“Give me that!” I cried, reaching across the table and grabbing the paper out of his hand. I scanned the lefthand page, not spotting any familiar-sounding reference in any of the three different columns that covered the page. Then I glanced at the right-hand page and nearly fell off my chair.
“Leaping lizards!” I yelped.
Poor Max, fearing his beloved mistress had just had something terrible happen to her—or was perhaps initiating some new game—jumped up, gently resting his two furry little paws on my thigh. He glanced at me quizzically, his eyes bright and his wet nose pulsing as if thinking, Are you okay? Do you want to play? Do you have any food for me?
Any of those possibilities would have been preferable to what had really made me cry out: a full-page advertisement for Channel 14 News.
GOT PETS? the headline read. THEN PET PEOPLE IS FOR YOU!
The ad went on to explain that Jessica Popper, DVM, Long Island’s favorite veterinarian, was debuting her new show, Pet People, on Friday morning at 10:00 A.M. There was even a photograph of me that looked a lot like the photo they’d insisted upon snapping on my way out in order to provide me with a Channel 14 ID card.
“Looks like you’re famous,” Nick commented, grinning.
“I hope Andy Warhol was right,” I replied, handing him back the paper. “About it only lasting fifteen minutes, I mean.”
“I don’t think Andy was talking about those of you who are lucky enough to possess star quality—not to mention your very own television show. Just think: you, Barbara Walters, Oprah, Tony Danza...Hey, you’re not going to throw me over for some boy toy, are you? A surfer dude who’s ten years younger...?”
I was in no mood for joking around. Not with enough butterflies suddenly gathering in my stomach that they’d actually become uncomfortably heavy. You wouldn’t think those light little wings could add up to much, but apparently they can.
Even Max had given up on me. Having decided that there was no food coming and no game of Slimytoy in the schedule, he’d returned to floor level. He now lay under the table, chewing on his hot-pink rubber poodle, no doubt luxuriating in the sound of its relentless squeaks.
“I don’t think that many people will see that, do you?” I asked Nick hopefully.
“Probably not,” he returned. “Especially since it’s right next to ‘Dear Abby,’ the gossip column, and today’s horoscopes. I mean, who looks at any of those?”
The butterflies were getting even heavier. I suddenly felt as if I was getting myself into more than I’d bargained for. To be honest, I’d been so focused on Suzanne’s plight that I hadn’t given much thought to the new TV show Forrester had gotten me involved in. I’d simply seen it as a way to help pet owners take better care of their animals. It had never occurred to me that I was in line to become the new Crocodile Hunter.
“Anybody home?” I heard Betty call from outside.
“Come in,” I yelled back, leaping out of my seat to let her in.
She beat me to it, poking her head inside. “Are you two busy? I don’t want to interrupt.”
“We’re behaving ourselves,” I assured her. “Want some coffee?”
“Thank you, Jessica, but I have no intention of disturbing you. I just wanted to congratulate you. You did see today’s Newsday, didn’t you?”
I cast Nick a wary look.
“I was checking my horoscope, the way I do every morning, and there it was, your picture and your name, plastered across this entire page....” She held up the ad, beaming. “I’m so proud of you, Jessica. And it’s such a thrill to know a real celebrity!”
“I’m sure nobody else bothers to check their horoscope,” Nick said, winking. “Even so, maybe you should get used to being famous. It looks like that’s what’s in your stars.”
He stood up and planted a chaste kiss on my head. “And now I must take leave of you lovely ladies. The Brookside University School of Law waits for no man— or woman, for that matter. I’m outta here.”
Once we were alone, Betty sat down in his seat and distractedly petted Lou, who had immediately lodged his head in her lap for that very purpose. “This is certainly a homey scene,” she commented. “It looks like your new living arrangements are working out well.”
“How about you?” I countered. “Are things blissful over at the Big House?”
I expected a glowing report of candlelight dinners and long sessions of doing the New York Times crossword puzzle together. Instead, Betty’s face crumpled.
“Jessica, the man is driving me absolutely crazy.”
I blinked in confusion. “Wait. We’re talking about Winston, right?”
“Who else? I’m absolutely beside myself! For one thing, he snores like a cartoon character. For another thing, he has the television on all the time. It’s tuned to the news, but even so, the constant noise is enough to give me a headache. And he has this exercise routine he insists on doing every single morning. I hear him huffing and puffing, sounding like he’s at death’s door. The first time, I picked up the phone and was ready to dial 911. And you should see my kitchen! It looks like one of those health-food stores that always smells so darned funny! He stocked it with brewer’s yeast and soy powder and heaven only knows what else....”
She sighed. “I’m set in my ways, Jessica. Maybe too set in my ways. But if that’s who I am, I’m not very likely to change. I’m beginning to wonder if I’m simply destined to live out the rest of my life alone.”
I opened my mouth, hoping some words of encouragement would magically make their way out. I wasn’t surprised that they didn’t. I was hardly in a position to start singing the praises of cohabitation. Not when I’d practically sent Nick to live in his car the moment I was assaulted by his toothpaste collection.
“So what are you going to do?” I asked, sipping the last of my coffee.
“I thought it might be good for us to get away, so Winston and I—and Frederick, of course—are taking a little trip this weekend. It’s just for a few days. But I thought a romantic interlude—someplace far away from the television and the blender—might be precisely what we need. I found a bed-and-breakfast in Pennsylvania, right in the heart of Amish Country, that claims to be ‘rustic but charming.’ The autumn leaves should be beautiful, and I’m hoping that being in a new environment will allow us to concentrate on what we like about each other instead of the complications of day-to-day life.”
“Don’t tell me the honeymoon is already over,” I said woefully.
“More like a case of too much too soon.” Betty sighed. “I think I forgot that you can’t force intimacy, Jessica. It’s something that grows over time. I’m afraid that Winston and I have been so thrilled to find the closeness we’ve both been craving that we may have gotten carried away. For heaven’s sake, I’m sharing kitchen appliances with a man I’ve known for less than a month!”
I wasn’t quite sure that put her into the wild-and-crazy category, but I kept my observation to myself.
“Of course, you and Nick are an entirely different story,” she hastened to add. “You two have known each other for years. Even so, I thought you might enjoy house-sitting while Winston and I are away. It might be good for you to have a bit of a change yourselves.”
“That’s a great idea,” I agreed. “We can pretend we’re the lord and lady of the manor.”
“Then it’s settled. I’ll get you a set of keys. And it would probably be a good idea for you to stop over so I can explain a few things about the hot water and some of the house’s other idiosyncrasies.”
“Sounds like fun, Betty. Thanks for thinking of us.”
As I stepped into the shower right after she left, I continued puzzling over the difficulties Betty was having as she pursued a deeper relationship with Winston, a man she’d only recently met. The way she’d put it was, “too much too soon.” I had to admit that I not only understood; I was having some of the same feelings myself.
At least Betty had an excuse. But what about me? What was my excu
se?
Chapter 11
“A cat’s got her own opinion of human beings. She don’t say much, but you can tell enough to make you anxious not to hear the whole of it.”
—Jerome K. Jerome
As soon as I’d rinsed the soap out of my ears and pulled my damp hair back into a ponytail, I headed directly for Photo Stop. When I entered, the same cheerful bell announced my arrival. I hoped I’d find somebody else working there, maybe even somebody who was actually in the running for Employee of the Month. Unfortunately, the same uncooperative guy I’d encountered the day before stood behind the counter, his back to me.
I cleared my throat. No reaction.
“Uh, hello...?” I tried tentatively.
“Can I help you?” he mumbled without bothering to turn around.
“I’m here to pick up some photographs,” I informed him. “I dropped them off yesterday.”
“Name?”
“Popper,” I replied.
He whirled around so quickly you’d have thought Mr. Spock himself just walked into the store.
“So you’re Popper.” Instead of the sullen look I’d had to deal with the evening before, his expression underwent a transformation so dramatic it bordered on supernatural.
“Yes...”
He picked up a cardboard envelope that had been left on top of the box of photos that were ready to go. Then he leaned across the counter, placing his elbows on the glass and resting his head in his hands. This unexpected pose put his face so close to mine that I instinctively jerked backward. He gazed at me through half-closed eyes.
“Y’like snakes?” he asked in a husky voice, stretching his mouth into a leer.
“Excuse me?”
I couldn’t believe I’d heard him correctly. Snakes happen to be the one animal I’ve never felt comfortable around, to indulge in a bit of understatement. Since I’m a veterinarian, that happens to be pretty darned embarrassing. But beyond the weirdness of a total stranger picking up on one of my most glaring vulnerabilities, I wondered why on earth a clerk in a photo store would ask me such a bizarre question.
“Not particularly,” I replied noncommittally.
A look of confusion flickered across his face. “You mean that’s not you?” he asked, holding up the envelope. “In these photos?”
At least this strange conversation I’d suddenly found myself having seemed to make a little more sense. The problem was that he had me confused with someone else. Maybe somebody who’d brought in snapshots of a family trip to a reptile farm.
“Uh, no,” I replied. “That’s not me.”
“Oh, I get it,” he finally said. “You’re the photographer. You took them.”
“Well...no.” I peered at the envelope more closely, figuring I’d point out that there had been some sort of a mix-up. But written on the top in big, bold letters was my name: POPPER.
He frowned. “So these are pictures of a friend of yours?”
I was beginning to squirm. “Actually, I, uh, just dropped these off for a casual acquaintance. I don’t really know any of the people in the photographs.”
He leaned backward, returning to his side of the counter as quickly as he’d crossed it. “Oh,” he said dully. “Too bad.” Turning to the cash register and punching some keys, he said indifferently, “That’ll be forty-four twenty-seven. Cash or charge?”
By the time I got to my van, I couldn’t wait to see what these photographs were all about. I settled into the driver’s seat, opened the envelope, and glanced at the photograph on top.
If I hadn’t put on my seat belt, I would have fallen on the floor.
The girl in the close-up was looking directly at the camera, her face drawn into an angry scowl and her tongue sticking out aggressively. Her defiant expression was made even more grotesque by all the makeup she wore. Thick black eyeliner encircled each eye, and dark blue eye shadow was smeared up to the thin, arched eyebrows drawn on her forehead. The purple streaks on each cheek resembled wounds, a look that matched her bruised-looking, thickly painted red lips. I counted no fewer than five facial piercings: two in one eyebrow, one in the other, a ring in her left nostril, and a stud in her tongue.
Her black hair, which was cut short, was streaked with blue and gelled into spikes. But there were other spikes too. Those were the ones sticking out of the black dog collar she wore around her neck.
This sure isn’t anybody I know, I thought. My Trekkie friend had to have mixed up my film with somebody else’s.
Yet as I studied the photograph, a chill ran through me. I realized that I did know this woman, after all. She was Cassandra Thorndike.
This Cassandra, however, was a far cry from the dewy-eyed Cassandra draped in purple velvet that I’d seen in the oil painting at Thorndike Vineyards.
I moved on to the next shot. In this one, she stood in a menacing position, as if she were about to lunge at whoever was photographing her. Most of her body was exposed, and the parts that weren’t were clothed in black leather. A leather mask covered her eyes and most of her head, and a tight leather corset that was cut out in the most unlikely places hugged her torso. She wore spiked heels so high they looked positively excruciating. But that was nothing compared to the piercings she had in various unlikely parts of her body. Just imagining the pain of having them inserted made me grimace.
The next few photographs were also of Cassandra, once again dressed in garments I was pretty sure you wouldn’t find at the Liz Claiborne outlet. She boldly posed in leather garter belts and fishnet stockings, peekaboo dresses made of nothing but straps, and gloves with metal talons at the fingertips. She wore wigs in many of them, ranging from a short platinum-blond pageboy to a pink net creation to long black strands that actually resembled her own. In some shots, she brandished chains, handcuffs, whips, and ropes. In others, she was deliberately inflicting pain upon herself, showing off a breast pinched in several places with clothespins or an arm with safety pins inserted into her skin. In one, she dripped melted candle wax on her thighs.
Next came a few photos in which she was completely naked, lying on the floor in an extremely provocative position. But what was even more startling was the fact that her bare flesh was smeared with something brown. Brown paint, perhaps, or maybe chocolate pudding. At least, I hoped that was what it was.
The final shots, the ones at the bottom of the stack, clued me in to why the clerk and I had had our friendly little discussion about snakes. Cassandra clearly hadn’t shared my distaste for Serpentes. In fact, from the ecstatic look on her face as she writhed on the floor with two pythons, wearing nothing but a faux-leopard-skin thong, I’d have to say she felt pretty comfortable around them.
I stuck the stack of photos back into the envelope, noticing that I’d developed a gnawing stomachache. Now that the shock value had worn off, I was left feeling extremely disturbed.
Cassandra had obviously had a few secrets up her black-leather sleeve. There was a side of her that was pretty dark, which meant she may have gotten involved with some unsavory people. And given the type of toys she and her pals obviously enjoyed fooling around with, the possibility that someone had gotten carried away while playing with one of them wasn’t very difficult to imagine.
After the unsettling glimpse of Cassandra Thorndike’s secret world I’d gotten that morning, driving out to the end of the North Fork for my appointment at Greeley’s Inn was a breath of fresh air—both literally and figuratively. After turning off the main thoroughfare, I meandered along for another half mile or so, getting closer and closer to the shoreline. At the end of the road, I spotted what had to be my destination.
Rising up from the gentle sand dunes was a complex of rough-hewn wooden buildings, a line of A-frames that were probably hotel rooms and a large structure with walkways and patios on several levels. I pulled up in front of the big building, which overlooked the waves of the Atlantic Ocean rolling onto the white-sanded beach just a few hundred yards away. A large sign above a side door read, The Spa at Gr
eeley’s.
I parked and went inside, passing a door that led to the pool area and inhaling enough chlorine to give my lungs a good bleaching. But as soon as I moved farther along the hall and walked through a set of double glass doors, I found myself bathed in one of those hippie scents that these days passes for aromatherapy— patchouli or frangipani or some other fragrance that only seems to exist in the hearts and minds of candle and incense manufacturers.
The reception area was decorated in the soothing colors of the seashore, the same pearly white of the sand and the rich blues and greens of the ocean that I’d just seen outside. Behind the counter stood a young woman with pale blond hair pulled back into a neat ponytail, wearing a sea-green polo shirt embroidered with the words The Spa at Greeley’s. She gave me a welcoming smile.
“How can I help you?” she asked in a low, soothing voice.
I felt more relaxed already. “I’m here for a massage,” I told her. “With, uh, Thor.”
She nodded knowingly. “Thor’s the best. Some women find that they actually become addicted to him.”
Personally, I prefer limiting my addictions to caffeine and Ben & Jerry’s. But the gleam in her eye told me she was one of the women who had fallen under Thor’s spell.
“Have a seat,” she instructed. “He’ll be with you in a minute.”
I lowered myself onto one of the two love seats, meanwhile glancing at the magazines splayed across the coffee table. While this was my big chance to catch up on the latest issues of Yoga and You and The Vegan View, I decided to use these free moments to get psyched for my first massage—and to plan a strategy for my meeting with the man whose name was scrawled all over Cassandra’s date book.
It was hard not to wonder what he looked like. When I imagined a massage therapist named Thor, I pictured a true hunk—six feet tall, bulging but well-proportioned muscles, blond hair, blue eyes, perfect teeth...the whole stereotyped Scandinavian-god type.
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