It took me a second or two to answer. I was too busy marveling over the fact that her name was coming up again. In fact, I was about to comment on what a coincidence it was that he’d mentioned her, since that very morning she’d stood me up. But something in Forrester’s tone kept me from venting.
“Yes, I know her,” I replied cautiously.
“I thought you might,” he said, his voice growing even more strained. “She lives here on Long Island, but that’s not the only reason. She also went to vet school at Cornell, just like you. And if my calculations are correct, she might even have been there around the same time you were—”
“Forrester,” I interrupted, “why are you suddenly interested in Erin Walsh?”
The long pause that followed caused my stomach to tighten. But that was nothing compared to the violent lurch my entire gut gave as he said, “Jessie, you’d better brace yourself. Early this morning, the police found Erin Walsh’s body—she’s been murdered.”
Chapter 2
“Never monkey with the truth.”
—Ben Bradlee
No!” I cried, unable to believe what Forrester was telling me. “That can’t possibly be true! There has to be some mistake!”
“No mistake,” he said somberly. “I’m really sorry that I’m the one to break the bad news.”
“Erin is dead?” I couldn’t believe it. A hundred questions swarmed around inside my head, all of them twisted up with at least as many denials. “But I just spoke to her a few hours ago!”
“Jessie, if there’s anything I can do—wait a minute. You spoke to her? What did she—?”
“She was murdered?” I interrupted, still incredulous. “Are the police positive it’s Erin? And . . . and even if it is, couldn’t it have been an accident?”
“I’m afraid this was no accident,” Forrester replied. “The cops found Erin’s body this morning at around seven-thirty. The medical examiner hasn’t done an autopsy yet, but it’s pretty clear she was murdered. That’s all they really know at this point—which brings me back to my original question. What did she say when you spoke to her this morning?”
I did some quick thinking, and decided I wasn’t ready to come clean.
“Not much,” I told him. “Actually, she sounded as if she was in a hurry.”
“So she didn’t say anything that might—?”
“Where was Erin found?” I demanded. There was no way I could bring myself to use the phrase Erin’s body.
“In her car. It was parked at a weird angle in a residential area in Pohasset. One of those quiet streets without much traffic. Just big houses and big lawns.”
Pohasset, located on the North Shore, was one of Long Island’s wealthiest communities. It also happened to be only a couple of towns away from Bay Village, where Erin had told me she and her husband were living.
“What do you mean by a ‘weird angle’?” I asked.
“Like she might have been drunk when she parked. Or maybe she was in a hurry.” In a strained voice, he added, “Maybe she was even running away from somebody.”
“Who found her?” I asked, my head spinning so hard I could barely focus on one question at a time.
“A man who lives on the street where her car was found,” Forrester said. “He told the cops he’d just come out of his house and was about to get into his car to drive to work when he noticed the car and how strangely it was parked. When he went over to look inside, he saw that she was . . . he saw the condition she was in. He immediately dialed 911 on his cell.”
My stomach gave a violent lurch as the scenario he was describing took shape in my mind. Erin had been killed not long after I’d talked to her. It was even possible that while I was sitting in the diner, doing ordinary things like stirring sugar into my coffee and buttering my English muffin, she had been . . .
“Even though the medical examiner hasn’t done the autopsy yet, do the police have any idea how she was killed?” I choked out the words.
“It looks as if she was strangled. But Falcone said he’s not going public with that until the M.E. files his report.”
“You’ve already spoken with him?”
“That’s right,” he replied. “I gave him a call as soon as Norfolk Homicide faxed the press release over to Newsday.”
Getting in touch with Lieutenant Anthony Falcone myself had been one of the first ideas that flashed into my mind when Forrester told me the horrible news. True, in the past, Norfolk County’s chief of homicide had been anything but cooperative when it came to answering my questions about ongoing murder investigations. The fact that in some cases I’d turned out to be better at solving crimes than he was certainly didn’t help.
Yet my feelings about the man aside, he was undoubtedly the best source of information. All things considered, I decided I could live with Falcone being much more inclined to update Forrester Sloan, a newspaper reporter who covered crime on Long Island, than a veterinarian he saw as meddling, bothersome, and just generally in the way.
“What else did he say?” I demanded. I needed more information, anything at all that would help me make sense of such incomprehensible news.
“That’s about it. It’s still too soon for the cops to know very much. Don’t forget, all this just happened a few hours ago.”
My head was swimming, even as I slowly began to wrap my mind around the fact that Erin was dead. That she had been murdered.
And then it occurred to me that I wasn’t the only one who would be devastated.
Poor Ben! I thought, picturing her husband the way he had looked in vet school. I remembered a good-looking young man with a breezy air of self-confidence that made it hard not to like him. He and Erin had started dating sometime during our second year, then gotten married right after graduation.
The two of them had seemed so happy at our five-year reunion. I could still picture them at the welcoming cocktail party, both deliriously excited about their future, working side by side as they lived out their dream of working with animals. I remembered feeling a twinge of envy, not only that they were both so happy, but also that they were moving in the exact same direction.
And now . . .
“Look, Jess, I’m really sorry,” Forrester said, interrupting my thoughts. “I’ll let you know if I find out anything else, okay? In the meantime, call me if you need anything. My cell phone is always on.”
“Thanks, Forrester.” I hung up, blinking hard to hold back the tears that were fogging up my vision.
And then something else dawned on me.
During my early-morning telephone conversation with Erin, she’d sounded upset. She talked way too fast. She insisted she had to see me right away. And whatever it was she’d been so anxious to talk to me about, she explicitly told me not to say a word to anybody about our clandestine meeting.
Her final words echoed in my ears. In response to me asking point-blank if everything was okay, in a nervous voice she’d replied, That’s the thing, Jessie. I don’t think it is.
The violent gnawing in my stomach told me that whatever she was so anxious to talk to me about could well have had something to do with the reason she was murdered.
As I sat in my van, staring out the window, something else Erin had said during our phone call kept playing through my head over and over again.
It’s crucial that I talk to somebody like you!
At the time, I’d wondered what she meant.
Now, given what had just happened, answering that question suddenly seemed of the utmost importance.
It’s not often that I let my personal life get in the way of my work. But today had instantly turned into one of those days when I simply couldn’t face a full afternoon of treating patients.
I knew there was no way I’d be able to make the house calls I had scheduled. I couldn’t even imagine being able to give my full attention to animals that needed my help, and just generally acting as if nothing were out of the ordinary. All I wanted to do was go home.
So
as soon as I took a few deep breaths and determined that I would be able to concentrate enough to drive, that’s exactly what I did. I seemed to recall that my next appointment wasn’t until one o’clock, which gave me a little less than an hour to get into a frame of mind in which I could start contacting my clients and rescheduling them.
What I really need right now is to be alone, I thought as I neared my cottage.
Yet by the time I turned off Minnesauke Lane and began driving along the quarter-mile driveway that led to my front door, I knew the first thing I would do after I’d shared my bad news with Nick was sit down in front of my computer, track down Ben and Erin’s address, and pay Ben a visit. Not only was I anxious to express my sympathy, I also wanted to talk to him about the strange conversation I’d had with his wife right before she was murdered.
It wasn’t only because sharing what Erin had told me could prove helpful with the police department’s investigation either. I also hoped that somehow it would give her husband a better understanding of what had happened.
In addition, I hoped that talking to him about what was going on in Erin’s life, whatever it was, would help me understand how this terrible thing could have happened—and why Erin had been so anxious to have my help.
As I let myself into my cottage, I was so absorbed in the events of the day that I completely forgot to brace myself for the reaction I always get when I come home. Predictably, my dogs leaped around gleefully, acting as if I’d been away for years rather than hours. Max picked up his favorite possession, a pink plastic poodle that’s just one in a line of identical toys that over the years has been loved to death. He gave it a few hopeful shakes, trying to entice me into tugging at the saliva-covered prize and then tossing it across the room so he could scramble after it.
Lou, meanwhile, grabbed the latest in an endless stream of tennis balls he’d owned, each one invariably becoming defuzzed from way too much gnawing combined with an overabundance of dog spit. From the impish look in his eye, I knew he was about to start playing the new game he’d recently invented. It seemed specifically designed to make life more difficult for his owner—who would be me.
The way it worked was that he would lie down next to the couch and poke the tennis ball with his nose until it rolled so far under that he couldn’t reach it. The next step was to bark and whine and growl until said owner—again, moi—had no choice but to get down on her stomach and strain to reach under the couch, at times enlisting the aid of a ruler or a rolled-up veterinary journal, until she could retrieve it and return it to its grateful owner. Repeat as necessary. I must say, after about six or seven rounds, it got pretty tiring. For me anyway.
Prometheus, as much of a social being as the dogs, broke into an enthusiastic chorus of “Jingle Bells,” meanwhile bobbing his head and stepping from side to side on his perch like a vaudeville dancer. Even the cats came out of hiding to say hello. Tinkerbell scampered in from the bedroom, while my older feline made a slower and considerably more dramatic entrance from the kitchen.
Unfortunately, I wasn’t in the mood for Christmas carols—not to mention an invigorating game of either Slimeytoy or Make Your Owner Crawl Under the Furniture on Her Belly. For now, Prometheus had to settle for some cooing and feather-stroking, while my four-legged friends got a little ear-scratching and a few quick cuddles.
Once I’d done my part to make all my pets feel sufficiently loved and appreciated, I decided I needed a little love and appreciation myself. I plopped onto the couch and punched Nick’s number into my cell phone.
“Do you have a minute?” I greeted him in a strained voice.
I guess he knows me pretty well because he immediately demanded, “What’s wrong, Jess?”
I did my best not to lose it as I told him the terrible news. Amazingly, I actually succeeded.
“Do you want me to come home?” he asked anxiously. “I’m sure nobody would mind me taking the rest of the day off if I explained what happened.”
“Thanks, but it’s not necessary,” I assured him. “I can manage. In fact, I’ll probably be out most of the afternoon anyway. I’m going to try to track down Erin’s address so I can go see her husband. Ben was also in my class at Cornell.”
“Okay. Just let me know if there’s anything you need me to do.”
“Thanks, Nick.” At times like this, I wondered why I’d ever had even a moment’s hesitation about marrying the man.
I’d barely gotten off the phone before it started to vibrate in my hand. I was so distracted that I answered without bothering to check caller ID.
As soon as I found out who was at the other end, I knew that being so hasty had been a big mistake.
“Jessica!” Dorothy Burby, Nick’s mother, barked accusingly. From the way she sounded, I just assumed she was irritated that her future daughter-in-law had answered the phone and not her son, Crowned Prince of the Planet.
“Hello, Dorothy,” I said as politely as I could. “How are you?”
“I’m perfectly fine,” she shot back. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
I’d been on the phone for less than ten seconds and I was already gritting my teeth. “If you’re looking for Nick,” I said evenly, “I’m afraid he’s not home.”
“Actually, it’s you I wanted to speak to.” Dorothy sounded as surprised as I was. “I wanted to ask you about the place cards.”
“Place cards?” I repeated. Given how distracted I was, I couldn’t quite remember what on earth place cards were, much less figure out why she was calling me about them.
“For your wedding? So your guests know where to sit?”
“Of course,” I replied. “I don’t know where my head is today.”
Actually, I knew exactly where it was. And that happened to be someplace a lot more important than inside a box of place cards.
“You have given this issue some serious thought, haven’t you?” Dorothy asked, sounding annoyed.
I hadn’t even realized place cards were an “issue,” much less one I was supposed to be thinking about. Seriously, no less.
“Of course I have, Dorothy. And I decided that the smartest thing to do was leave the whole thing entirely up to you.” I surprised myself not only by how good I could be at thinking on my feet, but also by how diplomatic I could be. “After all, that’s the kind of thing you’re so good at.”
Dorothy clearly decided to take that as a compliment. “That’s true,” she agreed, her tone softer. “But you need to make the final decision. After all, you are the bride.”
Only Dorothy Burby could make that sound like an insult, I thought, trying to be amused instead of irritated. “Final decision about what?”
“About whether to go with a plastic flower stapled onto each one—I read that idea in a magazine—or simply to attach stickers printed with pictures of flowers.”
It was definitely time for some more teeth-gritting. Still, I was hardly in a position to complain. My own mother had been killed in a car accident years before. Both my parents, in fact. And putting together a wedding, I was learning, was practically a full-time job. Especially a wedding that was taking place in just four short weeks. And with me much too busy to put in the kind of time that was required, I’d had little choice but to leave most of the planning up to my future mother-in-law.
Which hardly put me in a position to question why we even needed place cards.
“How about attaching a real flower to each one?” I suggested. “And instead of stapling them, maybe they could be fastened with narrow satin ribbons threaded through the cardboard and tied in a tiny bow in front.”
The silence at the other end of the line told me my idea wasn’t exactly being received with enthusiasm.
“I suppose that might work,” Dorothy finally said. Her tone was as icy as the swan-shaped sculpture that in my worst nightmare was the next topic she was going to bring up. “That is, if you don’t mind those real flowers wilting halfway through the reception.”
Frankly, I found the idea of
a few scraggly flower petals a lot more acceptable than the plastic blossoms that were apparently part of Dorothy’s image of a fantasy wedding.
“I can live with that,” I answered cheerfully.
“Well, if that’s what you really want . . .”
Now it was time for me to remain silent.
“Okay, then,” Dorothy said, back to her efficient mode. “Let’s move on to the next item on my list.”
As soon as I learned that Dorothy had an actual list, a feeling very much like panic began to creep up on me. Even while discussing the heated controversy surrounding place cards, I hadn’t forgotten there was something much more pressing—not to mention way more important—that I needed to deal with.
“For the ice sculpture that will go on the hors d’oeuvres table,” Dorothy continued, “would you prefer two swans with their long, graceful necks intertwined or—”
I was actually relieved to hear someone knocking at my front door.
“I’m so sorry, Dorothy,” I said, “but someone’s knocking at my door. I’m afraid we’ll have to talk about the ice sculpture some other time.”
“But Jessica! The wedding is less than four weeks away! Surely even you recognize how vital it is that—”
Click.
I was still clutching my cell phone in my hand as I threw open the front door. I expected to find my landlady, Betty Vandervoort, standing there. Or maybe a delivery person from UPS or FedEx bearing one of the gifts well-wishers had been sending ever since Dorothy had sent out the wedding invitations.
But it wasn’t Betty and it wasn’t a delivery person. In fact, it took me a good five seconds to identify the person I suddenly found myself standing face-to-face with. There were things about her that looked so familiar, but at the same time it was like playing a game of What’s Wrong with This Picture?
“Sunny?” I finally asked.
I wasn’t sure I believed what I was seeing. After all, the Sunny McGee I knew usually wore only black garments that were preferably studded with metal, heavy black boots, a dozen gold studs along the edge of one ear, and at least as many silver rings on every one of her fingers, including her thumbs. She also had a streak of brilliant blue in her otherwise jet-black hair, which she wore cut short except for the bangs that seemed deliberately designed to hide her eyes.
Monkey See, Monkey Die Page 2
