Hare Today, Dead Tomorrow

by Cynthia Baxter

  “It’s no trouble at all,” I assured her.

  “Terrific. I’ll just grab Coco and meet you at the house.”

  She began giving me directions, then decided it would be simpler for me to follow her home.

  Turning back to Theo, she said, “Feel free to close up early. I know you’ve got enough to take care of without doing double duty by running my vineyard as well as your own.”

  “Now, Joan, don’t even think about it,” he insisted. “You know that a lonely old bachelor like me doesn’t have anything else to do on a Saturday. There’s nothing on my schedule for the rest of the day except the roast-beef special over at Clyde’s.”

  She smiled gratefully. “Thanks, Theo. You’re a real friend.”

  As I pulled out of the Thorndike Vineyards’ parking lot, I could scarcely believe my good fortune. I’d been wondering how I’d ever manage to get inside the world that Cassandra Thorndike had occupied, and here the perfect opportunity had just fallen into my lap.

  Right, I thought. Nothing but pure luck. That—and a little scheming, a bit of acting, and the good fortune to own a clinic-on-wheels that gave me the perfect excuse to visit people’s homes. I’d been following Joan Thorndike’s pickup truck farther east along Route 35 for less than a mile when her right-hand turn signal began blinking. As soon as I made the turn, I began bumping along an uneven dirt road. I slowed down, not wanting to damage anything internal—either inside the van or inside me.

  By the time I reached the house, Joan’s truck was already parked near the back door. She’d left the door open, as if she’d gone inside and expected me to do the same.

  When I did, I found myself in a large, sunny farmhouse kitchen that combined modern appliances with old-fashioned touches like colorful braided rag rugs and wooden shelves instead of sleek cabinets for storing dishes. Cheerful yellow-and-white-checked curtains framed a large window that overlooked a dilapidated barn.

  “Sorry about the state of our driveway,” Joan apologized, distractedly petting the cat cradled in her arms. “I probably should have warned you.”

  “I’ve seen worse,” I assured her. “In fact, I consider the occasional broken muffler an occupational hazard.”

  She barely seemed to be listening. “Gordon must be upstairs or outside,” she mused, more to herself than to me. “His car’s here.”

  “This is Coco,” she said, slightly lifting the cat she was holding in her arms. “That’s short for Minou Chocolate, which, in simple English, is ‘chocolate pussycat.’ You can probably tell she’s half-Siamese.”

  The tiny cat couldn’t have weighed more than five or six pounds. She had large green eyes and a pure brown undercoat with a black finish, except for a thin white stripe that looked like a surgical scar along her belly.

  “Where did she get this scar?” I asked.

  “Poor Coco!” Joan replied. “She swallowed a long blue thread once and had to have surgery to untangle her intestines.”

  “Tell me more about her symptoms.”

  “As I mentioned, she hasn’t had much energy, and she’s been squatting a lot,” Joan said. “She’s also been vomiting a little.”

  “Let’s bring her into the van,” I said. “Do you have a toy or something to distract her with while I examine her?”

  “Here, this one’s her favorite.” She grabbed a small red clown head off the kitchen counter. It looked as if it was so well-loved that its various pieces had been glued together, probably more than once. With the toy in her hand and the cat in her arms, she followed me into my van.

  As I took Coco and placed her on the examining table, the cat kept looking over at Joan. “She seems very attached to you,” I commented.

  She beamed. “She’s very loyal—aren’t you, Coco? In fact, I think of her as my ‘watch cat.’ Once, my five-year-old niece was visiting, and Coco jumped a full eight feet, glomming onto my hip. It was her way of saying, ‘Hands off.’ The strange thing was that, up until that point, she’d always been afraid of kids. But it was clear she was ready to go hand to hand with this poor little girl.”

  Suspecting a bladder infection, I began by palpating her bladder, squeezing it gently and trying to express urine. A small amount passed through the urethra, so I knew we weren’t dealing with a blockage.

  “I’m going to take a urine sample,” I told Joan, who was looking on anxiously. “I can collect it directly from her bladder with a syringe.”

  Joan grimaced. I suspected this was going to be harder on her than it would be on Coco. To distract her while I worked, I said, “Coco seems like a very sweet cat.”

  “She’s amazingly affectionate,” she replied. “Whenever she wants attention, she comes over and butts me with her head. Sometimes she offers to shake a paw, a little trick I taught her. And even when we had other cats over the years, Coco made no bones about the fact that she was the only one who was allowed to sit in my lap. All it took was a few strikes to the nose before the other cats got the message.”

  “I have a brand-new kitten who’s laying down the law in my house, too,” I told her, chuckling. “She has no qualms about bossing my two dogs around either.”

  Given the strain the entire Thorndike family was under, I was glad Joan had a chance to focus on something else, at least for a little while.

  “It will take a week to culture Coco’s urine sample,” I told her. “In the meantime, I’m going to put her on an antibiotic. Her behavior suggests that she has cystitis—a bladder infection. But even if it’s just an inflammation, the antibiotic will kill the bacteria that are causing it.”

  I set her up with amoxycillin, instructing Joan to give Coco two 15-ml doses a day with an eyedropper and urging her to make sure the cat drank sufficient amounts of water. I also mentioned that recurrent bacterial infections could be a sign of bladder stones, diabetes, or several other illnesses, and that it was therefore important to monitor her health.

  “Thank you,” she said gratefully as I handed Coco back to her. “I don’t know about you, but after that ordeal, I’m dying for some coffee. Could I interest you in a cup?”

  She’d just said the magic word. I’d been experiencing my usual early-afternoon droopiness, my body’s way of screaming for a hit of caffeine.

  “Thanks, Mrs. Thorndike. I’m pretty desperate for caffeine, too.”

  “Please, call me Joan. Especially since we seem to share the same addiction.”

  Once she and I had settled in at the large rough-hewn wooden table that seemed perfect for the kitchen, she commented, “I’ve never seen a ‘vet on wheels’ before. What an interesting way to make a living! Driving around Long Island, going to people’s homes and taking care of their animals...”

  “I love it,” I replied. I took a sip of coffee, sighing as I felt a surge of energy flood my veins. “In addition to the rewards of working with animals almost every day of my life, I adore the freedom and the flexibility—not to mention the fact that no two days are ever exactly the same.”

  “Sounds like the wine business,” Joan observed with a smile. She lifted Coco into her lap, stroking her soft fur distractedly as she spoke. “Of course, I’ve only been involved in it for the past fifteen years or so. Gordon started Thorndike Vineyards a good ten years before that, so I’m a relative newcomer.”

  As soon as she mentioned her husband’s name, her smile faded. “That poor man. He’s having such a difficult time. I don’t think he can process the fact that his daughter is gone. He’s fallen completely apart.”

  “I can’t imagine how hard this must be for him,” I said softly. “I didn’t know her, of course, but I saw her portrait at the winery. She looked like an angel.”

  Joan set her coffee cup down on the table with such a bang that I jumped. “Believe me, Cassie was no angel.”

  My surprise must have registered on my face, because she immediately added, “I know; that probably seems like a mean thing to say, given all that’s gone on. But anyone who’s ever known either of us will tell
you that Cassie and I never got on all that well, even though I spent years doing my darnedest to turn things around.”

  “I guess some kids are just never able to accept a step-parent,” I commented.

  “That was a big part of it. Cassie was twelve when I came on the scene. Fourteen when Gordon and I got married.” She sighed. “Even though I knocked myself out trying to be the ideal stepmom, somehow I never figured out the right formula. Not with either of Gordon’s kids.”

  “He has other children?” I asked.

  “A son. Ethan. He’s three years younger than Cassie. He’s still living with us.” She hesitated before adding, “He’s also...troubled.”

  I decided to leave that comment alone, at least for now.

  “From the time I first came on the scene, Cassie was a very angry child. I hate to say anything negative about her, especially after what’s happened, but the truth is that she grew up to be a very angry adult.”

  Joan held Coco a little closer. I got the feeling that, over the years, her loyal, loving cat had played a major role in compensating for the rejection she felt from her stepchildren, something she lived with every day of her life.

  “Do you think her anger was rooted in the fact that her mother died when she was still so young?” I asked gently.

  Joan shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe that, maybe a dozen different reasons. Or maybe nothing logical at all. Right after she turned thirteen, she really started acting out. You know, doing all the normal teenage girl things. Boys, smoking, drinking, drugs, cutting school, staying out all night...Poor Gordon! When I think of what he went through with her. Frankly, I was never sure if me being around helped him or made things more difficult.”

  “I’m sure it helped,” I said politely. “He probably found having you in his life a great source of support.”

  “That’s what he always said.” Joan stared off into the distance. “But I always wondered if—well, there’s no point making myself crazy about it all. Especially since Cassandra finally seemed to be getting her act together.”

  “By meeting Robert?”

  “That, and deciding once and for all that she wanted to get involved in the family business. Gordon was so pleased about that. And he was positively thrilled that she wanted to come back to the area where she’d grown up and start working for him. He was so relieved that she finally seemed to be settling down and that all the craziness of the past seemed to be over.”

  In my mind, I replayed Virginia Krupinski’s description of her next-door neighbor. Her report that Cassandra was warm and friendly, sharing her special chocolates and pastries and finding time to read to Maggie Rose, implied that she had matured in other ways, as well.

  “But I knew Cassie. I also knew we’d been through this before. Thinking the worst was over, I mean. Like the time she came home and announced she’d decided to go to art school. Gordon rented her an apartment in Manhattan, paid her tuition, bought her every kind of paint and brush and easel that had ever been invented— and within a month she announced that it wasn’t for her and she was dropping out. Then, a couple of years later, she decided she was destined to be a great actress. Once again, Gordon knocked himself out to help her. Another apartment in the city, tuition at an acting institute...At least that one lasted a little longer. I think she stayed in the program for about three months before she gave up.”

  She shook her head sadly. “I guess I was afraid her sudden interest in the wine business wasn’t going to pan out either.”

  “What about the fact that she was engaged to be married?” I asked. “Surely that was a sign that she was finally finding her way.”

  Joan grimaced. “I might have been less skeptical if she hadn’t been engaged at least twice before. Cassandra’s attitude toward relationships had always seemed to be just like her feelings about careers. You choose one and try it for a few weeks, and if it doesn’t immediately turn out to be exactly what you wanted, you chuck the whole thing.”

  We were both silent for a few minutes, pretending to be busy drinking coffee but each of us lost in our own thoughts. I had no idea what Joan was finding so absorbing, but I was mulling over what she’d told me about her relationship with Cassandra. She had openly admitted that she and her stepdaughter had never gotten along very well, and her honesty made her less of a suspect in my eyes. Still, she didn’t seem particularly saddened, aside from the effect the young woman’s death was having on her husband, about whom she clearly cared deeply. The idea that she would ever do anything to cause him pain struck me as remote.

  Still, I’d misjudged people before.

  “What about the last few months?” I finally asked. “What was going on with her? Who was she seeing, what was she doing . . . what was her life like?”

  “Gordon and I only saw what she wanted us to see,” Joan replied. “Cassie was an expert at hiding things. As far as we knew, everything was going just swell. She was working for Thorndike Vineyards, selling our wines to high-end restaurants on Long Island and in New York City.

  “She and Robert were planning their wedding too. At first, Robert wanted a big, fancy wedding, just like his first marriage. But Cassie insisted on a modest affair, just family and a few friends, and he finally came around. They’d even picked a date: a Sunday afternoon next July. They wanted to get married at the vineyard, under a big white tent. The whole thing sounded absolutely lovely.” She sighed deeply. “Somehow, even when she was talking about it—and she talked about it endlessly, in that very intense way she had—there was always this feeling gnawing at me that it would never really come to pass.”

  As if Coco had been listening in on our conversation and found it completely uninteresting, she suddenly yawned.

  “Are you bored, Coco?” Joan asked in soft, cooing voice. “Have we been ignoring you?”

  “It looks as if she thinks so,” I observed with a smile.

  “I can probably get her to do some of her tricks for you,” she offered proudly. “At least, if she’s in the mood. Let me see if I can get her to cooperate. . . .” She placed the cat on the kitchen floor. “Come on, Coco! Shake a paw!”

  I was amazed to see the cat actually extend her paw. I’d rarely seen a feline that eager to please.

  “Stand up!” Joan commanded, and Coco balanced on her hind legs like a begging dog.

  We were so busy enjoying the cat’s antics that we didn’t notice that someone else had come into the kitchen until he cleared his throat.

  “Gordon!” Joan exclaimed, jumping out of her seat. “I was wondering where you’d gotten to.”

  She went over to the tired-looking man who was dressed in a faded blue T-shirt and khaki pants, both hanging loosely on his tall, gaunt frame. She planted a kiss on his cheek, then rubbed his back affectionately.

  He didn’t seem to notice. “Looks like you made coffee,” he said flatly. “I was lying down and smelled it all the way upstairs. Mind if I help myself?”

  “Please do,” Joan replied. “Here, let me get you a mug.”

  I immediately saw the family resemblance. Gordon Thorndike had the same distinctive blue-green eyes as his daughter. He also had straight black hair, but his was streaked with gray. I wondered how much of the color change had occurred in just the past few days.

  “I hope we didn’t wake you,” Joan said anxiously, handing him an empty mug.

  He shook his head sadly. “I wasn’t really asleep. Just trying. But I haven’t been able to . . .” His voice trailed off. He leaned forward to pour himself some coffee, his stooped shoulders creating the very image of despondency.

  “Goodness, I didn’t even introduce our guest,” Joan said brightly. “Gordon, this is Dr. Popper. She’s a veterinarian who makes house calls. She stopped by to look at Coco. You know she hasn’t been herself for the past couple of days.”

  He didn’t respond or even look up. Instead, he shuffled across the room toward the door. “I’ll just leave you two to whatever you were doing.”

  “You’re
welcome to join us,” Joan said hopefully.

  He was already on his way out, however, disappearing with as little fanfare as when he’d arrived. In fact, it was almost as if he were fading from the room rather than leaving it.

  When I glanced at Joan, I saw that her expression had grown sorrowful. Gazing off into the distance, she said, “I’m really worried about Gordon. You should have seen him at the funeral! If his doctor hadn’t pumped him full of Valium, I don’t know how he would have gotten through it. He’s taking this really hard. Cassandra was the apple of his eye. And having a child die before her parents—well, it’s just not what nature intended.”

  “I can hardly imagine what a terrible time this must be for all of you,” I said softly.

  My comment seemed to remind her that I wasn’t a member of the Thorndike family.

  “Oh, dear, I’ve kept you here much too long,” she said. “And you’ve been too polite to say anything about it. Here, let me write you a check...”

  After we’d settled up, she said, “Before you go, could I ask you for one more favor?”

  “Of course.”

  “My stepson has a cat too. But Ethan is really bad about bringing Jenny to the vet. Of course, the fact that she’s ridiculously afraid of veterinarians doesn’t help. Anyway, since you’re already here, I wonder if you could—”

  “Just point me in the right direction.”

  “Thank you so much,” Joan said gratefully. “He lives in a small apartment above the garage. Maybe you could just go over and knock on his door. I’m sure he’s there.”

  “Actually, animals are frequently less afraid of women than they are of men,” I told her. “So having her treated by a female vet might not be such a bad idea.”

  “We’ll have to see how Ethan feels about that,” Joan muttered, more to herself than to me.

  She walked me over to the back door and pointed. At the end of the driveway, a few hundred feet behind the house, sat a tired-looking white-shingled building. “Go in through the side door and you’ll see a set of stairs,” Joan told me. “Ethan’s place is at the top. You can just knock. Or yell.”