Dead Canaries Don't Sing

by Cynthia Baxter

  “Lieutenant Harned?” I gasped, truly stunned. “ Harned ordered Frack’s murder?”

  “Him and a bunch of other guys in the department, all the way up to the commissioner. With Harned in charge of the investigation, we knew there was no way any of us would be implicated. And it was a cinch, since Frack knew me and trusted me. We were pals. Bringing him here, to this garage, was a piece of cake. At that point, finishing him off was easy. The whole thing was planned out smoothly, from start to finish. We were even smart enough not to use a gun, since the bullet could be traced. The canary . . . that was my own personal touch. Harned wasn’t thrilled when he first heard about it, but just like everything else, he took care of it. The dead bird disappeared before the newspapers ever got wind of it. ‘The perfect crime,’ just like I said . . . at least, until you starting butting in.”

  He tightened his fingers, digging into my windpipe and cutting off even more air. For the second time that night, flashes of light popped in front of me.

  When I started making horrible choking sounds, he let go. I was relieved—but only for a second. Still holding onto me by my hair, he leaned over and stuck his free arm under the driver’s seat of the Spyder. I watched him fumble around. When he withdrew his hand, even in the dim light I could see it was wrapped around a ball-peen hammer.

  I’d seen them before, of course. They were common enough. And perfect for everyday jobs—like banging out a sports car’s crumpled fender. But I’d never thought much about the fact that they mainly consisted of a metal sphere about 3 centimeters in diameter.

  “I had a nice spot on the North Shore all picked out for you,” he told me. “I figured I’d make things pleasant on your last night out. But I guess we’d better just end this here and now.”

  As I watched Jimmy raise the hammer high above his head, I felt as if everything was moving in slow motion. I knew exactly what was about to happen.

  A feeling I’d never experienced before rushed over me. It rose from somewhere deep in my gut, an instinct I hadn’t known I possessed. I suddenly understood the behavior I’d witnessed in so many animals in my care who felt threatened. Gentle house cats and docile lap dogs—including my Max—morphed into snarling, savage beasts who were prepared to do whatever it took to survive.

  When I twisted my head around, the arm Jimmy was using to hold my hair was only a few inches away. I lunged forward and sank my teeth into his flesh.

  “Shit!” he cried. “Jesus H.—”

  And then an explosion of sound jolted through me. Jimmy crumpled, and the hammer clattered against the concrete floor. I watched in horror as a dark blotch appeared on his shirt, near his left shoulder. Instinctively I jerked my head up to see if any more bullets were about to fly.

  The man standing in the doorway lowered his arm. But he kept his fingers curled around his gun and his eyes on the man sprawled on the floor.

  I blinked as I realized who it was. Officer Vincent Pascucci walked over to Jimmy. Ignoring me, he knelt to check for a pulse.

  “Is he dead?” I croaked.

  He didn’t answer. Instead, he slid his gun back in the holster, then pulled out his radio and barked, “We got a man down. Send an ambulance to six twenty-nine Front Street in Westfield right away. Hey, Maria? Send backup, too.”

  Jimmy let out a groan. Pascucci crouched next to him.

  “Is he going to make it?” I asked in a hoarse whisper.

  “He’ll make it.” Without taking his eyes off Jimmy, he asked, “What about you? You hurt?”

  “I’m okay.” My knees felt weak and my whole body was shaking. “Just scared. And very glad you got here when you did.”

  “Yeah, well, those few seconds you bought by biting the bastard probably saved your life. You got good instincts.”

  “Thanks.” Once again, I thought of Max. “I learned from a master.”

  “Jessie?”

  I whirled around and saw a man standing in the doorway, his face twisted with fear.

  “Nick!”

  “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine—thanks to very good police work.” He came over and took me in his arms. “Thank God you’re—” He couldn’t finish.

  “Thank God for cell phones.” I slumped against him, suddenly exhausted.

  When we pulled apart, Officer Pascucci fixed his dark eyes on mine. “Didn’t anybody ever tell you to steer clear of murder investigations? Not to mention murderers?”

  I glanced at Nick before replying. “Maybe once or twice.”

  Pascucci scowled. “When I saw you at the funeral, I got a bad feeling about what you were up to. I checked it out and found I was right. Driving around, asking people questions . . . dangerous stuff.”

  I nodded. Staring at the limp body lying in front of me, watching the patch of blood near Jimmy’s shoulder grow larger, I wasn’t about to disagree.

  “You’re the one who’s been following me in your Jeep,” I realized. “And you made that phone call to Betty and left that canary feather on my windshield . . . You were trying to scare me away.”

  “Too bad you can’t take a hint.”

  “But tonight . . . how did you know—?”

  “Nick got in touch with me after you called him, and I told him where Jimmy keeps his cars. Then I got over here as fast as I could. See, I’ve been here before, plenty of times.” He gestured toward the Spyder. “I even helped put in a new carburetor. That was a while ago, before I figured out what Jimmy was into—and how he was getting the money for all these fancy cars.”

  “Working for Frack?” I asked.

  “Making cash deliveries—and making a few extra bucks on the side for his trouble. That was bad enough. But then Jimmy started bragging about how he was gonna buy himself a ’66 Mustang—and the next thing I knew, Frack turned up dead.” He shook his head grimly. “I suspected he might have been involved, but I didn’t want to believe it. I mean, dirty money is one thing. Murder is something else entirely.”

  Jimmy let out a another groan. When he moved his arm, I saw the muscles of Pascucci’s face tighten.

  “Jesus fucking H. Christmas!” Jimmy growled. “You shot me, you bastard!”

  “You’re under arrest for the murder of Tommee Frack,” Pascucci replied coldly. “Internal Affairs and the District Attorney are on the way. Anything you do or say may be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to consult an attorney . . .”

  A siren wailed. The lights of the approaching ambulance pulsed red through the grimy windows, as bright as fireworks in the dark, starless night. Even more reassuring was the sound of slamming car doors, a sign that more cops had arrived on the scene.

  As I gave my statement, I watched a pair of paramedics ease Jimmy onto a stretcher. Once I finished, I couldn’t resist moving closer.

  “How could you do it, Jimmy?” I demanded in a hoarse voice. “How could you kill a man in cold blood?”

  “I did what I was paid to do.” Jimmy looked up at me, his face expressionless. “It’s like I told you, Jess. To me, it’s just a job.”

  Never before had the lights of Cross Country Road, the streetlights and the traffic lights and the brightly lit parking lots of the Home Depot and the Old Navy, seemed so welcoming. My throat ached from Jimmy’s merciless grip, my arm was throbbing, and a huge bump was growing on my forehead where I’d banged it against the car roof. But I couldn’t remember having ever felt happier to be alive.

  Nick cast me a wary glance from over on the driver’s side. “I hope you learned something tonight.”

  “I certainly did. I learned not to go to a dark, isolated parking garage with a man until at least the fifth date.”

  “Didn’t you learn anything about the dangers of flirting with strangers?”

  “What do you mean, ‘strangers’?” I demanded, stung. “Every man you meet for the first time is a stranger. Unless he’s your best friend’s brother or . . . or your cousin’s roommate or something. Even you were a stranger the first time I met
you.”

  “You know what I mean.” Nick was using that exasperated tone of voice that absolutely drove me up the wall. “When you started in on Nolan, you didn’t know a thing about him.”

  “First of all, I didn’t ‘start in on him.’ I just happened to find him a teensy bit attractive. Second of all, he was a cop, for heaven’s sake! How much more upstanding could a person be?”

  “That’s the whole point, Jess. People aren’t always what they seem.”

  “But—you know what? Just take me home,” I told him.

  We drove in silence for a few blocks. I was trying to muster up the courage to say what I was thinking, which was that I wondered if maybe it was time for me to stop being so guarded.

  I’d known all along I was taking a tremendous risk by getting involved with Tommee Frack’s murder, but I hadn’t let it stop me. As a result, I’d come close to getting killed tonight.

  But I’d survived.

  Maybe I could survive taking other risks, too.

  “Hey, Nick?”

  “What, Jess?”

  “I’m absolutely crazy about you.”

  “It just so happens I’m absolutely crazy about you, too.”

  He pulled over to the side of the road.

  “You know I love you, Jessie,” he said gently. “I’ve never stopped.”

  “I’ve never stopped loving you, either, Nick. I was just afraid.”

  “Then we’ll take it slower.”

  “I’m sorry I hurt you in Hawaii,” I said in a hoarse voice.

  “You coming back to me here at home makes up for it.”

  “We really should talk about it one of these days.”

  “Okay. But right now, there’s something more important we have to do.”

  “What?”

  He gave me a look that absolutely melted me. “Kiss.”

  We did.

  About the Author

  CYNTHIA BAXTER is a native of Long Island, New York. She currently resides on the North Shore, where she is at work on the next Reigning Cats and Dogs mystery, Putting on the Dog, which Bantam will publish in fall 2004.

  If you enjoyed Dead Canaries Don’t Sing . . .

  Dear Reader,

  A locked door, an anonymous note, an unidentified footprint . . . there’s something irresistible about the unknown.

  Ever since I was a little girl, I loved to read. And there were three elements of a story I always found utterly enthralling: a mystery, a spirited heroine (Pippi Longstocking was an early role model), and, as I neared adolescence, a little bit of romance.

  Now that I’m grown up—and own a computer— I’m lucky enough to be spinning my own tales filled the three intriguing elements that first hooked me on reading. By making my heroine a veterinarian, I’ve been able to add a fourth passion of mine: animals.

  So, I invite you to come along with me and enjoy the thrill of those locked doors and mysterious footprints, and the antics of Max, Lou, Cat, Prometheus, and all the other characters who are part of the story. I hope you have as much fun stepping into Jessie and Nick’s world as I had creating it.

  Fondly,

  Read on for a preview of the next

  Reigning Cats & Dogs mystery

  Putting on the Dog

  coming in September 2004 from Bantam Books. . . .

  “All men are intrinsically rascals, and I am only sorry that, not being a dog, I can’t bite them.”

  —Lord Byron

  Damn you, Marcus Scruggs!” I grumbled, leaning closer to the windshield of my van and peering through the sheeting rain. “Be honest, guys: am I totally nuts?”

  Max and Lou, scrambling around on the seat beside me, didn’t offer an opinion about my sanity. They were too busy acting like unruly preschoolers, wrestling as they vied for the space nearest the window. It was a close contest. Lou, my one-eyed Dalmatian, had longer legs. But Max, being a terrier, was infinitely more determined.

  I sighed. Somehow, this wasn’t the way I’d pictured my arrival in the Bromptons, a cluster of posh seaside communities famous for their palatial summer estates, four-star restaurants featuring twelve dollar desserts, and spectacular white-sanded beaches. For decades, the Bromptons had been known as the summer playground of movie stars, rock legends, writers, and artists. So it hadn’t been difficult for Marcus Scruggs, a fellow Long Island veterinarian, to sell me on the idea of standing in for him at a charity dog show, answering pet owners’ questions at the “Ask-the-Vet” booth.

  But in the pouring rain, the area’s main east-west route, Sunset Highway, looked like Main Street in a ghost town. Few cars crawled along the puddle-strewn thoroughfare, and fewer yet stood parked outside the pool supply shops and imported tile boutiques lining the edge.

  Gritting my teeth, I veered around a body of water only slightly smaller than Lake Superior. Marcus had given me detailed directions for getting to the estate of someone named Wiener, the man who’d volunteered to put me up during the week-long event. I’d followed his directions to the letter, but I still couldn’t find Darby Lane. Of course, not being able to make out the street signs through the pouring rain didn’t help.

  I clamped down on the brake when I spotted a yellow-and-white striped awning, a sure sign that I was approaching a farm stand. Somebody around here had to know where the Wiener estate was. I made a sharp turn, sending Max and Lou collapsing against each other in a heap.

  “You guys okay?” I asked.

  I didn’t need an answer. By the time I pulled into a space, the two of them were already climbing all over each other again, making little yelping sounds and occasionally nipping each other playfully in the butt. I was glad somebody was having fun.

  I stared out at the rain morosely, wondering why I hadn’t brought along an umbrella. With a loud sigh of resignation, I opened the door of my van.

  “Stay!” I instructed my two canines. They paused in their shenanigans, both shooting me surprised looks that said they wouldn’t even have considered venturing out in weather like this.

  “You guys are much too smart,” I muttered. “You make the humans do all the dirty work.”

  I picked my way across a parking lot that was quickly turning into mud. I’d made a few Sunday morning emergency calls in my usual work ensemble, but before corralling Max and Lou into my 26-foot van and embarking on the drive to the East End, I’d changed into an outfit I felt better suited my destination. I’d donned a pale blue silk blouse and black rayon trousers, the finest that Bloomingdale’s clearance rack had to offer. I only hoped the drops of rain that were turning them from solid colors into polka-dots wouldn’t have a lasting effect.

  “Excuse me!” I called to the clerk standing behind the vegetable displays, protected from the rain by the awning.

  “Be with you in a minute.” She turned her attention back to her customer, a woman who’d had the good sense to bring an umbrella and wear a slicker.

  I glanced around frantically, looking for some friendly local who might be willing to help. And then I let out a screech.

  Before I knew what was happening, I was blasted with water. It was as if someone—someone not very nice—had suddenly turned a hose on me.

  “Wha-a-a...!” I sputtered.

  I stood frozen to the spot, gradually realizing that the front of my silk shirt was splotched with huge, grimy wet spots, while my stylishly loose pants clung damply to my thighs. My dark blond hair felt plastered around my head, no doubt giving me the distinctive look of a sea otter.

  I blinked a few times, struggling to get the water out of my eyes. As soon as I did, I saw that a low-slung sports car the same color as the ripe tomatoes on display had just squealed into a parking space less than five feet in front of me.

  I just stared as the door of the Ferrari opened. The driver was dressed in torn jeans and a T-shirt. A Dodgers baseball cap was pulled down low over his eyes. With his shaggy hair and a sorry attempt at a beard, he looked like he’d stolen the car, not earned it.

  I plunke
d myself right in front of him.

  He peered up at me over his shades. “Gee, did I do that?”

  “No, I’m on my way to a wet T-shirt contest,” I shot back. “I thought accessorizing with mud would be a nice touch.”

  “Hey, I’m really sorry. I hope you’ll let me pay the dry cleaning bill.”

  “That’s the least you can do. But if you don’t mind, I’d rather not discuss this in the pouring rain.”

  “Okay.” He climbed out of the car, grabbed my hand, and pulled me after him. I would have protested except for the fact that he actually seemed to know where he was going.

  I was so busy following him that I didn’t pay much attention to the Mercedes that had just driven up beside us, or the wiry man in tight jeans and a black silk shirt who jumped out.

  The Ferrari driver led me through the farm stand’s side entrance, bringing us into a small room. It contained a few shelves lined with household basics like mango chutney and wasabi rice crackers.

  He turned to me. “How much do you think is fair? To get your clothes cleaned, I mean.”

  “Isn’t there something else I deserve?”

  His expression tightened. “Don’t tell me you’re planning to hit me up for pain and suffering! Look, if you’re going to start screaming about your lawyer—”

  I tossed my head indignantly. “Actually, I was looking for an apology. Or is that too much to expect from somebody who drives like this was the Indy 500—”

  Suddenly, the man I’d seen get out of the Mercedes appeared in the doorway, holding an impressively large camera. He immediately started snapping pictures, one after another.

  I was so startled I didn’t know what to think. But the Ferrari driver appeared to have figured it out immediately.

  “Get the hell out of here!” he yelled. “You people are leeches—and you’re the worst, Barnett! Can’t I even go shopping for food without you harassing me?”

  The Ferrari driver turned his back on the photographer. “Look, I’m getting out of here,” he told me. “Funny, but I’ve suddenly lost my appetite.” He reached into his pocket, took out a wad of bills, and pulled off two twenties. “Here. And I really am sorry.”