to someone like me, whose fashion sense doesn’t go very far beyond knowing not to wear chukka boots to a formal event. Her outfit would have been tasteful if it weren’t for the fact that the cream-colored silk blouse she wore with it was open far enough to display a fascinating amount of cleavage. The edge of a lacy crimson bra was also exposed.

  Then there were her shoes, four-inch platforms fastened to her feet with rhinestone straps. These were bare enough to reveal three toe rings, as well as part of an ankle tattoo.

  “I made us some Deejarling,” she said.

  I thought I’d misunderstood what she’d said because of the chewing gum in her mouth. Then I realized she was simply mispronouncing “Darjeeling.”

  “Tea sounds lovely.”

  “I’ll see if the water’s boiling.”

  I watched her disappear into the kitchen. As I debated whether there was enough time to start ransacking drawers and peering under furniture, she stuck her head out of the doorway.

  “I forgot to aks you. Do you take lemon or sugar?”

  Aks. Her mispronunciation made my ears prick up like Max’s when he hears the crinkle of cellophane packaging.

  “Sugar, thanks.”

  She returned moments later, carrying a tray with a silver teapot and two dainty china cups. As she poured, I asked, “How did you get interested in Tibetan Terriers, Ms. Delmonico? It’s a fairly rare breed.”

  “I know.” She smiled broadly, as if pleased that I’d understood that that was the whole point. “I read about them in a magazine. Town & Country, I think. Or maybe The New Yorker. I’ve always been a dog lover. My family had dogs while I was growing up.”

  “Did you grow up on Long Island?”

  “Connecticut.”

  “Really? Where?”

  I was just making conversation, but her smile flickered, as if the question unnerved her.

  “Uh, northern Connecticut. The New England part. I went to a very prestigious girls’ boarding school up there.”

  She reached into her mouth, removed a wad of gray gum, and stuck it on the Limoges saucer.

  I was tempted to ask if that was something she’d learned at boarding school. Instead, I said, “How did you end up on Long Island?”

  “I moved to the New York area after I went to college. That was also in New England.”

  “Oh, really? What school?”

  “Vassar.”

  My eyebrows shot up. I immediately pulled them back into place.

  “After graduation, I moved to Manhattan to become a stockbroker. My parents were terribly disappointed, of course. I mean, my father is a surgeon and my mother’s a radiologist, and they expected me to follow in their footsteps. But I preferred the world of finance. Anyways, when I lived in the city, I spent most of my weekends out in the Hamptons, so I finally decided it was time to move out here.”

  There were so many things here that weren’t adding up that I wished I’d brought along a calculator. I was reminded of that children’s game, “What’s wrong with this picture?” The fact that Vassar was located in Poughkeepsie, New York, not even close to New England, was just the beginning. There was also her claim that both her parents were doctors. It didn’t jibe with the way she mangled the English language, not to mention her table manners.

  Then there was the idea that someone who spent weekends in the ultraposh Hamptons, rubbing elbows with the rich and famous on Long Island’s chic East End, would consider a suburban condo complex straight out of Fantasyland the next best thing.

  I wished I’d brought along my notebook. I didn’t want to forget a single detail.

  “But here I am, chatting away and wasting your time when you really came to look at Karma.” Barbara stood up. “I’ll get him.”

  Once again, I was dying to poke around. But I could hear her in the kitchen, opening the door of a metal cage.

  Oddly enough, that was the only sound I heard. Most pet owners can’t resist talking to their animals. I’ve witnessed many long, one-sided conversations between owners and their pets, everything from gerbils to tropical fish. But Barbara didn’t offer so much as a, “There you go, boy.”

  “This is him,” she announced.

  She didn’t have to. The bundle of fur that came bounding out of the kitchen was impossible to miss.

  Karma really was a beautiful example of the breed, which looks like a smaller version of a sheepdog. He shot right over to me, jumping up and placing his oversized paws on my knees, then delivering endless dog kisses to my nose and cheeks as he gazed up at me with dark, liquid eyes fringed with remarkably long eyelashes. I knew those lashes were no accident. They’re the breed’s best bet for keeping their hair out of their eyes. Nevertheless, they made it impossible not to fall in love with him immediately.

  “Well, look at you! Aren’t you a beauty?” I greeted him. I ran my fingers through his soft black and white fur, giving him a hard scratching. He twisted his body ecstatically in response, clearly craving more. “Hey, Karma! How’s my boy?

  “He’s absolutely gorgeous,” I told Barbara sincerely as Karma plopped down at my feet.

  She bea
med like a proud parent. “You know, they were originally bred by Tibetan monks in the Himalayas. And here’s something else that’s interesting: they’re not actually terriers. But in England, where they were first introduced to the Western world, they were classified as terriers because of their size.”

  Barbara Delmonico had clearly done her home-work.

  “He must be kind of high-maintenance, though.” I could feel how thick his fur was as I continued scratching him, this time concentrating on his neck.

  “I brush him all the time,” Barbara told me earnestly. “I guess you know they have two coats, a soft one underneath and a thick one on top. But it’s worth it. You wouldn’t believe how many people stop me to tell me how gorgeous he is. And most people have never even heard of the breed. I really get a kick out of telling people about his background. It makes him . . . special.”

  “They can be shy, you know.”

  “Not Karma. He’s extremely friendly.” She sounded oddly defensive.

  “And there are some other problems that are inherent in the breed. Genetic diseases, like hip dysplasia, a couple of eye diseases . . . that’s why my client wants to be careful about finding the right mate.” As do we all, I thought. “Would it be possible to see Karma’s medical records?”

  “They’re right upstairs. Make yourself comfortable and I’ll go get them.”

  I seized advantage of her absence to sneak a closer look at my surroundings. Karma looked on woefully as I roamed around, clearly distressed over having lost his expert scratcher. The few pieces of furniture, as well as the decorative touches, were all of the highest quality. I turned over a decorative blue bowl to confirm that it was Wedgwood. The crystal vase on the mantlepiece was Baccarat.

  Even if I hadn’t been casing the joint, I wouldn’t have missed the only personal item in the room. The photograph of Barbara and Tommee, she in a clingy black evening gown and he in a tux, was prominently displayed in an elaborate frame. I recognized it from the Tiffany catalog I regularly received in the mail, proof that American business doesn’t really know as much about each individual’s buying habits as they claim.

  I hastily put the photograph back when I heard Barbara coming down the stairs.

  “Here are the medical records. As you can see, Karma has gotten the best care possible. He’s had all his shots and he’s never been sick. I never feed him from the table. He gets Science Diet.”

  I studied the bills, each one spelling out exactly what treatment Karma had received and when. But I was less interested in the thoroughness of Barbara’s record-keeping and her pet-care habits than I was in the name of her veterinarian.

  Marcus Scruggs, D.V.M.

  Not exactly my favorite person in the world, but someone who might be able to supply me with useful information about the woman who’d so very nearly become Tommee Frack’s trophy wife.

  “Would you mind if I gave Dr. Scruggs a call?” I asked casually.

  “Of course not. Aks him whatever you want. I’m sure he’ll have only good things to say about Karma.”

  As I stood up to leave, Barbara grabbed Karma’s collar. Now that his usefulness had been exhausted, I suspected he’d be put back in his cage. For a fraction of a second, I entertained the fantasy of kidnapping him and bringing him home with me. Surely Max and Lou could adapt to a new brother, teaching him the intricacies of Slimytoy and the ten best ways to irritate Cat.

  Barbara’s firm grip on his collar and her stern command—“Sit, Karma!”—snapped me back to reality. Instead, I took advantage of my final moments with her to pretend to notice the photograph in its silver frame for the first time.

  “What a nice picture. Is that your husband?”

  She froze. For a fraction of second, a peculiar look crossed her face. If I hadn’t known better, I’d have interpreted it as distaste.

  “My fiancé,” she said evenly.

  “You two certainly make a lovely couple.”

  She picked up the photograph, her expression hardening. “There isn’t going to be any wedding. He was murdered a little more than a week ago.”

  “Oh, my!” My hand flew to my mouth. “I thought he looked familiar! That’s the man who was found in the woods.”

  “Tommee Frack.”

  “You poor thing! I’m so sorry.”

  “Thank you.”

  If there was any emotion behind her voice, I certainly couldn’t hear it. “He was a very successful businessman, wasn’t he?”

  “Public relations. Tommee had his own firm, and he knew absolutely everybody. Anyone who matters on Long Island at all used him. To do their PR, I mean. And yes, he was wildly successful.”

  “I seem to remember reading that.”

  Interesting that she isn’t telling me what a wonderful man Tommee was, I thought. Instead, she’s talking about him as if he were as solid an investment as a United States Savings Bond.

  “I understand he was also a very caring person,” I prompted. “Wasn’t he involved in a lot of community activities?”

  “He represented a lot of charities, and he did tons of pro bono work. Not to mention the fact that he gave one hundred ten percent to every one of his clients.”

  “You must be devastated. But I’m sure the police are doing everything in their power to find whoever is responsible. Do they have any leads?”

  She looked startled. “How would I know?”

  “Haven’t they talked to you?”

  “Why would they? It’s not as if I’m a suspect or anything.”

  I was tempted to point out what to me seemed obvious: that whether she was a suspect or not, as his fiancée, she was surely able to provide valuable information about other people who might be.

  Instead, I simply said, “I offer you my deepest sympathies. What a terrible loss.”

  “It’s something I’ll never get over.”

  Barbara sighed deeply. So why didn’t she strike me as grief-stricken? I watched her study the photograph still in her hands, her face pulled into a frown. And then, using the hem of her jacket, she rubbed away a tiny smudge on the silver frame before carefully putting it back where it belonged.

  As soon as I got into my van, I grabbed my phone.

  “Lieutenant Harned, please,” I said crisply.

  “He’s on another call.”

  “I’ll hold. This is Jessica Popper. The person who found Tommee Frack’s body?”

  It was only a few seconds before I heard, “Harned.” “Hi, Lieutenant. This is Dr. Popper. Remember me from the Frack case?”

  “What can I do for you, Dr. Popper?”

  “I was calling to check up on the investigation.”

  “What about it?”

  “I was wondering if anybody wanted to interview me further. I mean, I was the one who found the body.”

  “We already have your statement. We appreciate your interest . . .”

  “Is there anything new?”

  “Not at this time. I can assure you that we’re following all leads . . .”

  I was on the verge of saying that if that was the case, then why hadn’t Tommee’s fiancée and ex-wife made the interview A list? Instead, I decided to keep things friendly.

  “Thanks for your time,” I said sweetly. “I know you must be very busy.”

  But not knocking yourself out investigating Tommee Frack’s murder, I thought. I opened my notebook and jotted down as much as I could remember from the two revealing conversations I’d had so far that day.

  Chapter 8

  “You gotta have swine to show you where the truffles are.”

  —Edward Albee

  I didn’t bother to call before heading straight over to Marcus Scruggs’s office. Something about our past interactions told me that no matter how busy he was, he’d manage to squeeze me in.

  His office was a trim white house at a busy intersection in Corchaug, a terrible location for a residence but an excellent spot for a medical office. As I got out of my car, I noted that the sign reading “Marcu
s Scruggs, Doctor of Veterinary Medicine,” was perched atop a tall metal pole that protruded high above the parking lot.

  Very Marcus, I thought.

  But when it came to phallic symbols, even that paled beside his car, a low-slung Corvette parked toward the back. I doubted his male canine patients could resist using it as a urinal.

  I took a few steadying breaths before stepping inside the office.

  I’d learned early on that Marcus Scruggs and I weren’t destined to become close pals. Back in the days when I was applying to Cornell University’s College of Veterinary Medicine, the Admissions Department had given me his name as an alumnus who lived locally and might be a good resource, even a mentor, to an aspiring animal doc like me.

  I had hoped to visit his hospital and observe him as he treated patients, not to mention pick up a few pointers on practical issues like the odds of me getting accepted and ways of beefing up my application. Instead, he had insisted on meeting me in the lounge of the local Holiday Inn.

  At first, I’d tried to keep an open mind. During our first five minutes together, I told myself that the knee pressing against mine under the table was simply the result of not enough space. But the more I asked him about letters of reference and possible essay topics, the more Marcus asked me about my marital status, my favorite mixed drinks, and—no joke—my preference in undergarments. It was like one of those blind dates you quickly figure out was a huge mistake.

  I didn’t learn much about Cornell that day. But I did learn to keep as far away from Marcus Scruggs as possible. Since then, I’d only run into him occasionally. He zeroed in on me at every convention and seminar we attended. I always made a point of sprinkling the conversation with references to Nick.

  Maybe he’s changed, I thought, as I gave my name to his receptionist. The fact that she was about eighteen, with masses of very blond hair and a Lycra top that looked as if it had been stretched to its limit, wasn’t encouraging.

  I sat in the waiting room amidst the usual assortment of animals and the people they owned: two beagles, a Siamese cat, a macaw, and three mixed-breed dogs, what I like to think of as a canine mélange. As soon as he appeared in the doorway—as tall, as blond, and as gawky as ever—I knew he was still the same old Marcus. The instant he saw me, his expression changed from a look of professional friendliness to an unmistakable leer.