Hare Today, Dead Tomorrow (29 page)

“Yeah, see, I got a coupla American bulldogs. I take ’em to the vet whenever they got, like, some kinda problem. But my vet, he’s tellin’ me I should bring ’em in every six months or so, even if there’s nothin’ wrong. What is this, a way for you guys to make money?”

“An excellent question, Richie!” I replied. I hope the smile I plastered on my face didn’t look as strained as it felt. “I’m glad you brought it up. It’s important that pet owners bring their cats and dogs in for regular examinations at least once a year—and I have to agree with your veterinarian that every six months is even better. Trained medical professionals often catch the early signs of something that could get serious if it isn’t treated in a timely manner. Tumors are a good example. But if your pet is gaining weight or has an infection, or even if there’s something as routine as tartar building up on his teeth, your vet can help you deal with it. In fact, by taking care of problems at the beginning stages, your pet will probably suffer less—and you’ll actually end up saving money.”

“Yeah,” my caller grumbled, clearly not convinced. “Whatever.”

After Richie from Riverton hung up, the phone just sat there. Even though I’d been amazed at how smoothly things had gone so far, I was beginning to panic. I could see Patti in the shadows, making those “move it along” motions again.

I looked straight into the camera. “One thing that’s important to remember,” I said slowly, without having the slightest idea of how I was going to finish that sentence, “is that, uh...” What seemed like an hour passed, even though it couldn’t have been more than a second or two. “...Nobody knows your pet as well as you do. So whenever you speak with your vet, be sure to report even minor changes in your pet’s behavior or appearance that you’ve noticed. Something you think isn’t at all meaningful could turn out to be— Great! Another call!” I pressed the red button. “Thanks for calling
Pet People,
” I said. “How can I help you and your pet?”

“Dr. Popper?”

“You’re on the air!” I said cheerfully. “Who am I speaking with today?”

“Is this Dr. Popper?”

“I’m Dr. Popper, and you’re on
Pet People.
Who’s this?”

“This is Cheryl. I’m from Metchogue.”

“Go ahead, Cheryl.”
Please
go ahead Cheryl, I thought. Patti was making a round-and-round motion with her hand, as in “Speed it up, already.”

“I have a question. It’s about...kind of a game I like to play with my German shepherd.”

“Certainly a fun-loving breed,” I said encouragingly.

“I, uh, cover my feet—well, my toes, actually—in peanut butter, and then I lie in bed while Oscar licks it off.”

I didn’t respond. I was too busy trying to keep my jaw from getting carpet burn.

“I know it sounds weird,” Cheryl continued. “But the thing is, it feels really good.” The caller hesitated. “I guess my question is, do you think it’s bad for Oscar?”

I cast a desperate look at Patti. She looked like she’d just been worked over with a stun gun.

“Peanut butter isn’t particularly bad for dogs,” I said calmly, “although eating too much could—”

“Oh, good,” Cheryl replied. “Not about the peanut butter so much. I mean, I’m thinking more like—you know, that maybe what Oscar and I are doing is kind of—kinky. Because actually, I was thinking of expanding our game. I thought it might feel good to put some peanut butter—”

“I have another call!” I exclaimed, noting that Patti was frantically making a throat-slashing gesture with her finger. “Thanks for calling, Cheryl! And good luck to Oscar!”

Pressing another button, I cried, “Thanks for calling
Pet People.
How can I help you and your pet?”

By the time I got out of there, I was exhausted. Was it possible that only fifteen minutes had passed since I’d walked onto the set?

“Dr. Popper, you were great!” Patti gushed. “They loved you. You’re so good at thinking on your feet! Even the thing with that white dog and whatever he was barking at—you handled it brilliantly.”

“Really?” I still couldn’t quite believe I’d successfully made it through my first television appearance. But as the dogs and I headed out to the parking lot, I was already working on a topic for the following week.

As I slid into my van, my cell phone trilled. I expected it would be Forrester, gloating over having “discovered” Long Island’s newest celebrity. Instead, the Caller ID screen read
Suzanne Fox.

“Hey, Suzanne,” I answered breezily. In my triumphant haze, I assumed the only reason she’d be calling would be to give me her critique of my television debut. “What’s up?”

“Jessie! I’m so glad I got you.” She sounded breathless. “You have to come over right now. The police just arrived with a search warrant.”

I stiffened. “Okay, stay calm. I mean, it’s not as if they’re going to find anything, right?”

The only response I got was a long silence.

“I’ll be there as soon as I can,” I said, turning the key in the ignition and speeding out of the parking lot even before I had a chance to hang up.

Chapter 12

“Cats conspire to keep us at arm’s length.”

—Frank Perkins

I’d barely hung up before my cell phone rang again. I grabbed it and answered on the first ring. “Nick?” “Sorry. It’s Nick’s rival,” Forrester replied cheerfully. “I just wanted to tell you how great you are. But I’ve always known that.”

“Thanks, Forrester,” I said.

“You sound a little distracted. Everything okay?”

“Everything’s fine. I’m just in a hurry. Emergency house call.”

“I won’t keep you, then. You’re a star, Popper!”

I gritted my teeth as I careened around the entrance ramp and onto the Long Island Expressway. I told myself I hadn’t exactly lied to Forrester by not telling him that at that very moment, the cops were searching Suzanne’s house. It was just that having him swoop down would make things even more complicated.

Besides, I reminded myself grimly, he’ll know, sooner or later. Not only that they were there, either. He’ll also know if they found anything.

When my cell phone went off still one more time, I got ready to fend off Forrester again.

“Hey, Jess. It’s me,” Nick said cheerfully. “I’ve only got a minute, but I saw you on TV just now. There’s one here in the student center. You were terrific!”

“Thanks,” I replied. “Listen, Nick, something’s—”

“Sorry, Jess. Just reached my classroom. Gotta run!”

It’s just as well, I told myself. No need to involve him either. At least, not at this point. But I suddenly felt as if I were about to parachute into a disaster area with absolutely no backup.

I reached Suzanne’s house in record time, making a slight detour to drop off Max and Lou at home. It cost me twenty minutes, but with no way to anticipate what I’d be dealing with, I didn’t want them getting in the way—or distracting me.

It turned out to be a wise move. Even though I’d tried to prepare myself for whatever I’d find, the sight of a Norfolk County police car parked outside made my stomach wrench. Directly in front of it was a small white van. I pulled up across the street, taking deep breaths. Through the open front door, I could see two men in Suzanne’s living room, picking up pillows and peering under furniture. They both wore shirts printed with the words
Crime Scene Unit
on the back, as well as hairnets and latex gloves.

Suzanne stood on the front lawn, her face puffy and her hair so limp and straggly it looked as if she hadn’t washed it for days. She was wearing the same dark sweatpants and gray Purdue sweatshirt I’d seen her in the last time I’d come to her house.

“Thanks for coming, Jess,” she greeted me weakly. Up close, I could see that her eyes were swollen and red.

I gave her a hug, then asked, “What are you doing out here?”

“This is where the guy from the crime-scene unit told me to wait.” Using a gruff voice to mimic him, she said, “ ‘Would you mind stepping outside, Ms. Fox?’ ”

I forced a smile. It faded quickly. “Did the police tell you what prompted them to get a search warrant?”

She bit her lip and took a breath. “One of the cops told me they found my fingerprints on the doorknob at Cassandra’s house. A few other places too.”

“I see,” I said simply.

“And since I told them I hadn’t been there—” Her voice broke off and tears pooled in her mournful blue eyes. “What do you think they’re looking for?”

“The murder weapon, most likely,” I said. “Or anything else incriminating. Letters, e-mails, photographs...” Quickly, I added, “So you have nothing to worry about.”

She swallowed. “If they’d only let me explain—”

“Excuse me, Ms. Fox,” one of the crime-scene-unit investigators interrupted. “Could I please have the keys to your car?”

“My car?” she repeated, her voice going up an octave or two. “You’re going to search my car?”

“Yes, ma’am. Standard procedure.”

“Uh...sure.” She reached into the pocket of her sweatpants and pulled out a ring of keys with what I thought was surprising reluctance.

“Suzanne?” I asked once he was out of earshot. “The police aren’t going to...find anything, are they?”

“I—I just don’t trust this whole process, you know?” she stammered. “I mean, I’ve heard of situations where cops twist things...” Her voice trailed off uncertainly as she stared in the direction of the driveway.

I followed her gaze. All four car doors were wide open, and the investigator who’d asked for her keys was bent over the backseat, methodically sorting through the clutter.

“I can’t imagine what they expect to find in there,” I said, trying to keep my voice light. “Used coffee cups, a bunch of torn maps...”

When I glanced back at Suzanne, I saw that her face had turned white.

“Are you okay?” I asked, fearful that she might pass out.

She never had a chance to answer. The crime-scene-unit investigator had returned, and this time he was holding something in his hands.

“Ms. Fox?” he said with a distinct edge to his voice. “The police are going to ask you to go with them to the station. We just found this in your car.”

He held up a pink cardigan sweater embroidered with a swirling letter S. It was spattered with what looked very much like dried blood.

I stood and watched two uniformed officers escort Suzanne to the police car, too stunned to react.

“Come with me,” she yelled over her shoulder. “Please, Jessie. And call Marcus!”

As the police car drove off with Suzanne in the backseat, she pressed her face against the side window. From the desperate look in her eyes, her thoughts were unmistakable.

Save me!

I hopped in the car and sped after her, never losing sight of her through the rear window of the police car.

This can’t be happening, I thought.

But it was. And as I waited in the lobby of the police station, sitting on a hard wooden bench beneath harsh fluorescent lights, I was completely powerless to do a thing about it.

Finally, after what seemed like a very long time, the door opened. Suzanne emerged, looking dazed.

“Suzanne!” I cried, rising to my feet.

“Where’s Marcus?” she asked anxiously as she hurried over.

“I suppose he’s on his way. What happened in there?”

“You called him?”

“Yes, back at the house. Did the police—”

“And he said he’d come right over to the station?”

I hesitated, wondering if honesty really was the best policy. Did she really need to know that he’d sounded more annoyed than concerned or that he’d insisted that he was “
extremely
busy” or that all he’d promised was that he’d “do his best” to get there?

“As fast as he could,” I told her.

“Oh, good. I knew I could count on him.” She looked so relieved—and so pleased—that I felt as if the two of us weren’t doing anything more demanding than planning a dinner party.

As soon as we were outside the police station, Suzanne scanned the parking lot, searching for his car.

“Tell me!” I demanded. “How did it go in there?”

“I think it went well.” She sounded surprisingly calm. “I mean, it’s not like they arrested me or anything. All they did was ask me questions.”

“Was your lawyer there?”

“I couldn’t reach him. His secretary told me he’d taken the day off. And his cell phone’s broken.”

Even worse than I thought.

Frowning, she said, “Maybe Marcus misunderstood and he’s waiting for me at the house.”

“Probably.” I glanced around, wanting to be sure we wouldn’t be overheard. “Suzanne, what’s the story with the sweater?”

She hesitated. “I—I dropped it while I was at Cassandra’s house. It was right near where she was lying, so I guess some of her blood got on it.”

“You
guess
?” I repeated.

“Okay, I noticed some of her blood got on it. But it was an accident!”

“Why was it in your car?”

“I just threw it in the backseat as I drove away. I never thought anybody would find it. Especially the police.”

“Suzanne,” I began, trying not to sound as exasperated—and as frightened—as I felt. “Did you finally tell them the truth about what happened that day Cassandra was...you know?”

“Yes.” She cast me a woeful look. “You were right, Jessie. They weren’t at all happy that I hadn’t been straight with them about being at her house right around the time she was killed.”

Surprise, surprise.

“But you finally told them exactly what happened, right?”

“Yes. And I explained that I had a perfectly good reason for holding back about the truth.”

“Which was...?”

She looked surprised by my question. “That I didn’t want them to think I had anything to do with what happened, of course!”

Of course, I thought, wishing I shared her feelings about the cops being a bunch of nice, friendly guys who were as anxious to believe she was innocent as she was to convince them. I could only imagine the field day Falcone was going to have with a sweater emblazoned with an S-for-Suzanne and stained with blood that would prove to be Cassandra Thorndike’s.