“Do the Hargraves still run the vineyard they created?”
Theodore shook his head. “Actually, they sold it a few years ago—to an Italian prince. But their legacy lives on. Today, there are some sixty vineyards on both the North and South Forks, a total of three thousand acres that are planted with wine grapes. And Long Island wines have become a sixty-five-million-dollar-a-year industry, producing over a million gallons of wine annually.”
“That’s a lot of wine,” I observed, glancing at the rows of lush green grapevines alongside Theo’s house with new respect.
“But what makes Long Island wines really special is the approach toward fermentation,” he continued. “In one region of France—Bordeaux—wine production takes place on a tremendous scale, and special techniques have been developed to hurry the fermentation process along. But in Burgundy—Bourgogne—wineries are small enterprises with only limited production. There, the winemakers apply a much more personal touch. Fermentation takes place over months, rather than days.
“Long Island wines represent an interesting combination of those two regions of France. Smaller amounts are produced and fermentation is more complex, but those methods, the type used in Burgundy, are used on grape varieties that are popular in Bordeaux, like merlot. As a result, Long Island wines tend to have a special woody quality that the French call sous-bois: sous meaning under and bois meaning woods. ”
I was about to thank him for enabling me to sound like I actually knew what I was talking about the next time someone offered me a glass of wine, when we turned the corner of the barn. Two regal greyhounds began jumping up on the wooden fence that penned them into a spacious yard, barking gleefully.
“Calm down!” Theo commanded, chuckling. Of course, the sound of his voice only fueled their excitement. It wasn’t until he’d unlatched the gate and the two dogs were free to leap up on their master that the barking stopped. He crouched down and lovingly caressed their sleek heads.
“Good thing you have two hands,” I observed, smiling as I watched what looked very much like the greeting I got from Max and Lou whenever I walked in the door. “One for each.”
“Indeed. We don’t want any sibling rivalry, do we? Let me introduce these two. This is Shiraz—and this is Buffett.”
“Hey, Shiraz! Hell-o, Buffett!” I leaned over and petted their smooth heads and scratched their necks and ears. Like most greyhounds, they were friendly, gentle dogs. They eagerly focused their attention on me, pleased to make a new person’s acquaintance.
“I got Shiraz first, from a greyhound-rescue organization in Connecticut,” Theodore explained, running his hand along the silky fur on her back. To prove his point, he flipped back her right ear. Sure enough, a number was tattooed on the inside, indicating her date of birth and litter order. On the left, I knew, would be a five-digit registration number assigned by the National Greyhound Association. “She was originally named Valley Aspen. But it’s not unusual for new owners to rename a rescued greyhound.”
“She’s a beautiful animal,” I told him sincerely.
“I suppose I should have been content with just one. But a couple of years went by, and I decided to adopt a second.” Smiling, he added, “A lot of us who ‘go grey’ end up doing the exact same thing. Somehow, we can’t manage to stop at one. I told myself Shiraz needed the company, but I knew all along that I really got Buffett for myself.
“I got him when he was just seven weeks old. He was born at a dog-racing track in Connecticut, part of an unplanned litter. Track breeders call them ‘oops litters.’ When the puppies’ lineage is unknown, they can’t be raised to race or even to show.” Smiling warmly as he stroked the dog’s sleek head, he added, “Can you believe he weighed only seven pounds the first time they put him in my arms? Since then, I can’t tell you how much joy he’s brought me. He’s named for the singer Jimmy Buffett, of course, whose music has also brought me a lot of pleasure.”
“It’s wonderful that you rescued these two animals,” I said. I knew the abuse that was known to go on in the racing industry was horrendous. I’d heard that in some instances the poor animals weren’t given food or even water unless they’d won a race. A lot of them were constantly penned up in tiny cages, and some were muzzled almost all the time. Thousands died every year from sores they got from being muzzled or caged, parasites, heart attacks, broken legs, heat stroke...And when they lost their usefulness, they were often “disposed of” in cruel ways. Only a small percentage had the good fortune to be adopted into loving homes.
“Yet they make such wonderful pets,” Theo added. “They’re sweet, outgoing animals, and since they were bred by professionals, you generally don’t have to worry about hereditary physical conditions or problems with temperament. Another plus is that they get so much attention from breeders and handlers while they’re young that they’re very sociable with people.”
“When you renamed Shiraz, you named her after a wine,” I observed. “Just like Beau, Cassandra’s cat.”
“Ah. So you two have met?”
“Cassandra’s next door neighbor, Maggie Rose, introduced me to Beau. In fact, I believe I’m now his veterinarian, so I should be seeing a lot more of him.”
“I see. You’re right about both animals being named after wines. When it came to naming Shiraz, Cassandra inspired me.” He smiled sadly. “In fact, she inspired me in all sorts of ways.”
“Like a muse?” I asked.
“More like a daughter. At least, that’s how I always thought of her.”
I knew about that kind of relationship. It was the kind Betty and I enjoyed. All the affection of a parent and child—without the complications.
“Then she was lucky to have you,” I told him. “We can all use as many loving parents as we can get.”
“Yes, it was definitely love,” Theodore said vaguely. Looking startled, he added, “The fondness that Cassandra and I felt for each other, I mean.”
I didn’t reply. Was I correct in assuming he was talking about the kind of love between parent and child? I wondered. Or is it possible that Theodore Simcox’s feelings for Cassandra Thorndike were love of a different sort?
“What about Ethan?” I asked. Not only was I anxious to change the subject; I was also curious about how this close friend of the family perceived Cassandra’s baby brother.
His reaction didn’t surprise me. “Sad,” he said, shaking his head slowly. “Ethan Thorndike is such a complicated young man. So terribly conflicted, for reasons none of us has ever been able to understand. Poor Gordon and Joan have put so much effort into helping him find his way. Sending him to that special school—the Sewanhacky School, or whatever it’s called—finding him psychologists and psychiatrists and...and even witch doctors, for all I know.” He let out a deep sigh. “I don’t think Ethan will ever be able to make his own way in the world. It wouldn’t surprise me if he spent his entire life living in that tiny apartment above the garage.”
I had to agree with his assessment of Ethan as complicated. And I would have bet my van on the word conflicted being just as accurate. In fact, Theo’s comments about both Cassandra and Ethan certainly gave me something to think about. At the moment, however, it was time to concentrate on still another kind of love: the love between an animal owner and his pet.
“Let’s get these two into the van so I can take a look at them,” I suggested.
I checked them one at a time, examining their eyes and ears, then running my hands along their spines and checking each vertebra. Meanwhile, I asked Theo the usual questions about whether they’d been eating and drinking the normal amount, their recent activity level, and whether they’d been coughing, sneezing, vomiting, or suffering from diarrhea. I hadn’t expected to find much, since they clearly had a devoted master who took excellent care of them. Sure enough, aside from Shiraz’s allergies, they were both fine.
“This is the drug I’ve been giving her,” Theo said, handing me the bottle.
“Given her weight,” I sa
id, glancing at the label, “keeping her on five milligrams a day is fine. In fact, going up to ten would be safe. But there are some other drugs you might consider. There’s one called Temaril-P that dermatologists really like. Antihistamines are generally not very effective for this type of skin disease. But this medication is a combination of a little pred and a little antihistamine. So if we switch, Shiraz here would be taking a lot less cortisone.
“There’s a second possibility, a drug called Atopica. It’s traditionally been used in cases of human transplant rejection, and its use in veterinary medicine is relatively new. Some dermatologists rave about it, but some have reservations. My feeling is that it would probably be perfectly safe for your dog at low doses. But it’s pretty expensive, and it doesn’t always work. Frankly, I’m comfortable with all three options: increasing the pred to ten milligrams or trying either of the other two drugs.”
“If it was your dog,” Theo asked earnestly, “what would you do?”
“I think I have to recommend the Temaril-P. You can start tapering off, taking her off the pred and getting onto the new medication. I’ll give you the schedule you should follow.” I wrote out some instructions, then handed them to him along with a yellow box that contained a jarful of the drug.
“I’m very grateful, Dr. Popper,” Theo said.
“Please, call me Jessie.”
“In here, it’s Dr. Popper.”
“If you insist,” I told him, laughing. “But outside this van, I hope we can be friends.”
As I said those words, I couldn’t help feeling a little guilty. After all, one of the main reasons I was cultivating this man’s friendship was that he’d known Cassandra and the rest of her family so well.
Yet there was nothing more important to me at that point than getting Suzanne out of the nightmare she’d found herself in. If a little deception was required, it seemed a small price to pay.
So I was pleased when Theo smiled and replied, “Friends. Definitely friends.”
I was still mulling over Theo Simcox’s comments about Ethan Thorndike late that afternoon when I heard a car door slam outside the cottage. I glanced out the window, wondering who my unexpected visitor might be. The familiar forest-green SUV that had pulled into the driveway, right in front of my cottage, gave me my answer.
“This is a surprise,” I greeted Forrester as I opened the door.
“I’m going to assume you meant to say a pleasant surprise,” he returned, grinning. “Aren’t you going to invite me in, Popper? That’s what most people would do.”
Most people would also call ahead to give a little warning, I thought petulantly. But I realized I was actually glad to see him. In fact, I found myself wondering if my reaction was only due to the fact that he might have information for me about Cassandra Thorndike’s murder.
I quickly put such thoughts out of my head. After all, I was on the verge of taking my relationship with Nick to the next level. A woman in my position shouldn’t even entertain such thoughts. Fortunately, I had a ready distraction, since as soon as he stepped inside, my two canines charged him, acting as if they’d both been in solitary confinement for the past week. Prometheus added to the chaos, screeching, “Awk! Who’s your daddy? Awk!”
“I hope you like dogs,” I said. “And cats. And birds. And—”
“Whoa,” he replied, crouching down to give Max and Lou an energetic enough greeting to let me know he was, indeed, a dog person. “I’m almost afraid to hear the rest of the list. You don’t have any crocodiles, do you?”
I laughed. “Even an animal lover has to draw the line somewhere.”
“That’s a relief.”
By that point, Max and Lou had calmed down enough to permit Forrester to saunter around the living room. “Nice place you’ve got here.”
“Considering that you’re a writer, I would have thought you’d be able to come up with something more original.”
“I told you, Popper: I’m a reporter. My concern is being accurate, not creative.” He seemed to be taking in every detail of his surroundings. He reminded me of a real-estate agent who was running numbers on an invisible calculator in his head. “So this is where it all happens.”
I raised my eyebrows. “What exactly do you think happens here, Forrester?”
“Your real life.”
He kept glancing from side to side. I got the feeling there was something in particular he was trying to find.
“What are you looking for?” I finally asked, annoyed. “Mounds of dust bunnies that prove that my house-cleaning standards aren’t very high? Some off-the-wall relative I keep stashed away in a broom closet?”
“Actually, I was looking for that boyfriend of yours. Nick, isn’t it?”
“You remembered. How thoughtful.”
“Actually, I feel like I’m the guy’s understudy. I keep waiting for him to break a leg and get rushed to the hospital so I can fill in.”
“Oh, really? And what makes you so sure you even passed the audition?”
He just smiled. Gesturing toward the kitchen with his chin, he asked, “So where is he? Or should I check that broom closet you mentioned?”
“He’s at school.”
“Kindergarten or first grade?”
“Actually, he’s at the library, studying.” Standing up a little straighter, I added, “Nick is a first-year student at the Brookside University School of Law.”
“Well, I can’t say I’m sorry. That I missed him, I mean.”
“You did meet him once,” I reminded him. “Last week, after I had my stomach pumped at North Country Hospital. He was arriving as you were leaving.”
“Gee, I don’t remember. That’s strange,” he added dryly. “I usually have such a good memory for faces.”
“Awk! Shake your booty!” Prometheus squawked.
“What’s with the X-rated parrot?” Forrester asked, sounding amused.
I shrugged. “I keep begging him to hang with a more wholesome crowd, but do you think he listens?”
Grinning, he plopped down on the couch and draped one arm along the back. Even though he’d left me plenty of room to sit down beside him, I perched on the upholstered chair facing him.
“By the way, Forrester,” I said, “I wanted to thank you.”
“You’re welcome. But what are you thanking me for?”
“For keeping Suzanne’s name out of the newspaper.”
“I don’t deserve your thanks for that one. She’s just one of several people the police are looking at. It’s not as if she’s been charged with anything.”
I sighed. “I’m still hoping it never comes to that. That I can find out who really killed Cassandra before...” I let my voice trail off, not wanting to say the horrible words out loud. The image of Lieutenant Falcone loomed before me ominously. I could see him exactly the way he’d looked on the air, his face drawn into an intense expression as he promised the people of Norfolk County he was hot on the trail of Cassandra’s killer.
Forrester picked up the ball. “On a lighter note,” he said, “I have an ulterior motive for coming over here today, as you may have already guessed. There’s something I want to talk to you about.”
“I’m listening.”
“At the risk of sounding clichéd, you ought to be on television.”
I screwed up my face. “Not that Channel Fourteen business again.”
“Hear me out, Popper. This all started because a friend of mine over there, a producer, told me she’s hot to start a TV show about pet care. The station wants to expand its programming to include more local people. Local professionals who viewers would find—how did she put it?—‘interesting and informative.’ So I told her all about you.”
I narrowed my eyes suspiciously. “What did you say, exactly?”
“That I knew an attractive, intelligent, articulate veterinarian who’d be perfect.”
“But, Forrester, I have no interest in being on television. I can barely keep up with all the calls I have to make as
part of my regular veterinary business, not to mention—”
“You’d be doing all of Long Island a favor by telling Channel Fourteen’s viewers how they can be better pet owners. Think of all the doggies and kitties you’ll help by reminding their masters how important it is for them to get regular checkups and shots and...and whatever else they need. Besides, it’s a great way to help build your practice.”
My head was buzzing with a hundred reasons to say no. “But...but...I’ve never been on TV! What would I say? How would I act? What would I wear?”
“Look, Popper. Just go over there and talk to them. Find out what they’re looking for. You might not even be the type they’re looking for.”
“ ‘Type’?” I repeated, confused. Even though I wasn’t even sure I wanted this gig—and in fact was pretty convinced I didn’t—the fact that they might turn me down was already making me defensive. “I’m a real live veterinarian. What else do they need?”
Forrester laughed. “Poor Popper. You have so much to learn.”
I hated it when he acted that way. In fact, it made my blood boil so fast I felt like somebody had just popped me in the microwave.
“Wait a minute,” I insisted. “First of all, stop talking to me like I just rolled out of the cabbage patch. Second of all, if you’re such an expert on the way the mysterious world of television works, why don’t you take twenty seconds to explain it to me?”
He looked at me with amusement in his eyes. “You’re so cute when you’re angry.”
“And you’re so dumb when you’re arrogant.” Okay, so it wasn’t my greatest line, but it was all I could come up with.
“Point taken.” Grinning, he added, “Sorry. I can’t resist teasing you. Somehow, you bring that out in me. It’s probably sublimation. You know, taking sexual desire and turning it into something socially acceptable—”
Hare Today, Dead Tomorrow Page 15
