Hare Today, Dead Tomorrow (27 page)

“I just got off.”

My eyes popped open. “Excuse me?”

“I’m only supposed to work a half day today,” he continued. “That’s why I took a quick dip in the pool just now, right before Kristin told me you were on the schedule. Nothing like a quick dip, don’t you think?”

“No.” At least I was managing to articulate words. Single-syllable words, anyway.

“But I guess I should be used to getting screwed,” he continued cheerfully. His hands were moving downward, the kneading of his fingers becoming more forceful.

“What?” I croaked.

“By Kristin. She’s always screwing up the schedule. But I don’t mind. She keeps telling me it’s because so many women insist that I be the one to give them their massage. If she’s right—and she’s not just messing with me—I wouldn’t want to let them down.” He was silent for a few minutes, working on my body as if I were a mound of pizza dough.

“You are very good at this,” I murmured.

“That’s what they tell me,” he replied, sounding matter-of-fact.

“You’re particularly good at that,” I continued. “And—oooh—just a little too good at that.”

“So much tension,” he said. “I can really feel it right in here.” He made little circles on my shoulder blades, impressing me with the strength of his thumbs.

He was silent for a while, systematically melting parts of me I hadn’t even realized were frozen. A persistent voice deep inside my head kept trying to remind me that I was there for a reason, even though other, louder voices were doing their best to block it out.

“What about you?” he finally asked. “How did you hear about me?”

That lone little voice in my head gave a triumphant yell. I thought you’d never ask. “Through Cassandra Thorndike.”

“Ah, Cassandra.” He sighed deeply. I opened my eyes enough to see that a look of pure bliss had crossed his face. It quickly turned to one of distress. “I can’t get over what happened to her. It’s just too horrible. That girl was so full of life. I can’t imagine who...” His voice trailed off, and a heavy silence hung over the room.

“I didn’t know her very well,” I finally volunteered. “Did you?”

“Sure,” he replied. “She was a regular here. I used to give her massages once or twice a week.” He hesitated before adding, “But we were also friends. Outside of her coming here, I mean. In fact, I’d kind of sneak her in a lot of the time so she didn’t have to pay.”

“Then I guess you were pretty upset when she and Robert got engaged.”

“Oh, it wasn’t like that. I mean, we never went out.” He paused again. “We had the same—I guess you’d call it a hobby.”

I hoped he didn’t notice that my muscles immediately tensed, pretty much undoing everything he’d accomplished in the past fifteen minutes. “Really?” I asked. “What kind of hobby?”

It took him a long time to answer. As he kneaded my shoulders in silence, I hoped he wasn’t about to say something like stamp collecting or bungee jumping.

“I guess you could say we were both interested in photography,” he finally replied.

I decided to take a chance. “Actually, she showed me some photos she’d posed for. She even let me keep a few.” I stretched out my arm, reached into my bag, and pulled out a few of the tamer shots. As I handed them to him, I turned my head so I could study his face.

“Uh-huh,” he said noncommitally, barely giving them a glance.

“Cassandra looks so great in these,” I went on. “Of course, the photographer also did a fabulous job.”

“Thanks,” he said without thinking. Then he froze. “I mean—”

“Is that how you two met? Because of your shared interest in”—I searched for the right words—“...this kind of thing?”

“Yeah,” he replied. “We ran into each other at a dungeon event.”

“What on earth is a dungeon event?” I blurted out before I had a chance to stop myself.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him smile patiently. “A dungeon is a place—a
safe
place—that’s designated for S&M play. That’s sadism and masochism, in case you’re not familiar with the phrase.”

“I see. And when exactly was this particular dungeon event?”

“Maybe a year and a half ago. Anyway,” Thor continued, “we got to talking, and somehow it came up that she was interested in posing. I told her I’d done some photography. You know, fetish, S&M, cross-dressing, that kind of stuff. But artsy shots, not exploitative. Erotic photography, not pornography.”

“I see. And she was interested?”

“Yeah, she was game, even though she told me this whole world was new to her.” He shrugged. “At the time, Cassandra wasn’t actually into anything besides vanilla sex.”

“Excuse me?” I asked. “What exactly is—”

“Vanilla sex? That’s a term people in the S&M world use to describe conventional sex.”

“I see.” My vocabulary was growing so quickly I felt like I needed flash cards.

“Anyway, it turned out she was really good at it,” Thor continued. “Not only posing, but also putting together the getups. She loved going into the city and buying the clothes, and she was even up for the whole piercing thing. Cassandra was a good-looking woman, and—let’s face it—she knew it. She enjoyed showing off, and this was a fun way of doing it. In fact, I wasn’t surprised that we actually got some of the pictures into fetish magazines.”

I guess the look on my face told him that the concept of fetish magazines was something else I needed help understanding.

“See, there are all kinds of fetish publications,” Thor explained patiently. “Spanking magazines, bondage magazines, magazines for rubberists—”

“You mean people who are into rubber?”

“Exactly. You’ve heard of ‘looners,’ haven’t you?”

“Can’t say I have,” I admitted, thinking I’d be needing one more flash card.

“Those are people—guys, usually—who get turned on by balloons. They love the feel and the smell, and they’re into blowing them up, rubbing against them—”

“I had no idea all these different magazines existed,” I said quickly. I’d already heard all I needed to hear about the balloon thing. In fact, I was afraid I’d never look at a birthday party quite the same way again.

“They might even have magazines for WAMers,” Thor mused. “That’s ‘wet and messy,’ stuff like mud, paint, food—especially dessert toppings.”

Which explained why Cassandra had posed lying on the floor, smeared with what I now told myself had to be chocolate pudding or perhaps even chocolate mousse. I wondered what Jean-Luc would think if he ever saw desserts treated in such an unseemly fashion.

“Which magazines published the photos you took of Cassandra?” I asked.

“We stuck to the tamer ones,” Thor assured me. “See, it was all just for fun, as far as Cassandra and I were concerned. Look, I know that a lot of folks freak out over this stuff and that people who are into it are usually considered sickos. But in the psychology world, it’s no longer considered pathological. They say one in ten people have experimented with it. Hey, as long as everybody follows the rules, nobody gets hurt. In fact, in S&M, the motto is ‘safe, sane, and consensual.’ Safe means nobody gets seriously harmed, sane means there’s no tolerance for crazies, and consensual means it’s only cool if everybody involved is over eighteen and into it.

“In fact, alternative sex practices are getting so mainstream that there’s even a national association for people who are into them,” he continued. “Ever hear of Black Rose?”

“No.” I didn’t even dare hope it would turn out to be a garden club.

“It’s an organization for people who enjoy exploring fetishism, dominance and submission, bondage and discipline, that kind of stuff. They’ve been holding annual conventions for the last twenty years or so, with work-shops and vendors and, of course, plenty of parties.”

Of course, I thought. What’s a convention without a few dungeon events?

“Me, I’ve pretty much gotten out of it,” he continued. “Too busy, for one thing. And I guess the novelty kind of wore off after a while. But for people who are into it, there’s plenty of action all the time. Like here on Long Island, you could probably find a dungeon event every night of the week. Some are at clubs, but a lot of them take place at people’s houses.”

Trying to sound casual, I said, “I wouldn’t mind checking one out—maybe even the group you and Cassandra hung out with.”

“Cool,” Thor said, adding, “I could make a couple of calls, if you want.”

I took a deep breath, nearly choking on lavender and marjoram. “Just tell me when and where.”

Even though a massage with someone of Thor’s caliber should have made me relaxed and dreamy, I left the spa feeling energized. I was finally getting closer to learning who Cassandra Thorndike really was.

I only hoped that investigating further wouldn’t mean getting into more than I could handle.

In the meantime, I was well aware that while I may have been a sleuth during my off-hours, I was still a veterinarian by profession, and I launched into a full afternoon of house calls. In fact, it wasn’t until that evening that I remembered that I was smack in the middle of a murder investigation. And the reminder hit me with the same force as a half-frozen snowball stuck down the back of my shirt.

Nick had already gone to bed, and I was using the quiet hours to catch up on paperwork—including my e-mail. Cat, my usual e-mail buddy, was already asleep in front of the refrigerator, and even Tinkerbell had turned in for the night. The dogs were also asleep. They lay curled up together, Lou making the little wheezing sounds that were his version of snoring, Max jerking his front legs and mumbling a soft “Woof! Woof!” every once in a while, leading me to believe he was dreaming about chasing squirrels.

All in all, it was a pretty peaceful scene. At least until I eyeballed my list of New Messages and saw there was another one from AGoodFriend.

“Shoot,” I muttered. I licked my lips, which were suddenly uncomfortably dry, then clicked on the message.

Hey, Jessie, it began. Can’t wait to see you on TV. You can be sure I’ll be watching.

“
Watching
seems to be something you’re particularly good at,” I muttered.

I kept reading. Knock ’em DEAD, from your biggest fan.

And then, further down, Get it?

The sight of those few words made me feel as if all the blood in my body had just drained down to the floor.

I don’t know what I should be more worried about, I thought as I pulled my VW into a visitor parking space outside the Sunshine Media office building early Friday morning with Max and Lou beside me. Being stalked via e-mail—or the fact that I’m probably about to make a complete fool of myself on television.

Intellectually, I knew my stalker should definitely be my greater concern. At the moment, however, it was the idea of walking into a real TV studio and going on the air—live, no less—that was responsible for the sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. And while bringing my two supercharged canines had seemed like a good idea at the time, watching Max bounce around the front seat as if he’d doubled up on his morning shot of cappuccino was giving me second thoughts.

“Why did I ever listen to Forrester?” I moaned, peering into the rearview mirror to at least make sure I wasn’t wearing half my breakfast on my face.

But it was a little late for regrets. And I had to admit that Max and Lou looked great. They were both freshly washed and, in Max’s case, fluffed. They even wore spiffy new collars, red for Lou and blue for Max. Once I glanced in the mirror one last time and determined that I, too, was more or less presentable, I headed inside.

The receptionist’s face lit up when the three of us walked into the lobby. “You made it!” she cried. After glancing at my Sunshine Media ID to make sure I really was who she thought I was, she added, “And do you cute little doggies have ID too? No? Then I guess I’ll just have to trust you two!”

Lou returned her kindness by sneaking behind the counter and sticking his nose in her crotch. Max, meanwhile, was sniffing underneath the couch, probably attempting to snarf up a lint-covered cough drop or some other delicacy somebody had left there months earlier.

Buzzing me inside, the receptionist added, “You can wait in the greenroom, right down the hall. You’ll see it on your left. ’Bye, doggies!”

The greenroom was easy to find because its walls were actually painted green. Like the lobby, it was furnished with tasteful upholstered furniture and a large TV tuned to Channel 14 News. As my two escorts performed reconnaissance, snuffling every square inch of the fragrance-laden carpeting, I tried to focus on a discussion of the future of education, conducted by a group of school superintendents from different districts around Long Island. But given my level of agitation, it was just as well that Marlene appeared in the doorway mere seconds after I lowered myself into a chair.

“All set, Dr. Popper?” she chirped.

Help! I was thinking. Get me out of here!

I forced myself to smile. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

“And I see you brought two animals.” Before I had a chance to introduce them, she eagerly asked, “What’s your topic for today?”

“I already e-mailed my presentation to Patti,” I told her. “She thought it looked fine. I’ll be talking about how people can make their homes safe for their pets.”

“Pet-proofing,” Patti the Producer said as she strode through the door.

I blinked. “Excuse me?”

“It’s perfect. We can call the segment
‘Pet People
’s Pointers for Pet-Proofing Your Pad.’ ”

What is this woman’s obsession with the letter P? I mused, wondering if it had anything to do with P being the first letter of her name.

Before I had a chance to protest, she added, “Real, live dogs,” making her observation with cool objectivity. “Nice touch.” She peered into my shopping bag. “What’s in here?”

“I brought along some visual aids. I hope that’s okay.”

“That’s good. Very good.” Patti nodded enthusiastically. “We love visuals. Besides the dogs, I mean. What have you got?”

I’d never really thought of my Westie and my Dalmatian as visual aids before. “Just some common household items that are dangerous to pets.”