Monkey See, Monkey Die

by Cynthia Baxter

  I’d met that Sunny a few weeks earlier while investigating the murder of a friend of Betty’s, an up-and-coming actor-playwright who’d been a member of her theater group. Sunflower McGee, so named because her parents had apparently developed their child-naming skills during the heady days of Flower Power, worked as a cleaning person at Theater One in Port Townsend while she mulled over what she wanted to do with her life, an increasingly relevant question now that she was embarking on her twenties.

  Yet this version of Sunny looked as if she was about to be profiled in the Wall Street Journal. The petite young woman standing in front of me was dressed in a beige blazer, an off-white blouse, and a pair of dark tailored pants. The thumb rings, the studs, and all the other baubles that made her look like the lead singer in a punk rock band were gone. So was the blue streak. Even her bangs had been cut. In fact, they were short enough that I could easily see into a pair of dark brown eyes that at the moment happened to be clouded with anxiety.

  Blinking, I asked, “What are you doing here?”

  I’d barely gotten the words out before I realized I knew exactly what she was doing here. I’d arranged to meet her here and now so she could begin working for me as a sort of veterinary assistant. It was supposed to be a trial, the result of her enthusiasm over the idea of working with animals and my realization that maybe having a little help on the job wouldn’t be such a bad idea.

  Yet given all that had happened since five-thirty that morning, I’d completely forgotten about our plans. And I’d been too distracted by the news of Erin’s death to look at my schedule beyond my last appointment of the morning.

  “Today’s supposed to be your first day working for me, isn’t it?” I said, answering my own question.

  “That’s right!” she replied. Nervously, she added, “You haven’t changed your mind, have you? About trying this arrangement for a while?”

  “Not at all.” I hesitated. “It’s just that this has turned out to be kind of a complicated day.”

  As if wanting to prove my point, at that moment my two canines came shooting out of nowhere. They practically fell over each other as they made a beeline for Sunny, barking and leaping and just generally acting as if they’d both been in solitary confinement for months and were finally being let out to commune with the outside world.

  “Down, Max!” I cried. “Lou, please stop slobbering all over poor Sunny!”

  “No, it’s great!” she insisted, laughing. “I wasn’t exaggerating when I said I really love animals.”

  Even the ones that seem determined to make their owner look really bad, I wondered, since her profession is largely based upon being able to handle said creatures?

  “Sunny, I’m sorry,” I said. “But I don’t think—”

  “Oh, my gosh, is that a blue-and-gold macaw?” Without waiting for an answer, she dashed across the living room toward Prometheus’s cage. “Hey, pretty birdy!” she cooed before I had a chance to answer her question. “Who’s the pretty birdy?”

  It was as if she was reading from a script—one her fellow actor had already memorized.

  “Awk! Prometheus is the pretty birdy!” my less-than-modest bird cawed happily. “I wanna give you my love!”

  I stiffened, hoping that Sunny would understand that Prometheus wasn’t being fresh. He just happened to be one of the few birds on the planet that knew all the lyrics to every Led Zeppelin song, thanks to Nick’s obsession with classic rock. I didn’t want my brand-new employee filing a sexual harassment suit against me. Or my cheeky bird.

  Fortunately, Tinkerbell chose that moment to come prancing out of the bedroom.

  “You have a cat too!” Sunny cried gleefully. “Two cats!” she added as Catherine the Great padded out of the kitchen to see what all the hubbub was about.

  Max, however, wasn’t about to share the attentions of this newcomer, someone he seemed to sense might be up for a rollicking game of Slimeytoy. He scampered across the room, grabbed his favorite pink plastic poodle, and pranced back in our direction with the slimy object of his affections dangling from his mouth. As he did, he chomped on it just enough that it let out its usual ear-splitting squeals. He seemed to be saying, Golly, who wants to hang out with a bunch of boring cats when you could be playing tug-of-war with a saliva-covered piece of rubbery plastic with its head half ripped off?

  Apparently he was right. Blazer and all, Sunny crouched down and began tugging on Max’s beloved toy. When he finally released it, she showed an impressive aptitude for learning new games by hurling it across the room and watching gleefully as both he and Lou dashed after it.

  It might have been charming at some other time. But not today. Not when all I wanted was to get over to Ben Chandler’s house.

  Suddenly I had a brainstorm. Sunny’s first assignment as my brand-new assistant would be clearing my calendar for the rest of the day. In fact, as soon as I showed her how to access both my afternoon’s schedule and the list of client phone numbers stored in my BlackBerry, I would be free to rush off to talk to Erin’s husband. Once I took five minutes to go online and figure out where he lived, of course.

  “Come to think of it,” I told her, “the fact that this is such a complicated day makes it the perfect time for you to get started. How would you feel about rescheduling all my afternoon appointments?”

  “I could do that,” she replied earnestly. “In fact, organizing happens to be something I’m really good at.”

  I’d just set her up on the couch with my BlackBerry and was about to head for my computer when there was another knock at the door.

  I literally threw my hands up into the air. What now? I thought, trying to remember if I even knew anybody else who was likely to be available for paying unexpected social calls in the middle of a weekday.

  It turned out that I did.

  “Betty!” I cried as I opened the door.

  This time, it was my landlady. The trim, lithe woman with a smooth white pageboy and eyes the color of sapphires standing on my doorstep owned the estate I lived on. Betty Vandervoort also resided in the mansion that I always referred to as the Big House. It had originally been built by the prosperous grandson of Major Benjamin Tallmadge, a historic figure who remained a minor celebrity in the area. During the Revolutionary War, he and several other members of what was known as the Culper Spy Ring had supplied George Washington with critical information about the British military’s whereabouts.

  But while Betty had started out as my landlady, she quickly graduated to friend. Even though she had said good-bye to seventy long before—and for all I knew had already said hello to eighty—the difference in our ages rarely got in the way. In fact, I had developed a tremendous appreciation for both the worldliness and the wisdom she’d acquired during her long and colorful life, often calling upon both for guidance as I stumbled through my own.

  Today, she wasn’t alone. The furry tan clutch purse tucked under her arm was actually Frederick, a spirited wire-haired dachshund that had begun his life as Winston’s pride and joy. But as soon as Betty invited the two of them to move in, she began treating him like her own pet—or, to be more accurate, like her own child.

  As usual, the arrival of another canine caused my two beasts to react as if their favorite rock star had just entered the building. Max began yapping and jumping up on Betty, desperate to sniff Frederick. Lou wagged his tail so hard he looked as if he was trying to master the hokeypokey. Frederick, meanwhile, did some pretty serious barking and butt swinging of his own, even though he was suspended four feet above the ground. Once Betty put him on the floor, the three dogs sniffed and shoved and slid around with all the dignity of the Three Stooges.

  “I’m afraid I’m here to ask a favor,” Betty said once all the excitement died down. She peered inside my cottage, her eyes lighting on Sunny, who was camped out on the couch with the two feline members of my menagerie. “This isn’t a bad time, is it?”

  If only you knew, I thought. But I didn’t want to delay get
ting over to Ben’s any longer by launching into a long explanation of what had gone on so far that day. Especially when I knew there would be plenty of time later on to tell Betty all about the horrific events that had occurred since 5:30 A.M.

  “I’m sorry, Betty, but I’m about to run out,” I replied. “Something really important has come up.” When I saw the disappointed look on her face, I added, “But I guess I can spare a couple of minutes.”

  I took a moment to introduce Betty and Sunny to each other and explain the role each of them played in my life. As soon as the two women had exchanged hellos, Betty turned back to me.

  “Jessica,” she said somberly, “I know this is probably a huge imposition, but is there any chance you and Nick would be willing to house-sit—and, well, dog-sit—while Winston and I are on our honeymoon?”

  “What? You mean you’ve finally decided on a destination?” The two of them had been so busy planning the wedding that had taken place outside in the garden just a few weeks earlier that they hadn’t had time to make plans for a romantic getaway. Besides, Betty had done quite a bit of traveling since she’d retired as a Broadway dancer. As a result, she and Winston hadn’t been able to identify a place that wasn’t already chock-full of memories, thanks to all the globe-trotting in her past.

  “We’re going to Tuscany.”

  “Tuscany!” I cried. “A honeymoon in Italy sounds fabulous!”

  And it absolutely did. In fact, I could hardly imagine anyplace more romantic. Which is why I was surprised when I noticed that the expression on Betty’s face didn’t quite match her announcement that she was about to escape to one of the world’s most beautiful regions with the man of her dreams.

  “That’s what I thought too,” she said ruefully. “At least until Chloe and James announced that they planned to join us.”

  I just stared. “Winston’s children are crashing your honeymoon?”

  “Oh, it’s not just them. James is bringing his girlfriend of the moment, a French model who’s on the rebound. It seems she recently broke up with a count. James is married, you may recall, but he and his wife, Grace, recently got separated. Apparently she’s still living in Bristol, but he’s moved to London, where he’s becoming reacquainted with his hedonistic days as a swinging bachelor.

  “And Chloe’s bringing her husband, Rupert. She insists on bringing her daughter too. And while Fiona’s as cute as a button, having a six-year-old along on our first trip as husband and wife is bound to put a damper on some of those candlelit dinners out on il terrazzo.”

  Poor Betty! I thought. Aloud, I said, “I’m sure Chloe and James will be so busy sightseeing that you’ll barely notice they’re around. Florence is full of fabulous museums and cathedrals, not to mention all the shops and amazing restaurants.”

  Betty still looked chagrined. “We won’t be in Florence. We’re staying out in the countryside. We found a gorgeous villa on a hillside, halfway between Florence and Pisa. It never occurred to us when we told everyone we were renting a four-bedroom place that we’d be overrun with houseguests. There’s even a swimming pool, which Chloe insists is the perfect place for Fiona to spend her days.”

  Betty sighed. “All of which leads to the question, how would you feel about staying in the house while we’re away? We’re leaving on Friday, and we’ll be in Italy ten days. That house is so big—and of course it has ancient wiring and even more ancient plumbing. There are so many things that could go wrong that I hate to leave it unattended the entire time we’re away.”

  I took a few seconds to mull over her idea.

  I realized that a change of scenery might help with some of the prewedding jitters I’d been experiencing, jitters that had nothing to do with Dorothy Burby. When it came to having commitment phobia, I happened to be the queen. Maybe being in a different environment would give me some emotional breathing space.

  I also realized that pretending to be the grande dame of a mansion for a week and a half would give me some physical breathing space—something I’d started to need because of all those wedding presents that kept arriving on our doorstep. While I loved my cottage, it was the size of a large phone booth, which meant I was running out of storage space. In fact, I’d resorted to stashing the deep fryer, the waffle maker, and the ten-cup thermal carafe in the bathtub.

  “I’d love to,” I told Betty. “Of course, I’ll have to check with Nick, but I can’t imagine him having any objections. Especially since we don’t even have to pack up all our stuff. Whenever we need something, we can just pop back to the cottage.”

  “That’s wonderful,” she replied, sounding relieved. “I’ll wait for you to get a final okay from Nick, but in the meantime I’ll assume it’s a go. Stop by whenever you get a chance and I’ll show you where everything is. Thank you so much, Jessica. You have no idea what a weight off my mind this is. At least one thing is going right.

  “Now I’ll leave you to get on with the rest of your day,” she added, scooping Frederick up into her arms. “You, too, Sunny. It was nice meeting you.”

  “Nice meeting you too!” Sunny called over from the couch.

  As I closed the door after Betty, I let out a deep sigh. In the past fifteen minutes, I had made an important decision about place cards, doubled the size of the Reigning Cats & Dogs staff, and arranged to move into a gorgeous mansion and out of a one-bedroom abode that looked like the Keebler elves’ weekend place.

  But now it was time to get back to the important business of the day—even though the thought of confronting what I knew lay ahead caused the despondent mood that had temporarily drifted away to settle back over me.

  Chapter 3

  “Never hold discussions with the monkey when the organ grinder is in the room.”

  —Winston Churchill

  As I pulled up in front of 412 Crystal Court in my red VW half an hour later, I grabbed the handwritten note I’d tossed into my purse to make sure I’d remembered the address of Ben and Erin’s house correctly. Sure enough, the house matched the street and number I’d copied off the Cornell alumni website. Yet the castle-size McMansion looming ahead of me just didn’t fit with the Erin Walsh I remembered from vet school. It didn’t jibe with my memories of Ben either.

  The three-story structure looked as if it had been designed by an architect from the Victorian era—or at least one who secretly wished he or she was illustrating a children’s book set in that period. With all the turrets, oddly shaped windows, and gingerbread trim, I half-expected Mary Poppins herself to come bouncing out the front door.

  Yet despite all the old-fashioned touches, the materials that had been used in its construction were clearly modern. Instead of being shingled, the facade was covered with aluminum siding in a sickly sweet shade of baby blue. The massive front porch, lined with a glaringly white banister, was made from a synthetic type of decking I recognized from the advertising flyers the mailman routinely stuffed in my mailbox just to make sure I’d have enough unwanted paper come Recycling Day. The fact that the other homes on the cul-de-sac were all identical, aside from having facades in different pastel shades, made me feel as if I was standing in front of funhouse mirrors at a carnival.

  I studied the house for a long time, trying to reconcile this showy display with the Erin Walsh I knew back in vet school. Thinking back, I pictured a remarkably pretty young woman with inquisitive brown eyes, a willowy frame, and a tangle of dark, waist-length hair streaming down her back. She’d turned heads without having any idea of the effect she was having on the male portion of the population. Or caring in the least.

  That Erin didn’t give a hoot about material things. She dressed in clothes from thrift stores and furnished her tiny off-campus apartment with couches and tables salvaged from curbs the night before trash pickup. I even remembered her bringing her lunch every day in a brown paper bag.

  But it was more than her modest standard of living that seemed so out of kilter with the monstrosity she’d chosen as her home. Even more, it was the val
ues I remembered her embracing that struck me as so inconsistent. Those lunches she brought from home generally consisted of organically grown fruit with tofu or yogurt—and she neatly folded up the paper bag after lunch and tucked it into her backpack so she could use it again the following day.

  The wardrobe she culled from the racks of Goodwill and the Salvation Army was comprised of gauzy skirts from India, embroidered blouses from Mexico, and during Ithaca’s cold winters, colorful hats and mittens knitted by the natives of Tibet. As for her eclectically decorated apartment, a forerunner of shabby chic, it had ironically been located on the third floor of a real Victorian house, one that didn’t appear to have had either its paint or its plumbing updated since Queen Victoria herself ruled the British Empire.

  As for Ben, I remembered him as the kind of guy who couldn’t care less about where he lived. He’d been a laid-back jeans and T-shirt kind of guy, someone whose good looks and natural charm had clearly made things easy for him all his life. I recalled that he’d been a bit of a party animal, one of the few veterinary students who’d brought along his frat boy mentality from his undergraduate days.

  I also seemed to remember that he’d lived in a ramshackle house a few blocks off campus, with a bunch of guys whose to-do list simply did not include tasks like scrub the mold out of the refrigerator, sweep the pretzel crumbs off the carpet, or buy toilet paper. And like Erin, Ben had outfitted his place with furniture that other people had discarded, usually for good reason. In fact, a no-frills lifestyle was something Ben and Erin had had in common.

  Then again, I reasoned, maybe their modest beginnings were exactly what had prompted them to go all out once they accumulated some money in their bank account.

  More than a decade has passed since those days, I reminded myself as I pushed open the door of my VW. No doubt a lot has happened in that time. People change—and so does their taste in architecture.