Dead Canaries Don't Sing

by Cynthia Baxter

  “You’ve got a lot of information in there.”

  “As I said, I’m working with the state.”

  “I guess the state doesn’t record death dates.”

  I blinked. “Excuse me?”

  “Sugar died almost a year ago. She was hit by a car.”

  I blinked. My excuse for questioning him had just flown out the window.

  “So why don’t you tell me why you’re really here?” His voice was tinged with impatience.

  “I already told you. I’m here on behalf of the State of New York—”

  “Since when does the State of New York have a budget that allows for random checks of dog owners? The government can’t even keep track of convicted felons.”

  I’d been found out.

  “Okay. I’m not here about your boxer. I was just looking for an excuse to talk to you.”

  “What makes me so special?”

  “You used to work for Tommee Frack.”

  Wade Moscowitz suddenly looked very interested. “You a cop?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Private investigator?”

  “Well . . . no.”

  “Do I have to spend the rest of the afternoon guessing?”

  “I’m a veterinarian—”

  “So we’re back to that, are we?”

  “No, I really am a veterinarian. See? There’s my van, parked right outside. But I’m also the person who found Tommee Frack’s body in the woods at Atherton Farm.”

  Wade studied me skeptically, then glanced at Sister Goldenhair. “Why don’t we go in back and talk?” he suggested to me.

  I was expecting a crowded storage room packed with hammocks woven in Third World countries. Instead, the back room contained a comfortable-looking futon couch and a molded plastic chair shaped like a large hand.

  I opted for the hand.

  “So you’re the vet who found Tommee,” Wade said, settling onto the futon. “I read about it in the paper.” He frowned. “Seems to me it was a different name, though. For some reason, I’m remembering something about soda.”

  “That’s because they got my name wrong, along with a couple of other key facts.” I could see no reason to go into the Popper/Pepper problem that had haunted me even before I’d earned the title “Dr.”

  “I still don’t understand why you’re here.”

  “I’ve never found a dead body before,” I replied. “Stumbling across Tommee Frack got me interested in trying to find out who murdered him. It also got me interested in who he was. I’m trying to learn everything I can about him.”

  “I see. So this is kind of like your hobby.”

  I was about to make some scathing comment about there being no need to make fun of my newfound avocation when he added unexpectedly, “Not a bad hobby at all. Especially since our Tommee was a very interesting guy.”

  “Do you have any theories?” I asked, encouraged. “About anyone who might have wanted him dead, I mean?”

  “Compiling a list would take me more time than I’m willing to spare.”

  Wade made a sound that was somewhere between a laugh and a snort. It didn’t strike me as the kind of sound someone who was truly centered would make. But I was finding that while Wade Moscowitz looked the part of a purveyor of inner peace, several other dimensions were undoubtedly lurking beneath the blinding red, yellow, and blue swirls covering his chest.

  “Here I thought he was such an upstanding, well-loved pillar of the community,” I persisted. “From what I’ve read in the papers, the man didn’t have an enemy in the world.”

  “You believe that?”

  “Well . . . I’ve been talking to some of the people who knew him—and finding that Tommee had a few skeletons in his closet.”

  “Do tell.”

  “His ex-wife, for one. And his fiancée, Barbara Delmonico. Did you know that she—well, let’s just say I found out that she’s not exactly what she wants us to believe she is.” I hoped that impressing him with how much I’d already learned would motivate him to fill in the blanks. “Then there’s George Babcock . . .”

  “You’re a very bright girl. Maybe even too bright. And I see that you’ve been working very hard. Who else have you talked to, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  “I talked to Brad O’Reilly—”

  “You mean Mini-Me.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Mini-Me? From the Austin Powers movies?”

  “You mean a pint-size version of someone else, right? A clone?”

  Of course, in the movies, the original version was Dr. Evil, a man who tried hard to live up to his name. It was difficult picturing Tommee in that role: his chubby face and his innocent grin conspired to make him look more like a cherub than a villain.

  Wade smiled. “Don’t mind me. I got a weird sense of humor. So tell me, what did our good friend Brad have to say? What was his theory about Frack’s murder?”

  “That it was a random killing. Maybe a carjacking gone wrong.”

  “Yes,” Wade said drily. “Brad would come up with something like that.”

  “Brad thinks the world of Tommee. He said he was brilliant. A real genius.”

  “He wasn’t the only one who felt that way.”

  “He did make it sound like Tommee was pretty incredible at what he did. Brad told me the thing that made him so successful was his ability to match people up.”

  “Is that what he said?”

  “Yes. Something about setting up awards ceremonies designed to make just about everybody on Long Island look good.”

  I waited for him to comment but he merely watched me, his face expressionless. Only his eyes betrayed him. The intensity I saw in them gave me the uncomfortable feeling that this was a man who felt a great deal—and felt it passionately.

  “What about you?” I stared back with the same intensity. “You must know a lot about Tommee.”

  “You mean, who do I think killed him?”

  “I mean, do you know who killed him?”

  “No, I don’t. And that’s an honest answer.”

  I wasn’t sure I believed him.

  “And if you knew, you wouldn’t tell me anyway, would you?”

  He laughed. “I wish Sugar was still alive. I’d definitely want her vet to be somebody as smart as you. As for this little Jessica Fletcher thing you’ve got going, I’m afraid I won’t be able to help you.”

  “So you don’t know anything.”

  He shrugged. I was convinced the real answer was that he knew too much.

  “But I will give you a piece of advice.”

  My heart pounded as I waited for Wade Moscowitz to reveal some obscure clue known only to insiders like him, a piece of the puzzle that, when added to all the other pieces I was collecting, would lead me to Tommee Frack’s killer.

  “My advice, Dr. Popper, is to stay as far away from this as you can. It’s no coincidence that our friend Tommee was in PR, a field that was expressly created to make things look much better than they really are. If you’re as bright as you seem, you’ll forget all about this and go back to taking care of kittens—or whatever it is you do.”

  I knew his words of wisdom were meant to frighten me. Instead, all they did was annoy me. They sounded too much like the words I’d been hearing from Nick Burby ever since I’d gotten involved in Frack’s murder.

  Maybe I’m contrary by nature, but having some man tell me I’m treading in water that’s too deep always makes me want to swim with the sharks.

  I even came up with a name for it. Nick Burby Syndrome.

  I had one more question to ask.

  “Why did you leave? Public relations, I mean. Was it the whole profession? Or just Tommee?”

  The hard look in Wade Moscowitz’s eyes didn’t match his easygoing smile. “Just remember what I told you.”

  Chapter 12

  “No matter how much the cats fight, there always seem to be plenty of kittens.”

  —Abraham Lincoln

  Even though
my determination to press on with my investigation remained as strong as ever, my meeting with Wade Moscowitz left me feeling distinctly unsettled. He was clearly someone who knew Tommee well—not only the man, but also the kinds of things he’d been into.

  I still had no idea what they could possibly have been. But from the looks of things, Wade’s experience at Tommee Frack & Associates had driven him as far to the other end of the spectrum as possible.

  I felt as if I were trying to process too much bewildering information, and by the time Saturday night rolled around, I was ready for a night on the town. I spent a solid hour primping, fussing endlessly with my hair and deliberating over which of two sweaters to wear. I even smeared on the mud pack I’d bought months earlier after perusing Glamour at my dentist’s office and failing a quiz called, “Are You Your Own Best Friend?” Cat sat on the edge of the tub with a look that said I should have tried harder.

  “What do you think?” I demanded, planting myself in front of Max and Lou for a second opinion. “Am I gorgeous? Or at least presentable?”

  Lou wagged his tail halfheartedly, as if he desperately wanted to give the right answer but had no idea what I was talking about.

  Max—the cagey thing—chose to interpret my attention as an invitation to play Slimytoy. He scooped up his beloved hot pink poodle and swung it enticingly.

  “That’s what I get for asking dogs for fashion advice,” I grumbled.

  They both looked so disappointed that I felt bad for having put them on the spot.

  “Aw, come here, you guys. You know I love you both, even though you don’t know Liz Claiborne from Lassie.” I got down on my hands and knees for a little roughhousing. A few dog hairs on my part-cashmere sweater wouldn’t hurt.

  My primping received a much more positive reaction from Jimmy when he arrived ten minutes later. Unfortunately, by the time we reached the bar he’d chosen for our night on the town, the rain that had merely been an annoying drizzle all day had escalated into a torrential downpour. Not only did I end up with wet feet from a puddle I hadn’t noticed as I raced through the parking lot, my hair looked as flat as when I’d gotten out of the shower.

  I refused to let any of it get me down. Wellington’s was the kind of place I liked: wooden booths high enough to create the illusion of privacy, music low enough to make conversation possible, and a simple menu that spelled out exactly what you’d be getting.

  If only I wasn’t so nervous. This dating thing was harder than I remembered. I seemed to recall that it was supposed to be fun. Instead, as I worked on my beer while waiting for Jimmy to come back from the men’s room, I felt like I was interviewing for a job— one I really wasn’t qualified for.

  “Sorry about that.” As he neared the table, he flashed me the grin I found so irresistible. A smile like that would make it easy to forgive a lot more than a quick trip to the bathroom.

  He slid into the booth opposite me. The table shook as he crashed his knee against the wooden leg.

  “Jesus H. Christmas! I can’t believe I did that.” Sheepishly, he added, “Guess I’m a little nervous.”

  Having Jimmy admit that he was nervous, too, suddenly made the whole thing a lot easier.

  Of course, the beer helped, too. I glanced down and saw it was almost gone.

  “We should probably order,” I said. “If I keep drinking on an empty stomach, you’ll end up having to carry me out of here.”

  “Oh, yeah? I could think of worse things.”

  I turned my head slightly and looked at him through narrowed eyes. “I bet.”

  Oh, my God, I thought. I’m flirting.

  At Jimmy’s insistence, the waitress brought two more beers. At my insistence, she also brought a huge plate of buffalo wings.

  I nibbled a minuscule shred of meat drenched in bleu cheese dressing, trying to counteract the effects of the alcohol. If there was any chance of learning anything about the Frack murder tonight, I’d better do it sooner, rather than later. The way things were going, there was no telling what later would look like.

  “What’s going on with the Frack case?” I asked conversationally. “Anything new?”

  Jimmy frowned. “It’s my night off, remember? And like I told you, this stuff isn’t all that interesting to me. It’s just a job.” He shrugged. “Besides, I thought you’d decided to take what I told you to heart. About not getting involved with this murder. I wasn’t kidding when I said it’s something that should be left to the police.”

  “From what I’ve seen, the police aren’t all that interested.”

  When he started to protest, I said, “Just indulge me a little. I’ve got a few simple questions.”

  I would have added, “Pretty please,” if I’d thought it would have helped. Instead, I took Jimmy’s silence as permission to continue.

  “For one thing, I’m still waiting to read in the paper that they found some clue that points to his killer. I figured they’d find a hair or something and do a DNA analysis.”

  With another shrug, Jimmy replied, “Maybe somebody committed the perfect crime. It does happen, you know.”

  “Not very often.”

  “True. And you’re right about the physical evidence usually turning out to be conclusive. You must have heard the basic rule of forensics: Wherever you go, you take something with you and you leave something behind.”

  I shook my head.

  “Like tonight, for example? When you and I leave this booth, we’ll have left some evidence of us having been here behind. We’ll both have lost a few hairs, we’ll leave fibers from our clothes, and this floor will be covered with our shoe prints. You know, no two pairs of shoes leave the same prints, even if they started out as the exact same shoe. People walk differently and their weight is distributed differently, so after you’ve been wearing a pair of shoes for even a short period of time, you’ve already created a unique set of prints.”

  “I guess the rain that night obscured any footprints that were left out at Atherton Farm,” I mused.

  “Frack’s body being left outdoors does make things a little harder. For one thing, he’d been there for hours. There’s another expression: The longer you wait, the colder the trail. Being out in the elements can make it harder to find clues. The wind blows stuff away, he’s got dead leaves all over him, stuff like that.

  “The other side of the coin is that when you and I leave here, we’ll take something with us. Like if you checked the bottom of your shoes tonight, you might find a couple of grains of dirt that contain the fertilizer the owner of this place uses around his property. Or a piece of gravel from the parking lot. Something that could prove you’d been here.”

  Despite his claim that he didn’t like discussing business on his night off, I got the feeling Jimmy was more interested in police work than he was letting on.

  “Let me show you something.” I said impulsively, reaching into my purse.

  I opened my spiral notebook and laid it in front of him. “I’ve been keeping detailed notes. Every time I talk to somebody who knows something about Frack, I write down what I learn in this book. This way, I not only have a record of everything I’ve learned; I also know who told me and when.”

  “Gee, you’re really serious about this, aren’t you?” He wore an expression of amazement as he turned over page after page of my notebook, glancing at the newspaper clippings I’d stapled in along with the detailed listing of facts written beneath the source, the date, and in some cases, the implications. On several pages, words like SUSPECT!! or LYING? were scrawled across the page and underlined. “I had no idea you’d covered this much ground. Boy, you’ve talked to everybody, haven’t you? I see you even got the business card of Frack’s accountant.”

  “Jonathan Havemeyer. I met him at the wake.”

  “Geez, you got everything right here. Names, dates, and serial numbers. Sooner or later, you’re gonna crack this case, aren’t you? Probably months ahead of Harned and his squad.”

  I beamed, wondering if
the pride I felt was making me glow.

  He continued turning the pages of my notebook. “Wow, Frack’s ex-wife, his fiancée . . .” He looked up at me and grinned. “Anything about me in here?”

  “Sorry,” I replied with a laugh. “I’m saving that for my personal diary.” Inwardly, I groaned. I was flirting again.

  He raised his eyebrows. “I’d much rather read that.”

  “Oh, no, you don’t.” I cocked my head to one side. “A murder investigation is one thing. My inner thoughts and feelings are something else entirely.”

  “Which is why you should forget all about that crime stuff. Concentrate on the living. I guarantee you’ll have more fun.”

  “Think so?”

  “I know so. In fact,” Jimmy continued in a husky voice, sliding the notebook back to me, “how about if later on, you let me show you something that’s really worth writing about in your diary?”

  I gulped, unable to come up with the words to respond to an offer like that.

  “Do you like cars?” he asked.

  So much for my warped mind.

  “Uh, yeah, I suppose so . . .”

  “I’ve got a couple that’ll blow you away. Classics. Real collectors’ items. I’ve got them stored in a garage in Westfield. If you like, I’ll take you over to see them later.”

  Suddenly my head snapped up. Something over at the bar had caught my attention. I could feel the color drain from my face.

  Nick.

  As he headed across the bar, toward the dining room, he looked like he was auditioning for a cowboy movie. And I would have bet my autoclave that he was wearing hair gel or some other product designed to make his hair behave.

  And then I noticed the woman right behind him. “My pride and joy is a ’55 Thunderbird. Mint. It’s pink, believe it or not. The other one’s a ’65 Porsche 550 Spyder, the same model James Dean was driving when he was killed. And I’m about to get another one . . .”

  Suddenly, Jimmy stopped. He’d finally noticed that my eyes and my attention were elsewhere.

  “Everything okay?”

  “Um, yeah. I just . . .”

  The correct ending for that sentence was, “I just made the unforgivable mistake of making eye contact with the one person in the world I would like to have hidden from.” But it was too late to explain, not to mention too late to do anything about it.