Hare Today, Dead Tomorrow (17 page)

I checked the subject line. It read,
Hey, Jess. Thought
you’d enjoy this.

Somebody I know? I thought, grabbing the mouse and moving the cursor to that line. Or some clever Web marketer trying to get my attention?

When I double-clicked, the computer paused to load what looked like images of some kind. The text was already visible, however.

Hey, Jessica Popper!

Sorry we didn’t get a chance to speak the other day. But I thought you’d get a kick out of these.

You’ll hear from me again. I promise.

Odd, I thought, wondering who’d written such a strange e-mail. I waited while the graphics loaded, figuring this would turn out to be from some obvious person like Suzanne or even Marcus who was sending me a list of the Top Ten something or other.

But when the images finally finished loading, I was simply confused. And then my stomach lurched as I realized what I was looking at.

The photographs were of me. I was wearing my navy-blue jacket, just as I had every day this week. From the small amount of scenery I could make out in the background, they looked as if they’d been taken somewhere on the East End.

And I’d had no idea they were being taken.

“What
is
this?” I asked aloud, even though no one around me was likely to answer, aside from Prometheus.

I quickly clicked down past the three photographs, hoping to find a name at the bottom of the page. Nothing. I still had no clue as to who had sent me this e-mail. My mouth uncomfortably dry, I scrolled back to the top to study the photographs more carefully.

The first one was a close-up of my face, taken in profile. Whoever took it had been standing behind me, since most of the shot was of my back. Still, the top half of my body pretty much filled the frame.

Which meant the photographer either had a good zoom lens or had been standing very close to me.

In the second one, my mouth was open and I wore a peculiar expression, since I’d apparently been caught mid-sentence. I was talking to someone, although whoever it was hadn’t been included in the picture. Just me.

Nothing wrong with that, I insisted to myself, trying to ignore the gnawing in my stomach.

It was the third one that made me gasp. Me again, standing in front of my van. I recognized the setting as the parking lot outside both G and Granite, which meant it had been taken yesterday. In the photograph, I was pulling my keys out of my pocket, getting ready to leave.

I remembered that moment clearly. I’d thought I was alone. Obviously, I was dead wrong.

Somebody was watching me.

Chapter 7

“Cats are smarter than dogs. You can’t get eight cats to pull a sled through snow.”

—Jeff Valdez

The uneasy feeling that came from having discovered that someone was keeping tabs on my comings and goings lingered into the next morning. And the fact that that person had managed to get to me in my own home as I sat alone in the wee hours increased the creepiness factor by about a hundred.

I replayed the last few days in my mind, trying to remember who I’d given my business card to. But then I realized my cards weren’t the only way someone could get hold of my e-mail address. All they had to do was enter my name into a search engine like Google or Yahoo!, and my Web site address would come up. Then, they could click on
Contact Us
and, as Jean-Luc would say, “Voilà!”

Still, I decided not to say anything to Nick. At least, not yet. I knew perfectly well that he wasn’t crazy about my involvement in investigating Cassandra Thorndike’s murder and that the only reason he was being at all supportive was that he recognized the importance of proving Suzanne’s innocence. The last thing I wanted was for him to worry any more than he already had. Especially since he was under so much pressure himself, thanks to the demands of law school.

As I drove to the North Fork to make a few calls and do a little more nosing around, I ruminated over who my secret friend might be. Driving on the Long Island Expressway was pretty monotonous at times like this, when mercifully little traffic clogged the three eastbound lanes of the dead-straight highway. It afforded me the perfect opportunity to consider each of the members of the murder victim’s circle I’d already met, one by one.

I started with her family, even though I found it hard to believe that any of them could be involved. Joan Thorndike, Cassandra’s stepmother, made no bones about the fact that she and her stepdaughter hadn’t been on the best of terms. Even though I liked her, I couldn’t completely discount her as a possible suspect. I couldn’t say the same for Gordon. He was clearly distraught over his daughter’s tragic fate. As for Ethan, he struck me as weird enough that anything was possible.

Next on the list were the people Cassandra knew through her fiancé—starting with the man himself. While I tried to remain open-minded about Robert Reese, now that I’d met him I couldn’t help suspecting him. Anyone who could get that upset over a lunch box—a Starsky and Hutch lunch box, no less—had to possess at least a few screws that were badly in need of tightening. Besides, spouses and boyfriends were always key suspects in situations like this.

Then there were the other people Cassandra had associated with through her involvement with the family business, as well as through her relationship with Robert. According to Jean-Luc, Preston DeVane, the arrogant owner of G and Robert’s number-one competitor, was pretty much capable of anything. Just how big a leap was it from stealing crème brûlée recipes to bumping off a business rival’s fiancée?

Even Jean-Luc could have done it, I mused, instinctively stepping on the brake as I noticed a cop car by the side of the Expressway, lying in wait. Maybe all that sugar in his bloodstream got him a little too hyped up during an argument with Cassandra over how much raspberry drizzle was
too
much raspberry drizzle.

My list of suspects was already fairly long. And at this point, I simply didn’t know enough about Cassandra or the people in her world to know who else to add. Virginia Krupinski, Theo Simcox, even someone I hadn’t actually met but who had noticed what I was up to—any one of them could have sent me that eerie e-mail.

Fortunately, a morning filled with house calls took my mind off Cassandra’s murder, at least for a few hours. It felt good to lose myself in treating animals, since I never failed to find it endlessly rewarding. As usual, it was refreshing to throw myself into the absorbing task of dealing with one patient after another. While being in the company of humans has its rewards, I’ve always found that surrounding myself with animals provides me with a level of emotional fulfillment that I can’t get anywhere else.

It wasn’t until I glanced at my watch and saw it was almost one that I realized how hungry I was. I also had a long break in my schedule, which I’d built in to allow for a bit of exploring on the North Fork.

For all I know, I thought as I turned into Clyde’s Roadside Inn, I might stumble across Captain Kidd’s treasure. Of course, I’d be much happier finding Cassandra Thorndike’s killer.

It wasn’t coincidence that my grumbling stomach prompted me to pull into Clyde’s. Theo Simcox’s comment about his plans to spend his Saturday night there gave me the impression he was a regular. I figured a man who described himself as a “lonely bachelor” could well have staked out a neighborhood eatery as a place where he could regularly find a little homeyness. With a little more of that “luck” that seemed to be going around, I might even run into him. I hoped he might be able to help me learn more about Cassandra’s involvement in the family business.

Clyde’s did, indeed, look every inch the roadside inn. Unpainted cedar shingles that had been darkened by weather and time covered the small, oddly shaped building. A red neon sign lit up the single tiny window that faced the road, boasting that Budweiser was on tap.

Inside, a long, narrow room lined with dark wood paneling stretched toward the back. Actually, the walls were covered with some synthetic material that simply looked more or less like wood. Still, the effect was the same as if it had been the real thing: dark and claustrophobic.

The bar that ran the entire length of one long wall— and was separated from the dining area by a wooden divider decorated with nautical paraphernalia like plastic starfish and fishing nets—made the space feel even more closed in. Yet there was news from the outside world, thanks to the television positioned above the bar. It was broadcasting the local channel, Channel 14 News. For a few seconds, I watched a segment on a Girl Scout troop that was introducing the residents of a senior center to the joys of rap music.

Clyde’s looked like the perfect place to grab a cup of clam chowder, which, at the moment, was high on my list. In fact, I’d had about all I could handle of pretentious, overpriced restaurants that offered ambiance instead of mere atmosphere. At the moment, atmosphere suited me just fine, even if it did involve a few crumbs that the last patrons had left behind on the plastic red-and-white-checked tablecloth.

“Just one?” the waitress asked as I lurked in the doorway, honoring the
Please Wait to be Seated
sign. She glanced behind me anxiously, as if she were certain there just had to be somebody in the world who was willing to have lunch with me.

“Just me,” I told her, smiling.

She led me to a back table and left me with a laminated menu. I was marveling over the fact that you could actually get a turkey club for under five dollars— and that the $7.99 Fish o’ the Day Dinner Special included soup, salad, Jell-O, and tea or coffee—when I happened to glance up at the bar.

The image on TV was enough to take away my appetite.

Lieutenant Anthony Falcone’s face covered the screen, his dark, piercing eyes staring straight at me. He looked as if he’d combed an unusually large amount of gel into his hair, even for him. His suit was at least as shiny. He kept pointing his finger at the camera to emphasize what he was saying.

I got up from my seat, edging toward the TV until I was close enough to hear him.

“...assure the people of Norfolk County that the police department has made finding the person who’s responsible for the brutal murder of Cassandra Thorndike our number-one priority. This is truly one of the most heinous crimes that has occurred here in a very long time. Right now experts are collecting and analyzing forensic evidence, and we’re interviewing several suspects. We’re keeping a close eye on one particular person of interest, and we expect to make an arrest soon.”

Falcone made his last statement with remarkable assuredness, even though he managed to pronounce the word
particular
without hitting either one of the
r
s. In fact, he sounded as if he were bragging rather than reassuring Norfolk County’s citizens.

But it wasn’t his Long Island accent or his self-important posturing that was making my stomach churn. It was his claim that he expected to arrest someone soon. I had a strong suspicion that the person he was referring to was Suzanne.

“You ready to order?” the waitress asked, clearly concerned that I was out of my seat.

“Um, no. I need another minute.” I glanced back at the television screen and saw that Falcone had been replaced by our local weatherman, who was grinning so broadly I suspected we were in for a few days of sunshine.

I slunk back to my chair and studied my menu, pretending I was frowning because of indecisiveness rather than the giant rock that was now lodged in my stomach. In fact, I was so focused on trying to hide how upset I was that it took me a few seconds to realize that somebody was saying my name.

“Dr. Popper?” I heard again. I glanced up, surprised to discover that a man was standing next to my table, grasping a straw hat in his gnarled hands. “I thought that was you. But, well, my eyesight isn’t that good, especially without my glasses.”

“Hello, Mr. Simcox,” I said. I was right about the likelihood of running into him—and pleased about the possibility of gathering more information. “It’s nice to see you again. In fact, would you care to join me?”

He looked startled. Even I had to admit that our previous encounter at Thorndike Vineyards on Saturday hadn’t exactly been what you’d call a bonding experience.

“I was just going to grab a quick bite before heading back to my own neck of the woods,” I added. There was something about being on the East End that prompted me to talk like an old cowhand.

He hesitated. “Well...I don’t want to intrude.”

“Not at all,” I insisted. “I’d enjoy the company.”

He hesitated, then pulled out the chair opposite me and sat down. Just like the first time I’d met him, he was dressed casually in his new jeans and a comfortable-looking blue chambray shirt that was just a tiny bit frayed at the collar.

“Do you eat here often?” I asked.

“All the time. In fact, I suppose I’m what you’d call a regular.” With an apologetic smile, he added, “Eating out all the time can add up. But sitting at a kitchen table alone gets pretty depressing, so coming here for most of my meals is my one indulgence. Besides, the prices aren’t too bad.”

Having scanned the menu, I had to agree. “So what’s good?”

“Just about everything,” he assured me. He perched on the edge of his chair awkwardly, as if he still wasn’t convinced he wasn’t making a bad move. “Except the chicken pot pie. I’d steer clear of that, if I were you.”

“Thanks, Mr. Simcox,” I replied, smiling. “Sounds like advice worth following.”

“Please, call me Theo.”

After we’d ordered—me, clam chowder and one of those underpriced turkey sandwiches, Theo, the tuna salad on white toast—we both settled back in our chairs.

“So,” he began, spreading his paper napkin out in his lap, “what brings you to the North Fork? Seeing patients, I imagine.” Thoughtfully, he added, “You do call the dogs and cats you treat ‘patients,’ don’t you?”

“The animals are the patients. Their owners are the clients. And yes, that’s why I’m in the area today. I had some patients to see.” I hesitated, then said, “I thought I might stop in at the Thorndikes’, too. Just to say hello and see how they’re doing.”