Hare Today, Dead Tomorrow

by Cynthia Baxter

  “Wow,” he said. It was more of a simple, straightforward statement than anything else.

  I couldn’t help grinning.

  “Where’d you get that outfit?” he asked.

  “This old thing?” I glanced down at the skirt and the clingy black top I’d also found at the back of the closet. It was cut pretty low, which explained why I couldn’t remember having ever worn it but which didn’t explain how I’d come to acquire it.

  Nick was doing some grinning of his own. “This idea of staying at Betty’s is looking better and better.”

  “Wait until you hear what I’ve got on the schedule.”

  “There’s a schedule?”

  “It starts with wine and appetizers in front of the fire,” I told him. “Then, dinner will be served in the formal dining room. Next, we will retreat to the study for Ben & Jerry’s and a video.” I shrugged. “We are living in the twenty-first century, after all.”

  “And then?” Nick asked.

  “And then we snuggle up in a four-poster that probably creaks.”

  “I’m already looking forward to making it creak—a lot.” Nick came over to where I was standing and put his arms around me. He leaned forward to kiss me, then stopped.

  “What’s that smell?”

  “What smell?” I asked nervously.

  “It smells like cookies...and something flowery... and snow, all mixed together.”

  “It’s a special romantic scent,” I replied, doing some fast thinking. “A well-known aphrodisiac.”

  “Ah. Then I like it.” He leaned over and gave me a long, mushy Hollywood-style kiss, the kind that was common back in our early courtin’ days but that we rarely made time for these days.

  “Umm,” I murmured. “Nice.”

  “There’s more where that came from,” he assured me.

  “But there is one rule for this weekend,” I said. “No law books. In fact, nothing legal at all. We can’t even watch any John Grisham DVDs.”

  Nick’s forehead crinkled, even though he kept his arms around me. “Well...I can probably get away with one day of goofing off. But I’m afraid I’ve got to hit the books first thing Sunday.”

  At the moment, Sunday seemed far off. All that mattered was that we had thirty-six hours all to ourselves.

  And we used every second of it to its fullest. We watched two movies, ate every morsel of food I’d bought, played five games of Scrabble, and put that old four-poster through some pretty heavy creaking.

  By Saturday night, my veterinary practice, law school, and even Cassandra Thorndike’s murder seemed very far away. Nick and I lolled on the velvet couch, watching the fire in the fireplace and sipping red wine from crystal glasses with very large globes.

  “Do you know how I feel right now?” I asked.

  “How do you feel right now?”

  “Rich. Very rich.” Waving one arm in the air dramatically, I added, “I could see living in a house like this. Think of the space we’d have for all our stuff. Besides, we could each have our own room. Lou would probably decorate his in black and white. Cat’s would have a big stuffed couch with lace doilies on it, and Prometheus would model his after Elvis’s Jungle Room. But mostly we’d just enjoy having all this space.”

  Nick poured himself another glass of wine. I couldn’t remember having ever seen him drink more than a glass or two. But somehow, between the two of us, we were making our way through the Simcox merlot quite nicely.

  “Do you know how I feel right now?” he asked.

  “Nope. How?”

  “Married,” he replied. “I feel very, very married.”

  I held my breath, waiting for the feeling that someone had just closed all the windows and turned up the heat. Nothing. In fact, instead of sliding into a state of panic, I found myself contemplating Nick’s statement objectively.

  “Is this how being married feels?” I asked him.

  “I guess so. How else would it feel?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe like you’re under constant pressure to remember to take out the garbage and buy anniversary cards.”

  “Naw. I think it feels...comfortable. Easy. Just like this, you know? Hanging out with your best girl—or in your case, your best guy....I am your best guy, right?”

  “Best and only. My number-one heartthrob.” I stuck my hand under my shirt and did a theatrical imitation of a pounding heart.

  He grinned. “I think this is going pretty well so far, don’t you? You and me living together, I mean.”

  “Well...it’s only been a few days.”

  “True. But I think I’m really well-suited to it.” Nodding thoughtfully, he added, “I figured I’d be.”

  “It’s different than I expected,” I admitted. “You’re right, it is easy. And comfortable.”

  “So maybe we should think about it. The thing about feeling married, I mean. Not soon. But one of these days. When I’m done with the semester. Or my first year of law school. Or even all of law school. That’s three years away.”

  I didn’t say yes, but I didn’t say no. At the moment, three years sounded nice and far away.

  “Do you know what’s wrong with this place?” I asked as I lolled in bed the next morning, luxuriating in what had to be the smoothest, silkiest sheets I’d ever been sandwiched between in my life.

  “I can’t begin to imagine,” Nick replied, glancing at me without raising his head from the pillow.

  “The butler service. It’s much too slow.”

  “I wouldn’t be able to reach the bell pull from here, anyway,” he commented. “That is, if there was one.”

  “If we had a really good butler,” I pointed out, “we could just yell. Something like, ‘Hey, Jeeves? How about a couple of cappuccinos, when you get a chance?’ ”

  Nick nodded solemnly. “That would work.”

  And then he let out a long sigh, one I suspected had nothing to do with a desire for caffeine. “I really don’t want to do this,” he said, “but I’m afraid that, after breakfast, I’m going to have to head over to the law library.”

  I groaned, pulling the covers over my head. The moment I’d been dreading had come to an end. Reality had resurfaced.

  Then I realized this made it a good time to inject some reality of my own.

  “Nick,” I said, unexpectedly experiencing a twinge of nervousness, “that reminds me that I have something kind of...strange to ask you.”

  “I think I can handle strange.”

  You have no idea how strange, I thought. “How would you feel about going to a dungeon event?”

  “It depends on how busy I am with—a what?”

  I had to admit, I mumbled those last few words. This time, I forced myself to speak more clearly. “A dungeon event.”

  He frowned. “Sorry, I don’t know what that is.”

  I could feel my cheeks growing warm. I was glad the blankets hid them. “It’s kind of a party. For people who are into bondage and sadism and similar kinds of sexual behavior.” Quickly, I added, “It’s for the investigation. It seems Cassandra was involved in some fairly unusual things.”

  “That’s pretty intense stuff,” Nick commented matter-of-factly. “We did a case that involved BDSM a couple of weeks ago.”

  I sat up, suddenly as alert as if I’d actually downed one of those cappuccinos I’d been fantasizing about. “I’m talking about fetishes and leather clothing and whips and chains...”

  “Right,” he said. “BDSM—Bondage, Degradation, Sadism, and Masochism. Or as the medical field refers to it, paraphilia. An S&M group called the Leather Lords and Ladies sued a big hotel chain when it canceled its conference after learning what the theme was. If you want, I can grab my notes.”

  “Which you just happen to have brought with you?”

  Looking guilty, he said, “I thought I might sneak in a little study time. But that was before I knew how much fun this weekend was going to be.”

  “Hmm,” was all I said. But I had to admit that I was glad he’d b
rought along his notebook.

  He retrieved it from his backpack and began thumbing through the pages. “Here it is. Paraphilias are defined as attractions that, in the extreme, deviate from the most generally accepted forms of sexual expression. They include practices like inflicting or receiving pain, as in sadism and masochism, exhibitionism, voyeurism, and fetishes, like leather or rubber.”

  My ears pricked up at his mention of rubber. So the medical profession had the goods on those balloon-lovers, after all.

  “What I learned is that, in general, the feeling is that there’s nothing wrong with a little experimentation,” he went on. “Or even with playing out a few fantasies. Apparently even something as innocent as adding whipped cream to a couple’s sexual experience could be considered part of BDSM.”

  He glanced over and leered at me before continuing. “Let’s see what else...Some couples engage in spanking or tying one member up with silk scarves or handcuffs. Others enjoy dressing up and role-playing. As long as only consenting adults are involved, this type of activity isn’t considered pathological.”

  “Is there any relationship between paraphilia and an inclination toward violence in other situations?” I asked.

  “That’s a bit more complicated,” Nick said, skimming his notes. “Take exhibitionists, for example. They find it sexually stimulating to expose themselves to strangers. Yet they rarely seek out additional sexual contact and hardly ever commit rape.

  “Interestingly,” he continued, “the goal of acting out S&M scenarios isn’t actually sex, although sexual relations do frequently follow. But the acting out is considered a reward in itself. Most people who engage in it report that they find it cathartic. In fact, many people enjoy this kind of activity primarily for its value as an escape. It gives them a chance to let go of their identity and become someone else, at least for a little while. They find it an effective way of reducing stress.”

  Even I had to admit that dressing up in leather and chains didn’t have the side effects of wolfing down a pint of Chunky Monkey.

  “Yet there’s an interesting contradiction in the BDSM world,” Nick continued, impressing me with how much useful information he’d picked up in only a few short weeks of law school. “The world of S&M has its own set of strict rules. A ‘frame,’ as it’s called, is a set of parameters that participants substitute for reality. As long as they remain inside that frame, they experience a freedom to do and say and even feel in ways they might not be able to in their real lives.”

  “All this makes the BDSM thing sound pretty innocent,” I observed.

  “For the most part, I think it is. However, at the other extreme are behaviors that can be considerably more harmful, psychosexual disorders that may include rape and pedophilia. And any sexual activity that involves sadism and masochism certainly has the potential to get out of hand. One of the most common problems occurs when one person chokes another to enhance the sexual experience by decreasing the amount of oxygen that reaches the brain. From time to time, someone estimates wrong, resulting in death.

  “But things can also get out of hand psychologically,” Nick went on. “For some people, engaging in paraphilism, especially masochistic behaviors like being spanked, can feed into their sense of low self-esteem. They may be attracted to situations in which they’re abused because they think they deserve it. Others have trouble limiting the experience, bringing either masochism or sadism into other aspects of their lives, where it’s inappropriate or even destructive.”

  Interesting, I thought. And not quite as innocuous as Thor made the whole scene out to be. While before I’d been disturbed by what Cassandra Thorndike had been into while she was still alive, I now wondered just how much it had had to do with her death.

  “So does everything you learned about BDSM make you more inclined to be my date at a dungeon event—or should I start reading the personal ads?”

  “I’m in.” Nick sighed. “After all, it sounds like we have no choice. Not if it might help get Suzanne out of this situation.” Frowning, he said, “There’s only one problem.”

  “What?” I asked nervously.

  “I haven’t got a thing to wear.”

  “The worst thing about getting away from it all,” I announced as Nick and I tromped across the wooded area surrounding the Big House, back to the cottage, “is that when it’s over, you have get back to it all.”

  Still, as I neared the front door, I had to admit that I was kind of looking forward to returning to my real life. There was something to be said for having your own coffeepot—not to mention being able to find the milk and sugar without sending out a search party.

  Even more important was my menagerie. I’d missed having them around, even though I’d stopped in at least five times the day before to feed them, check their water bowls, walk them, scratch their necks or smooth their feathers, and play a few rounds of Slimytoy.

  “I must be nuts, but I’m actually looking forward to spending the day studying,” Nick said. “I think I’ll just— oomph!”

  The oomph came from the fact that he’d just walked into me. And that was because as soon as I opened the door and stepped inside the cottage, I froze.

  Something was wrong. Very wrong.

  While I wasn’t the most conscientious housekeeper in the world, I knew immediately that there was no way I was responsible for the chaotic condition of the living room. Even though I’d rushed in and out several times the day before—and was now viewing it with a fresh outlook—this level of disarray could only mean one thing.

  “The place has been ransacked!” I cried, my voice a hoarse whisper.

  Nick stood beside me in silence as we both took in the scene before us. The cushions had been pulled off the couch and the upholstered chair, and the stuffing from one of the throw pillows had been torn out in handfuls and strewn across the floor. The veterinary journals I’d left stacked on the coffee table had also been tossed to the ground. My CDs were dumped on the rug, mixed in with the junk mail that had been piling up on the table that served as both a desk and a place to eat.

  “My animals!” I cried, my eyes darting around as I frantically attempted to spot them. Prometheus stood on his perch, looking a little agitated but otherwise fine. Leilani was in her tank, undisturbed, blinking at me lazily.

  As for the others, the yelps and scratching sounds coming from the bedroom clued me in to their whereabouts. I just hoped the vile intruder who had done this hadn’t harmed a single piece of fur on any of them....

  I stifled a sob as I strode quickly through the room, feeling too overwhelmed to take it all in. Glancing into the kitchen, I noted that everything in there seemed to be in its proper place.

  The bedroom was another matter entirely.

  As I expected, Max and Lou sprang into action the moment I opened the door, leaping up on me excitedly. Catherine the Great blinked at us from her comfortable position on a throw rug, while Tinkerbell leaped around excitedly like Baryshnikov on speed. Aside from the inconvenience of all four of them being forced to bunk together, they didn’t look the least bit ruffled—or hurt.

  “Thank God you guys are okay!” I cried, running my hands over each one of them and looking into their eyes, just to make sure. “If only you could tell me what happened!”

  Looking around the room gave me some inkling. Clothes that had been pulled out of drawers and yanked off hangers lay across the bed and floor like the remains of a ticker-tape parade.

  Nick joined me in the doorway. “Glad I left most of my notes in the car,” he said grimly.

  The dogs had immediately dashed over to him, anxious to give him a warm enough welcome that he wouldn’t feel left out. Tinkerbell, meanwhile, had already trotted over to her water dish, while Cat looked as if she wasn’t going anywhere.

  I did have one pet who was capable of speaking, more or less. I went back into the living room to interrogate him.

  “Who was in here, Prometheus?” I asked my parrot.

  “Awk!
” he cried. “Happy birthday to you!”

  Nick followed, distractedly pushing the hair out of his eyes. He watched my futile interaction with my bird, then shook his head and asked the same question.

  “Jessie, who the hell could have done this?”

  I couldn’t say for certain. But I’d just spotted something lying on the ground that gave me a pretty good idea.

  Chapter 13

  “If animals could speak, the dog would be a blundering outspoken fellow, but the cat would have the rare grace of never saying a word too much.”

  —Mark Twain

  I bent over and picked up the red object. “What is that?” Nick asked, sounding confused. “A bow tie.” I fought to keep my voice even. “The kind that’s worn with a tuxedo.”

  “What does that mean? That our intruder was a runaway groom?”

  “I can’t be certain,” I replied, “but it does suggest one person in particular. Ethan Thorndike. Cassandra’s brother.” I couldn’t resist adding, “He’s kind of strange.”

  “But why would he come here—especially if he was on his way to a formal event?” Nick asked. “Do you think he was looking for something?”

  I shook my head. “First of all, he’s not the one who would have been wearing this. It was more likely worn by the ventriloquist’s dummy he carries around with him like a large and not very subtle security blanket. Second, I doubt that this tie just fell off. It’s much more likely that Ethan is trying to send me a message. One that says ‘Mind your own business,’ loud and clear.”

  “But our cars and your van are parked right outside,” Nick pointed out. “Last night or early this morning, whenever he was here, it must have looked like we were home.”

  “Not if he broke in last evening. There were no lights on here in the cottage.” Sighing, I added, “There isn’t much to that lock on the front door. I usually feel so safe here that it never even occurred to me to get a stronger one.”

  Nick frowned. “This might be a good time to take care of that.” Pulling his cell phone out of his pocket, he added, “After I call the police, how about if I call a good locksmith?”