Dead Canaries Don't Sing

by Cynthia Baxter

  “That’s not true! I mean, maybe that’s what you thought, but that’s not how I felt.”

  “Don’t tell me you really had a headache.”

  “As a matter of fact, I did.”

  And a Nick Burby-ache.

  I was debating whether or not to tell Jimmy the real reason for my hot-and-cold behavior that night at Wellington’s when he said, “Anyway, I was kind of nervous about calling you again. I didn’t know what kind of reaction I’d get.”

  “Well, I’m here.” I smiled at him. “And very happy to be here, I might add.”

  “I guess you must really like classic cars.”

  I laughed. “I guess that must be it.”

  When we turned onto a street lined with dilapidated warehouses and used-car part yards, with not a streetlight anywhere as far as the eye could see, however, I felt a flutter of anxiety. Something about being alone at night in dark alleys, I guess. Even if I was driving with a cop.

  “Are we going the right way?” I asked nervously.

  “Sorry. Guess I should have explained. I keep my cars locked up safe. The place where I live doesn’t have a two-car garage, and besides, I park this car there. So I rent space from a guy.”

  We turned onto an even smaller street. On one side was a plumbing supply shop, its huge sign boasting about its exceptional selection of valves. On the other stood another nondescript building. Only a few windows were cut into the gray cinder block. In addition to being high up enough to keep anyone from seeing in or out, they were crusted with what looked like decades of grime. Jimmy pulled into the tiny lot.

  “Not exactly picturesque,” I commented.

  “It’s just a place to store my cars. Wait ’til you see what’s inside. You’re gonna love this.”

  I followed him across the lot to a door, tucked away at the back. Jimmy took a ring of keys out of his pocket and fiddled with the lock, muttering. It wasn’t surprising that he was having such a hard time. He wasn’t getting much help from the single bulb right above the door, which couldn’t have been more than 15 watts.

  I was wishing I’d opted for a movie instead when he finally got the door open. Even in the semidarkness, I saw his face brighten like it was Christmas morning.

  “You won’t regret this. I promise.”

  He flicked on a light. The way he was carrying on, I expected something magical.

  Instead, I saw two cars, blanketed in the beige pads movers use.

  “Here they are. The two loves of my life.”

  “Oh. Very nice.”

  “No, wait,” he said passionately. “You haven’t had a chance to see these beauties yet. Here, I’ll show you.”

  He pulled off the blankets, exposing what, to me, still looked like . . . two cars. Two funky, oddly shaped cars, at least compared to what I saw on the Long Island Expressway every day, but two cars nonetheless. The pink one looked like something out of Grease. And the black one, the sports car, looked like, well, a sports car.

  “Aren’t they great? One of the things I like best about them is that they’re so different. I mean, the Thunderbird is a fifties classic. And did I tell you that this one, the Porsche, is the exact same model that—?”

  “James Dean died in. Right.”

  I was about to try explaining politely that I’m not really a vehicle person when Jimmy folded his arms across his chest and looked at me expectantly. “So what do you think?”

  “I think they’re fabulous. They’re just . . . incredible.”

  I’d said the right thing. He beamed.

  “Yeah. I never thought I’d be lucky enough to have anything like these two beauties. But I’m afraid I can’t take you out for a drive in either of them tonight. I’m still waiting for a part for the T-bird. And the Spyder—see that crumpled back fender? I want to bang it out before I take it out on the road. Guess I’m kind of a perfectionist.”

  “That’s too bad.” Actually, now that I was here, it might actually be fun to go for a spin. The pink one was definitely a car in which someone would “take a spin.” As for the other one, I was getting attached to the James Dean idea. Maybe it would be interesting, putting myself in the actor’s place, imagining what it was like as he drove down that lonely California road that turned out not to be so lonely when another car unexpectedly appeared from out of nowhere.

  “I’m working on both of them at once. I mean, I knew they needed work when I got them. That’s the fun part. I spend whatever free time I get playing around with them.” He pointed to the back area of the garage. “See? This is where I keep all my tools. Whenever I can, I try to get original tools from those two eras. It’s neat, working on fifties car with fifties tools.”

  I politely admired Jimmy’s collection of wrenches and crowbars, some hanging on the wall, some stored in cardboard boxes.

  “I’m a lucky man.” Jimmy stood, his hands on his hips, radiant as he admired his fleet. “I’m thrilled that I’m about to get another car, but I haven’t figured out yet where I’m gonna keep it. I haven’t decided what to get, either. I’m looking at a few different ones that I found on the Web . . .”

  I was starting to get really bored with this. I didn’t want to look like a poor sport, but now that I’d seen them, I’d had my weekly dose of automobile appreciation. I was also getting hungry. And it was cold.

  “Well, thanks for bringing me here,” I said. “So where should we go for dinner?”

  A look of surprise crossed his face, as if he were astonished I wasn’t enjoying basking in the glory of a dirty garage filled with old cars just as much as he was. Then he grinned.

  “Sorry. I know; I get carried away. Sometimes I forget that everybody doesn’t love cars as much as I do.”

  “It’s nice that you have something you care about so much,” I commented once we were driving away from the seedier side of Westfield. “Classic cars are a real passion with you, aren’t they?”

  His hobby was easier to romanticize now that I was no longer standing in an unheated building, pretending to admire hubcaps. Still, I really was impressed by the fact that there was something in Jimmy’s life he was so enthusiastic about. It made him seem so much more alive than a lot of the people I knew.

  “Yeah, I guess so. How about you? What gets you excited?”

  By now, I knew enough to recognize a simple sentence for what it was. At least, where Jimmy Nolan was concerned. For some reason, his question made me think of Marcus Scruggs. That, in turn, made me think about Barbara Delmonico, Claudia Martin, and Tommee Frack.

  “For now, it’s this murder investigation.”

  The pleasant, easygoing mood that had been buoying us both up suddenly took a nosedive.

  “Jesus H. Christmas, you’re not still messing around with that, are you?” Jimmy stared straight ahead at the road, his expression stony. “Jess, you gotta listen to me. I’m a cop. I know what’s out there. You have no idea of the risk you’re taking by getting involved in something like this. Just keep out, okay? Read my lips.”

  I tried telling myself he was concerned only for my safety. But I was irritated by the tone of his voice and his air of superiority. Even more, I was furious over his implication that I couldn’t take care of myself.

  Most of all, I was glad I hadn’t told him about the canary feather on my windshield, not to mention Betty’s threatening phone call or the games of Follow the Leader a black Jeep had been playing with me.

  We rode in silence for a minute or two. And then, in a voice that sounded much more like the one I was used to, he said, “Listen, I’m sorry.” He grinned sheepishly. “I didn’t mean to sound so much like my father.”

  “It’s okay,” I mumbled.

  “In fact, why don’t you tell me what you’ve found out? Got any suspects?”

  It was hard to stay angry at Jimmy. “I think I figured out who killed Tommee Frack.”

  “Yeah?” He glanced over. “Who?”

  “George Babcock.”

  “Who’s that?”

/>   “The PR guy who gave Tommee his start. I just found out Tommee left his entire business to him. Then again, Tommee had a pretty complicated personal life. At first, I thought his ex-wife killed him. But then I talked to his fiancée, and I started to suspect her, too.”

  “Yeah? Why her? Wasn’t she madly in love with the guy?”

  “That’s what you’d expect, except that one of her closest friends told me she was really only after his money. But what’s even more intriguing is the fact that Barbara Delmonico told me she was the daughter of two doctors and that she went to all these fancy schools and that she was a stockbroker on Wall Street. It turns out not one word is true. When she met Tommee, she was working as an exotic dancer at a sleazy club called the Silk ’N’ Satin Lounge.”

  “Oh, yeah? Never heard of it. You think maybe you could tell me where it is?”

  I punched him playfully in the arm.

  “The only problem is, I couldn’t come up with any reason for her to want him dead. Even if she was after his money—especially if she was after his money— she’d have nothing to gain, since they weren’t married yet.

  “Which brings me back to Babcock. Whether George knew what was in the will or not, he still had good reason to want Tommee dead. If he knew about the will, he had a fortune to gain. If he didn’t know, he could still have killed him for revenge. Tommee had very nearly ruined him.”

  “Wow. Sounds like you got the whole thing figured out.”

  “Maybe. I’m not completely sure. I’m filling my notebook with all the information I’ve gathered. I keep thinking that, like you said, if I go through it enough, sooner or later the true story of what happened is going to hit me.”

  “You know what I think?” Jimmy said. “Based on what you’ve told me, I mean?”

  “What?”

  “That the fiancée did it. What’s her name? Barbara?”

  “Right. Barbara Delmonico. Why do you think she did it?”

  “Because she’s the one who had the most to hide. Maybe she didn’t get any money as a result of Frack being dead. But what if she got something else? Like maybe they’d had a big fight—you know, right before this mega-wedding she’s been counting on—and he threatened to tell everybody about her past. Maybe she’d been struggling to move on to something better for years, and here’s this rich guy telling her he’s going to trash it all. He knew a lot of people, right? What if he started spreading the word that this woman who pretends she’s all hoity-toity really started out as a stripper?”

  “Exotic dancer,” I mumbled.

  But Jimmy’s speculation got me thinking. It was true that I’d been so focused on the obvious aspects of Barbara’s engagement to Tommee that I hadn’t bothered to think very far beyond. Now that Jimmy had opened their entire relationship up to question, there were a lot of possible scenarios.

  Could she have learned that Tommee was into something bizarre or illegal or otherwise questionable? Was it possible that, like his fiancée, Tommee wasn’t what he seemed? Or maybe once they were almost married, he’d let on that he was into some kinky sexual behavior. Maybe he suggested a threesome, and in a fit of rage and jealousy she bludgeoned him to death, then called on someone like Paul, the owner of the Silk ’N’ Satin, to help her get rid of the body . . .

  Somehow, I found it difficult to imagine Barbara getting upset about unusual sexual behavior. If anything, I could picture her being the one who suggested it in the first place.

  But maybe there was something else going on between them. It was such an obvious possibility that I was amazed I hadn’t thought of it before.

  “I mean, all these business wheelings and dealings are pretty standard stuff,” Jimmy was saying. “Everybody knows everybody, the corporate guys and the political guys, and they’re all working together to grease each other’s palms. That’s just the way things work. There’s nothing sleazy about it. It’s just the old boy network—if you’ll excuse the expression. People do business with their friends. They do favors for friends. That’s the real world, Jess.”

  “You’re probably right . . .”

  “I know I’m right. If I were you, I’d keep looking into this Barbara. Maybe I don’t know all the ins and outs of this case, but I’ve been a cop long enough to have developed kind of a sixth sense about what’s going on. And I’d put my money on the fiancée.”

  This time, when the evening ended, I was careful not to leave Jimmy with any uncertainty about whether or not I intended to go out with him again. After dinner we made out in the car like teenagers.

  When I told him I wasn’t ready to invite him in for the night, he took it well.

  “I need more time,” I said when the question of what was next, coming inside or driving home, came up. “I’m just coming out of a very intense relationship. And, well, I’m just not ready.”

  “Okay.” He sounded disappointed enough for me to feel flattered. “But when you are ready, you’ll let me know, right?”

  I grinned. “You’ll be the first. Promise.”

  As I watched him drive away, I realized I meant it.

  This one could be a keeper, I thought.

  Despite the cars.

  I lay awake in bed for a long time, listening to Max wheeze and Lou snore and running my hand along Cat’s silky fur . . . and thinking about Jimmy. Unfortunately, it wasn’t his boyish grin, his gentle teasing, or even the impressive way he used his hands and his mouth that kept the adrenaline racing through my bloodstream.

  It was his suggestion that there could have been much more going on between Barbara and Tommee than I’d assumed.

  I agonized over who might be able to tell me more about their relationship. I needed someone who’d known them both. Maybe even someone who’d been involved in their wedding plans.

  The answer came to me at two A.M.

  The next morning, I dragged myself out of bed, wishing that somewhere along the line I’d mastered the art of forcing myself to go to sleep. But once I was on the road with Max and Lou, I forgot all about my fatigue. I was too busy treating patients and reassuring their owners. I doled out hairball removers to cat owners and antiulcer medications to horse owners. I discussed the effectiveness of various whitening shampoos with a breeder in Woodhull who felt it was time his French poodles entered the show ring. I trimmed the claws of a rabbit whose owner was afraid of cutting them too close and watching her beloved Thumper bleed to death.

  The last appointment of the day, a diabetic cat in nearby Seaponak, was over by three-thirty. I rushed home to shower and slap on lipstick before venturing into uncharted waters.

  While I’d dealt with my share of nerves since I began playing sleuth, I wrestled with a different type of demon as I drove along an endless driveway to Hallsworth Hall.

  The building itself was spectacular. At the turn of the century, a multimillionaire named James Cullen Hallsworth had commissioned it with the goal of creating the most distinctive mansion on Long Island. He was determined to outshine the ostentatious Gold Coast mansion estates to the west, owned by his contemporaries like Frank Winfield Woolworth and J. P. Morgan.

  Hallsworth had been born into poverty, the son of a London chimney sweep. He emigrated to the United States when he was fourteen, began shining shoes on Wall Street and charmed his way into a job at a big investment firm. By the time he was thirty, he was a millionaire, regularly playing croquet with fellow Long Island residents Teddy Roosevelt and John Philip Sousa.

  But when it came to building his house, he wanted to play his own game. So he designed an eccentric fantasy that to many was an architectural nightmare. It combined the best of a variety of architectural styles: Greek columns, Tudor trim, Victorian turrets, even a widow’s walk. One more notable element was the bizarre number of chimneys—Hallsworth’s personal tribute to his chimney sweep father.

  At the time, the mansion had been considered garish. But what was once the epitome of bad taste was now seen as wonderfully idiosyncratic. While I’d heard of it for ye
ars, I’d never actually been there. Now that I was up close, I fell in love instantly with its quirkiness.

  It was what I found inside that was the problem.

  Everywhere I looked, I saw pictures of brides. They smiled into the camera. They smiled at the tuxedoed grooms standing beside them in silent adoration. They smiled at the precious flower girls who clung to their baskets of flowers.

  To be sure, events other than weddings also took place at Hallsworth Hall. I noticed a few shots of corporate events, bar mitzvahs, even what looked like an anniversary party for two people who, in my book, deserved a lot more than a couple of platters of shrimp and a champagne fountain for still looking so happy together after what had obviously been decades.

  But those events were clearly the exception. While Hallsworth Hall had once stood as a testimony to the American Dream, these days it served as a monument to Marriage.

  I was wondering if I should just hightail it out of there before a full-scale anxiety attack set in when an attractive young woman asked pleasantly, “How can I help you?”

  “Uh, I’m thinking of getting married,” I croaked.

  She smiled. “Thinking?”

  “Well, no. More than thinking. What I mean is, I’m trying to think of the best way to do it. Have the reception.”

  “Of course. And it’s a very big decision.” Another smile. “Almost as big a decision as choosing the right man.”

  “You probably don’t accept walk-ins. Maybe I should go home and call for an appointment . . .” I glanced longingly at the door.

  “That’s not necessary. In fact, I believe our wedding planner is free right now. Let me see if I can get you in.”

  She didn’t give me a chance to protest. Before you could say, “Here comes the bride,” she was on the phone.

  “Good news,” she informed me as she hung up. “Ms. White can see you now.”

  I forced a smile. “That is good news.”

  It’s for the cause, I reminded myself as I allowed her to shepherd me into a waiting area. You’re here to investigate a murder, not choose the color of the table-cloths and matching napkins for the Happiest Day of Your Life.