Hare Today, Dead Tomorrow (26 page)

At least Betty had an excuse. But what about me? What was
my
excuse?

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 Greeley’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.

I wasn’t the least bit disappointed.

“Jessica?” a deep male voice asked.

I jerked my head up and saw Thor standing in the doorway, smiling at me. If anything, my fantasy had fallen short of the reality. He was blond, all right, with eyes as blue as the Swedish flag. He also had the muscular build I’d imagined, although I’d been a little off in the height department, since he probably stood a little over six feet tall.

Calm down, I instructed myself. You’re here for a murder investigation...remember?

“Is it all right if I call you Jessica?” he asked, flashing two rows of startlingly white teeth.

“Fine,” I said. Actually, I kind of chirped the word “fine,” sounding a lot like Prometheus with a couple of seeds lodged in his throat.

“Great. Then follow me.”

I resisted the urge to mumble something like, “To the ends of the earth.” It wasn’t hard, since I didn’t think I’d gotten my normal voice back. My sudden throat condition wasn’t helped by the fact that for some reason, Thor was wearing nothing but one of those Speedo bathing suits. One that looked about two sizes too small.

He led me into a small, windowless room with walls painted a serene shade of blue. The only piece of furniture was a massage table, covered with a white sheet. New Age music floated in from some unseen source, strange, wispy sounds that made me expect a line of druids to drift into the room any minute.

“This is the first time I’ll be giving you a massage, right?” Thor asked.

I just nodded. It seemed simpler than attempting to speak.

“Great. The most important thing you need to know is that my main goal is making you feel completely comfortable.”

In that case, I thought, you might consider putting on a sweatsuit.

“I’m going to leave you alone for a minute,” he went on. “While I’m gone, take off everything and lie down on this table, facedown, with this sheet over you.”

“Everything?” I squawked.

“Is this your first massage?”

“My first professional massage,” I croaked.

“In that case, I’m honored to be the one breaking you in.” He smiled, looking extremely pleased with himself.

I forced myself to think about Nick as I pulled off my clothes and lay down to wait. But at the moment, he seemed very far away.

I was already in position when I heard Thor come in and close the door.

“Okay, I see you’re all set. Why don’t you close your eyes and relax?” he suggested.

I managed the first part—but not before I saw the lights dim. A few seconds later, a soothing fragrance wafted into my nostrils.

“Do you like this scent?” he asked, his voice as thick and creamy as a pint of Cherry Garcia. I was beginning to understand how women could become addicted to this man. “It’s very calming, a mixture of lavender, marjoram, green Mandarin...Pretty powerful stuff.”

“Mm-hmm,” I replied, not wanting to risk uttering any noises that would make me sound like a thirteen-year-old choir boy whose voice was changing.

“That doesn’t surprise me. From the moment I saw you, you struck me as the sensual type.”

Before I had a chance to wonder about the implications of that, I heard a peculiar blurping sound.

“What’s that?” I demanded, ready to leap off the table.

“Relax,” he replied. “It’s just massage oil. To decrease friction.”

“Friction?”

“Between your skin and mine. It makes the movement smoother. Nicer. More gentle.” I heard what sounded like him rubbing his hands together, probably to warm the oil. And then I felt a little fluttery feeling on my back.

“Ooh, that tickles,” I cried. “Is it supposed to tickle?”

“That’s just the oil. I can tell you’re a little tense, but you’ll get used to it.” Thor was silent for a few seconds before adding, “I should probably explain why I’m dressed like this.”

Or undressed, I thought. But no words were forthcoming. Not when he’d already pulled the sheet down, exposing my upper back, and begun kneading my muscles with a soothing rotating motion.