Hare Today, Dead Tomorrow (11 page)

“Ah. Well.” That excuse seemed to placate him. He gazed up at the painting, the corners of his mouth drooping and his eyes dampening. “She was beautiful, wasn’t she?”

“Who is she?” I asked, even though I was pretty sure I already knew, thanks to the photo I’d seen in
Newsday.

“Cassandra Thorndike. Gordon’s daughter.” As if he suddenly remembered that I was nothing more than an intruder, and therefore unlikely to know the people he had named, he added, “Gordon Thorndike founded Thorndike Vineyards.”

“I see. Are you a member of the Thorndike family?”

“Me? No. I own Simcox Wineries, right next door.” I guess he figured he’d already told me enough that it was time for an official introduction. “I’m Theodore Simcox,” he said, extending his hand.

“I’m Jessica Popper,” I replied as we shook hands.

“I’m actually a very close friend of the entire Thorndike family.” Raising his eyes to the portrait once again, he added, “Cassandra was like a daughter to me. You may have heard about the recent tragedy. She passed away earlier this week—”

We both jumped a little as the subdued atmosphere of the foyer was broken by the sound of footsteps traveling briskly across the terra cotta–tiled floor. A short, plump woman in a gray wool skirt and a black sweater bustled into the room, closing the doors of one of the offices behind her. Her hair matched her outfit, I noticed, black with gray accents. It was also just as severe, pulled back tightly into a low ponytail.

“Theodore, I really can’t tell you how much I appreciate you—” She stopped abruptly. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you had a guest.”

“I’m not a guest,” I explained. “I just stepped in here to get a better look at this painting.”

The woman drew her lips into a thin, straight line, as if she were trying to maintain her composure. Even so, her eyes filled with tears so quickly that I figured she’d been doing a good deal of crying over the past few days.

“You really shouldn’t be in here,” she said without much conviction.

“This is Mrs. Thorndike,” Theodore Simcox said meaningfully.

“Oh! Mr. Simcox told me about your daughter. I’m so sorry.”

She acknowledged my expression of sympathy with a nod.

In addition to being completely caught off guard by the realization that I’d just met Cassandra’s mother, I also experienced a whole new level of understanding. Up until this point, I’d been so wrapped up in worrying about Suzanne that I’d barely thought about the people who had known and loved Cassandra Thorndike—and how much they were suffering. A young woman was dead. And that meant her parents would have to live with the terrible sadness of having lost their daughter for the rest of their lives. I felt a surge of determination to find out who had killed Cassandra Thorndike—not only for Suzanne’s sake, but also for the people who had loved the poor young woman.

Mrs. Thorndike turned her attention back to Theodore. “Thanks again for running the show for us for a few days, Theo.”

“I’m glad there’s at least something I can do, Joan,” he replied earnestly.

“You’ve lifted a tremendous burden off my shoulders. I need to be at home. I just don’t feel right, leaving Gordon on his own. He’s devastated.” Glancing back at me, she added, “Right now, all the wineries on the East End are gearing up for the busiest time of the year. Not only is autumn the time of the harvest; it’s also the height of tourist season. From September through November, I think most of us feel that our business is orchestrating tastings and hayrides instead of turning grapes into wine.”

For a moment a small smile lit up her face, and I could see a trace of liveliness I hadn’t noticed before.

The smile quickly disappeared. “But right now, my husband and I simply can’t cope with the day-to-day operation of the winery. In fact, the only reason I came in today is that one of our employees called to tell me that my cat, Coco, is ailing. I brought her here a few days ago to help with a mouse problem we’ve suddenly developed. But she’s apparently been acting strange, dragging around like she has no energy and squatting down in a weird position. They also said that for the last day or two, she hasn’t been eating or drinking. So I came to pick her up and take her to the vet.”

“If you’d like, I could take a look at her.” In response to her puzzled look, I added, “I’m a veterinarian with a mobile services unit. You might have noticed my van on your way in; it’s right in your parking lot. I’d be happy to treat your cat.”

“Oh,
would
you?” she asked gratefully. “It would make things so much easier. But could I trouble you to drive your van to my house? It’s not far, and I really want to get home to Cassandra’s father. He’s having such a difficult time coping with his daughter’s death, and every minute I’m away seems like too much.”

I guess my expression reflected my confusion, because she added, “I should probably explain that I’m actually Cassandra’s stepmother. Her real mother passed away when she was a little girl. At any rate, would you mind coming over? I know it’s a lot to ask.”

“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.