Dead Canaries Don't Sing

by Cynthia Baxter

  “Well, well, well, if it isn’t the inimitable Dr. Jessica Popper. I always knew that sooner or later you’d show up on my doorstep, begging for a job. Or maybe even something more . . . intriguing.”

  I forced myself to smile, even though his eyes were glued to my chest. “Actually, Marcus, I’m here on your doorstep begging for information.”

  “Hey, I’ll take what I can get. Why don’t you come into my office? That way, we can be alone.”

  Oh, goody, I thought. I followed him anyway.

  It wasn’t until we sat down, he at his desk and me in a chair facing him, that he finally made eye contact. The look in them was more leering than friendly. “So what can I do you for, Popper?”

  “I’m trying to get some background information on someone I believe is a client of yours. Her name is Barbara Delmonico.”

  He pressed his fingers together and stared off into infinity. “Ah, yes,” he said profoundly. “Good old Barbara. Interesting woman.”

  I perked up. “You remember her?”

  “Let’s just say she’s not somebody who’s easy to forget. Her friend, either.”

  “Friend?”

  I leaned forward, poised for an earful about Tommee Frack. So I felt a pang of disappointment when he replied, “The two of them were like bookends. Or, if you’ll excuse me for being more graphic, like two pages out of Playboy. And I’m talking centerfolds, here. High-quality stuff.”

  “So Barbara’s friend was also a woman.”

  I was trying not to let him rattle me, but his salacious smile turned my stomach. “That’s what I’d call an understatement.”

  He went over to a large file cabinet and opened the top drawer. After rifling through folders, he pulled one out.

  “Here you go. Delmonico. And her friend was— let’s see, I think her last name began with an m . . . That’s right, Martin.” He grabbed a second file. “Claudia Martin.”

  He opened Barbara’s file on his desk. “I remember the first time they came in. It must have been July or August, because they both showed up in shorts that were so short it was like getting an instant anatomy lesson. They were wearing those tiny little halter-top thingies, too.”

  His glittering eyes made it clear he wasn’t suffering as he relived the moment.

  “If it was summer, they were probably dressed that way because it was hot,” I pointed out.

  “But that was what was so weird. They said something about being on their way to work. And they kept looking at their watches, as if they had only minutes to spare. But they both looked like they were heading for the beach.”

  “Do you remember what was wrong with Barbara’s dog?”

  “Dog?” He snorted. “That was no dog.”

  “But Barbara Delmonico owns a male Tibetan Terrier.”

  “Right. She calls him Karma. Beautiful animal. She still brings him in now and then. But that first time, it wasn’t a dog she and her girlfriend brought in for treatment.”

  “What was it?”

  “A boa constrictor.”

  “Ah,” I said noncommittally.

  I’ve always believed that every career has its downside, that no matter how much you love your job, there’s bound to be at least one aspect you don’t like.

  In my case, snakes.

  The issue of professional responsibility aside, the mere thought of treating a boa constrictor gives me the creeps. Or, for that matter, even being in the same room with one. And having just spent an afternoon with Barbara, I didn’t see her as someone whose personal menagerie was likely to consist of the peculiar combination of cute cuddly animals like Karma and distasteful writhing reptiles like the one Marcus claimed she owned.

  Not surprisingly, Marcus didn’t tune in to my discomfort. “It was a really nice snake, too,” he reminisced. “Close to six feet long. Surprisingly friendly, as if he was used to being around people.”

  “Are you sure it wasn’t Claudia Martin’s snake? Is it possible that Barbara just came along to keep Claudia company?”

  “Nope. My records are clear.” He poked around one file, then the other. “They each had their own snakes, even though they usually came in together. Lately, though, they’ve been coming in separately. And even though Claudia still brings her python in every now and then, Barbara’s just been coming in with Karma.”

  “Do you know what happened to Barbara’s interest in, uh, reptiles?”

  “Nope. Never asked, and she never volunteered anything.” The familiar glint was back in his eyes. “Besides, whenever she comes in, I always find myself a little . . . distracted, if you know what I mean.”

  I knew precisely what he meant, and the thought gave me the willies.

  “Claudia Martin sounds like someone who might have some information I need. I don’t suppose you’d be willing to give me her address.” I desperately hoped I wouldn’t have to call upon some of my own feminine charms in order to get what I needed from him.

  “For you, Popper, anything.” I guess the thought of Barbara and Claudia in hot pants took me out of the running.

  He jotted Claudia Martin’s name, address, and phone number on a pad printed with an ad for a prescription worming medication. I glanced at it as he handed it to me.

  “Route 437?” I read. “In Southaven? Isn’t that an industrial area?”

  “Got me. That’s the address she always used. Hey, as long as they pay their bills on time, I don’t ask questions.”

  As I tucked the paper into my purse, Marcus leaned back in his chair and crossed his long legs. “So tell me, Popper. What are you doing with yourself these days?”

  I cringed at the lecherous smile on his face. “Busy, busy, busy. Never a moment to spare.”

  “You know what they say about all work and no play.”

  “Whoever said that wasn’t still paying off student loans.” I shot to my feet, wanting to make it clear this interlude was definitely over. “Thanks for the information.”

  “You’re not still going out with that investigator guy, are you? What was his name?”

  “Nick.”

  “That’s right. Are you still—”

  “One more thing. Do you have any idea what was behind Barbara Delmonico’s interest in snakes? I’ve met her, and somehow she didn’t impress me as the snake type.”

  “Well, I do remember thinking that neither of those two ladies seemed to have any real affection for them. You know how reptile lovers can be. It’s like a cult. They seem to take pride in being enthusiastic about animals that most people can’t even stand to look at. But it didn’t seem that Barbara and her pal were really into their snakes. They acted more like they were bringing in a pair of shoes for repair. Struck me as odd.”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know if any of this has been helpful. Or even interesting.”

  “It’s been both. Thanks, Marcus. I really appreciate your help.”

  “Any time. And Popper? If you and that Nick character ever decide to call it quits, give me a ring, will ya?”

  By the time my meeting with Marcus was over, I wanted nothing more than to go home and take a long scalding shower. The idea of ever being in the presence of a man again, much less going on an actual date, had all the appeal of a root canal.

  The company of two devoted canines was infinitely preferable. As I walked into my cottage, Max and Lou charged into their usual routine, literally jumping up and down with glee and then trying to entice me into an invigorating game of Slimytoy. Prometheus was squawking, “Let’s go to the tape. Awk! Let’s go to the tape!” Even Cat deigned a glance in my direction.

  “Hel-lo, doggies!” I greeted them, getting down on the floor to administer a royal belly-scratching. “How are the best little doggers in the whole wide world?”

  Home sweet home, I thought. A home that feels complete, even without a man.

  The sound of Jimmy Nolan’s voice on my answering machine jolted me back to reality.

  “Hey, Jessie. It’s Jimmy. How you doing? I just wanted to
tell you I had a nice time the other night and, uh, I hope those flowers are still hanging in there. And, uh, I was wondering if maybe you wanted to do something Saturday night. Go to a movie or grab some dinner, whatever you feel like. Give me a call, will you?”

  “So much for swearing off men,” I muttered. “I suppose I shouldn’t let a slimeball like Marcus Scruggs determine the course of my life.” I decided I’d return Jimmy’s call as soon as I was up to it.

  At the moment, however, I was still having too much fun playing Girl Detective to let anything distract me. After feeding Prometheus and the dogs, I jotted down some notes from my meeting with Marcus and geared up mentally to enter a world that was so unfamiliar to me that I felt as if I were venturing into the jungle. But instead of waders and mosquito spray, this foreign territory required combed hair, a wool blazer, and lipstick.

  It was time to visit Tommee Frack’s office.

  The second name on the list I’d drawn up with Vanda Jackson’s help was Brad O’Reilly. From what I’d learned from the “People On The Move” articles on the Long Island Business Beat website, O’Reilly had been Frack’s most senior employee. In fact, while many others had apparently come and gone, Brad worked for Frack almost since the beginning.

  Loyalty? I wondered as I drove to Pine Meadow the following afternoon, a typical gray, cloudy November day. Or simply inertia?

  When I pulled into the parking lot of the office complex that dominated the village’s main intersection, I saw that my VW Beetle wasn’t the only German car there. Most of the others, however, were either Mercedes or BMWs.

  The pricey cars matched the office building’s atmosphere of prosperity. Once I passed through its revolving doors, I found myself surrounded by such dense foliage and so many gurgling fountains I felt as if I really were in the jungle. I didn’t spot any actual predators, but there were plenty of grim-looking men and women in suits who could have been lawyers.

  The names on the roster bore out my theory. In addition to three insurance companies, there were half a dozen law firms, long compilations of names that seemed impossible for anyone to remember.

  Tommee Frack & Associates was still listed. As I rode the elevator to the third floor, the butterflies were back in my stomach. This time, I planned to try out a different ploy to get my foot in the door. I just hoped that foot didn’t get crushed in the process.

  Tommee Frack’s office had the same look as the rest of the building, one that declared: Important things go on here. The front was all glass, enabling everyone coming off the elevator to view the company’s name emblazoned on the wall behind the reception area. Indeed, it was impossible to miss, given the fact that it was spelled out in foot-high gold letters.

  The walls were also decorated, only they were covered with framed newspaper articles like the ones I had seen in Merrilee’s house. Here, too, were photographs showing Tommee posing with politicians, sports figures, and movie stars. I noticed a few awards, including “Citizen of the Year” from the Norfolk County Chambers of Commerce and an honorary degree from Norfolk University.

  Feigning confidence, I strode up to the receptionist’s desk, one of those high counters you have to peek over in order to get anyone’s attention. But the person sitting behind the counter didn’t look like a receptionist. He was a well-dressed man in his early thirties, complete with designer tie, monogrammed shirt, and gold cufflinks—all the trappings of success that implied he studied GQ religiously. His light brown hair was well cut and neatly styled. Even though he was sitting, I could tell he was impressively large, well over six feet tall. He was good-looking, too, his facial features so well-proportioned that he could have been an anchorman on the six o’clock news.

  The expression on his face didn’t match his buttoned-up image, however. He looked harried, as if he wasn’t really relishing the task of going through the tower of files on the desk before him, a stack of folders he’d clearly pulled out of the empty drawer next to him. On the other side, on the floor, the trash can was filled to overflowing.

  “What can I do for you?” he asked.

  “I’m looking for Brad O’Reilly.”

  “You just found him.” He flashed me a grin I suspected was meant to charm me.

  “Mr. O’Reilly, my name is Jessica Popper. I’m a veterinarian, and I’m helping the New York State Department of Agriculture and Markets with a survey. We’re doing random checks to find out whether dog owners are following up with regular inoculations for their pets.”

  I suddenly realized that this little white lie had sounded much better in my head than it did when I said it out loud. In a belated attempt at looking official, I opened the manila folder I’d brought along and rifled through the papers inside.

  “Let’s see. You own a Rhodesian Ridgeback, right? Female, name of Molly? Born July 15, 1998, registered November 22, same year?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Have you kept up with her inoculations?”

  By this point, his grin was long gone. Instead, he looked decidedly nervous. I wondered if he had something to hide—maybe even something that had nothing to do with his dog.

  “That’s the kind of thing my wife always takes care of. But I’m pretty sure she’s kept Molly up to date.”

  “Would you mind giving me the name of the veterinarian you use?”

  “Sure. It’s Dr. Wyatt. No, Wyman. I think it’s Dr. Wyman. He’s in Cantiague. Or Quakertown.”

  I nodded, jotting down notes.

  “Maybe you should call my wife,” O’Reilly suggested. “I could give you our home number.”

  “That won’t be necessary.” I sincerely hoped Mr. O’Reilly got more involved in his children, if he and his wife had any.

  I glanced at the gold letters behind him, as if noticing them for the first time. “Tommee Frack,” I mused. “That name sounds so familiar. . . .” I frowned, pretending to think. “Isn’t he the public relations mogul who was—?”

  “That’s right. I’m just cleaning out the office before we close it down.”

  “How tragic. I seem to recall reading that he was phenomenally successful.”

  “The man was brilliant.” Brad said it forcefully. “Absolutely brilliant.”

  I blinked. It was the rare employee who had nothing bad to say about his boss, even if it meant breaking the rule about not speaking ill of the dead.

  “I’ve heard he was a real star.” I measured my words carefully. “I don’t know anything about public relations, and of course I never actually had the pleasure of meeting him, but I guess I don’t have a sense of what he did that was so . . . out of the ordinary.”

  “Tommee Frack was a phenomenal idea man. He was a master at finding a way to make something— anything—newsworthy.”

  “I guess that’s what public relations is all about. . . .”

  “Exactly. And Tommee could pitch a story, any story, to the media in a way they just couldn’t turn down. Did you know that something like sixty percent of the news you read in the newspaper or hear on TV or the radio is the result of a pitch from some public relations representative? Getting coverage for clients was Tommee’s forte. But there was something else he could do that was pure genius,” O’Reilly continued, catching fire. “Something nobody else in the business could top. Tommee had an uncanny ability to match people up. His clients, I mean.”

  “You mean like . . . setting up golf dates?” I wasn’t purposely trying to sound stupid. I really had no idea what he was talking about.

  “I mean like inventing an award that would give two or even three of his clients terrific exposure. Take Norfolk University’s Man or Woman of the Year Awards. Every year, Tommee would put together a huge event, something so big that none of the media could ignore it. He’d even get all the local politicians to show up, since he could always guarantee a photo op. The university was one of his clients, and they’d get great publicity because they’d be giving the award. The winner—let’s see, last year it was Kel-Tech Computers,
another one of his clients—would look good because the company president would win the award for donating a hundred computers to the elementary school in some underprivileged community. And as if that wasn’t enough, Tommee made sure the awards ceremony was always held in the ballroom of Hallsworth Hall, another client, to get them coverage.”

  “You mean that’s why awards ceremonies like that are created?” I could feel a little piece of my innocence slipping away. “I always assumed those awards were sincere.”

  “They are sincere!” O’Reilly looked insulted. “The president of Kel-Tech would be getting that award because he truly deserved it for the contribution he’d made to his community. It was a win-win-win situation. You can even add a fourth ‘win’ for Tommee, because he came out looking like a real hero to three different clients. Wait—add a fifth win for the kids who got the free computers.”

  All these “wins” were getting a little confusing. I’d had no idea that public relations played such a big role in the grand scheme of things. No wonder Tommee Frack was considered such a player. My corpse had been the King of the Spin Doctors, at least on the Long Island scene.

  It also sounded as if he didn’t have an enemy in the world. His clients loved him because he was so good at getting their name in the news. His employees loved him because he was such an inspiring role model. Even the media had loved him, because he made their job easier by giving them wonderful, newsworthy events to cover.

  I had to remind myself that somebody out there hadn’t loved him. That, in fact, somebody had hated Tommee Frack—or feared him or mistrusted him— enough to hit him savagely over the head with a deadly weapon.

  “Sounds like a fascinating guy,” I said enthusiastically. “It really makes you wonder who could have possibly wanted him dead.”

  “You want to know what I think?” O’Reilly asked.