Hare Today, Dead Tomorrow (30 page)

It was time for the $64,000 question. “Did they believe you?”

“I’m not sure,” she replied, her voice wavering.

I only hoped that, one day, I wouldn’t be asking her the same question about a jury.

I didn’t know whether to feel relief or dread when I pulled up in front of Suzanne’s house and saw Marcus Scruggs’s Corvette parked out front. He stood on the lawn, looking peeved—probably because he’d arrived to find no one at home yet.

Suzanne jumped out of her car and dashed over to him. “Marcus!” she cried.

I waited for the love theme from Tchaikovsky’s
Romeo and Juliet
to start playing.

“Hey,” he said, sounding less than enthusiastic. “What took you guys so long?”

Those homicide detectives can be so darned inconsiderate, I thought, fuming but determined to make this one of those rare occasions when I kept my mouth shut.

The focus of my emotions shifted as soon as I saw his expression. This didn’t look good. Not at all.

“Oh, Marcus, thank God you’re here.” As Suzanne threw her arms around her soul mate, he stiffened. While he didn’t actually remove her bodily, his posture made it clear he wasn’t available for hugging.

“Listen, Suzanne, I know this is a tough time for you and all...”

Don’t say it, I thought. Please, Marcus. If you possess even an ounce of humanity...

“...but I’m thinking maybe it would be a good idea for us to stop seeing each other for a while.”

Damn
you! I thought. Damn, damn,
damn
! I gave him my version of the evil eye, designed to bring on impotence, adult acne, and chronic indigestion. If I’d had a voodoo doll in my pocket, I would have whipped that baby out, too.

“You’re joking, right?” Suzanne asked hopefully. She’d lowered her arms, but only halfway, as if she were waiting for her cue to resume her embrace.

“And, uh, you probably shouldn’t refer your clients to me anymore,” he added without looking her in the eye. “I think we should make a clean break. Don’t you think it’s for the best?”

“No,” Suzanne replied coldly. “I don’t think any of this is ‘for the best.’ In fact, I can’t believe you’d
abandon
me like this. Not when I’m going through the biggest
mess
of my entire life!”

I felt like crying, largely because I was thinking the exact same thing. I felt as if some villain in a monster movie had reached inside my chest and pulled my heart out. And I wasn’t even the one who was being dumped— mere minutes after the police had made it clear I was definitely a murder suspect.

“Look, we can talk about this later,” Marcus said, waving his hands in the air and striding toward the ridiculous phallic symbol that passed itself off as a car. “But frankly, Suzanne, this is more than I can handle. I’m sorry, but that’s the way it is. I’m outta here.”

Suzanne stood on the front lawn, silent as she watched him drive away. I stood next to her, ready to catch her if she fell.

But she didn’t.

“Bastard,” she muttered. “What was I even thinking?”

You go, girl, I thought. But I didn’t say that.

I didn’t say the other thing I was thinking either: You’re better off without him.

By Friday evening, I was more than ready for my romantic tryst with Nick. For one thing, my appreciation of him had increased about a millionfold after witnessing Marcus’s abominable behavior—especially when I related the events of the day and Nick was as outraged as I was. For another, I was at a loss as to how to proceed with trying to fix Suzanne’s situation, and I welcomed the break, not to mention the chance to recharge.

I’d made some preparations for the weekend, thinking through the best way of taking advantage of this rare opportunity for a vacation—even though we’d only traveled a few hundred feet for our getaway. For one thing, I decided to leave my entire menagerie back at the cottage, stealing back a few times a day to tend to them. While I’d miss having the tykes around, I shuddered to think of Lou curled up against one of Betty’s beaded silk pillows or Max gnawing on the hand-carved legs of her Louis Something end tables. Even Cat, who had been her houseguest over the years, would require constant monitoring to make sure she didn’t damage any of the exquisite antiques that made the mansion feel more like a museum than a place to kick back with the remote and a bag of chips.

Besides, Betty had had just the two of us in mind when she orchestrated this romantic little interlude. I was supposed to be concentrating on Nick.

I decided to play the role to the hilt. I’d rummaged through my closet, letting out a squeal of joy when, way in back, I found a squished but still serviceable floorlength burgundy-colored velvet skirt. I’d grabbed it off a clearance rack one January, snatching it up at forty percent off its already heavily discounted price. At the time, I’d envisioned saving it for the following holiday season, harboring a vague vision of throwing a Christmas party like the one in
The Nutcracker.
My fantasy included a brass quartet softly playing carols, a big bowl of clove-and-cinnamon-scented punch, and a roaring fireplace.

At least four years had passed since that uncharacteristically romantic moment, and the tags still hung from the skirt’s waistband. But the time to wear it had finally come. I even had access to a fireplace.

It turned out the skirt went a long way toward inspiring me. Martha Stewart’s not the only one who can pull off this kind of thing, I thought early Friday evening as I lit the last of the string of scented candles I’d lined up on the mantelpiece. Of course, they all had different scents, since I had to work with what I had. But I hoped the Nutmeg Vanilla would turn out to be subtle enough that it wouldn’t clash with the Frangipani or the white candle I’d found at the bottom of my “miscellaneous” drawer that was mysteriously labeled Winter Snow. I’d never noticed that snow even
had
a scent, so I wasn’t too worried.

But the candles were just the beginning. I’d lit a fire in the tremendous marble fireplace that covered an entire wall of Betty’s side parlor, a room she rarely used. I’d also put on soft music, although it was classic rock, Nick’s favorite, rather than classical. I hoped James Taylor and Carole King wouldn’t mind being reduced to background music, just this once.

And while brandy and caviar weren’t on the menu, they were about the only things that weren’t. I’d gone wild at the local gourmet market, a place I rarely set foot in. After all, this seemed like the perfect occasion to see how the other half lived—meaning those who planned far enough ahead to actually stock their refrigerators with takeout food, rather than ordering it by phone when hunger pangs made the thought of waiting for the oven to heat up unimaginable. I’d bought a little bit of everything: chicken stuffed with goat cheese and gouda, pasta salad with artichokes and sun-dried tomatoes, potato salad made with three kinds of potatoes, when I didn’t even know three different kinds of potatoes existed.

I’d also picked up a couple of bottles of wine. One was from Thorndike Vineyards and one was from the Simcox Wineries. Now that I knew the owners, I was looking forward to drinking wine that came with a personal connection.

As soon as Nick walked into Betty’s parlor, I knew by the look of astonishment that crossed his face that my plan to impress him had worked.

“Wow,” he said. It was more of a simple, straightforward statement than anything else.

I couldn’t help grinning.

“Where’d you get that outfit?” he asked.

“This old thing?” I glanced down at the skirt and the clingy black top I’d also found at the back of the closet. It was cut pretty low, which explained why I couldn’t remember having ever worn it but which didn’t explain how I’d come to acquire it.

Nick was doing some grinning of his own. “This idea of staying at Betty’s is looking better and better.”

“Wait until you hear what I’ve got on the schedule.”

“There’s a schedule?”

“It starts with wine and appetizers in front of the fire,” I told him. “Then, dinner will be served in the formal dining room. Next, we will retreat to the study for Ben & Jerry’s and a video.” I shrugged. “We are living in the twenty-first century, after all.”

“And then?” Nick asked.

“And then we snuggle up in a four-poster that probably creaks.”

“I’m already looking forward to making it creak—a
lot.
” Nick came over to where I was standing and put his arms around me. He leaned forward to kiss me, then stopped.

“What’s that smell?”

“What smell?” I asked nervously.

“It smells like cookies...and something flowery... and
snow,
all mixed together.”

“It’s a special romantic scent,” I replied, doing some fast thinking. “A well-known aphrodisiac.”

“Ah. Then I like it.” He leaned over and gave me a long, mushy Hollywood-style kiss, the kind that was common back in our early courtin’ days but that we rarely made time for these days.

“Umm,” I murmured. “Nice.”

“There’s more where that came from,” he assured me.

“But there is one rule for this weekend,” I said. “No law books. In fact, nothing legal at all. We can’t even watch any John Grisham DVDs.”

Nick’s forehead crinkled, even though he kept his arms around me. “Well...I can probably get away with one day of goofing off. But I’m afraid I’ve got to hit the books first thing Sunday.”

At the moment, Sunday seemed far off. All that mattered was that we had thirty-six hours all to ourselves.

And we used every second of it to its fullest. We watched two movies, ate every morsel of food I’d bought, played five games of Scrabble, and put that old four-poster through some pretty heavy creaking.

By Saturday night, my veterinary practice, law school, and even Cassandra Thorndike’s murder seemed very far away. Nick and I lolled on the velvet couch, watching the fire in the fireplace and sipping red wine from crystal glasses with very large globes.

“Do you know how I feel right now?” I asked.

“How do you feel right now?”

“Rich. Very rich.” Waving one arm in the air dramatically, I added, “I could see living in a house like this. Think of the space we’d have for all our stuff. Besides, we could each have our own room. Lou would probably decorate his in black and white. Cat’s would have a big stuffed couch with lace doilies on it, and Prometheus would model his after Elvis’s Jungle Room. But mostly we’d just enjoy having all this space.”

Nick poured himself another glass of wine. I couldn’t remember having ever seen him drink more than a glass or two. But somehow, between the two of us, we were making our way through the Simcox merlot quite nicely.

“Do you know how
I
feel right now?” he asked.

“Nope. How?”

“Married,” he replied. “I feel very, very married.”

I held my breath, waiting for the feeling that someone had just closed all the windows and turned up the heat. Nothing. In fact, instead of sliding into a state of panic, I found myself contemplating Nick’s statement objectively.

“Is this how being married feels?” I asked him.

“I guess so. How else would it feel?”

“I don’t know. Maybe like you’re under constant pressure to remember to take out the garbage and buy anniversary cards.”

“Naw. I think it feels...comfortable. Easy. Just like this, you know? Hanging out with your best girl—or in your case, your best guy....I am your best guy, right?”

“Best and only. My number-one heartthrob.” I stuck my hand under my shirt and did a theatrical imitation of a pounding heart.

He grinned. “I think this is going pretty well so far, don’t you? You and me living together, I mean.”

“Well...it’s only been a few days.”

“True. But I think I’m really well-suited to it.” Nodding thoughtfully, he added, “I figured I’d be.”

“It’s different than I expected,” I admitted. “You’re right, it is easy. And comfortable.”

“So maybe we should think about it. The thing about feeling married, I mean. Not soon. But one of these days. When I’m done with the semester. Or my first year of law school. Or even all of law school. That’s three years away.”

I didn’t say yes, but I didn’t say no. At the moment, three years sounded nice and far away.

“Do you know what’s wrong with this place?” I asked as I lolled in bed the next morning, luxuriating in what had to be the smoothest, silkiest sheets I’d ever been sandwiched between in my life.

“I can’t begin to imagine,” Nick replied, glancing at me without raising his head from the pillow.

“The butler service. It’s much too slow.”

“I wouldn’t be able to reach the bell pull from here, anyway,” he commented. “That is, if there was one.”

“If we had a really good butler,” I pointed out, “we could just yell. Something like, ‘Hey, Jeeves? How about a couple of cappuccinos, when you get a chance?’ ”

Nick nodded solemnly. “That would work.”

And then he let out a long sigh, one I suspected had nothing to do with a desire for caffeine. “I really don’t want to do this,” he said, “but I’m afraid that, after breakfast, I’m going to have to head over to the law library.”

I groaned, pulling the covers over my head. The moment I’d been dreading had come to an end. Reality had resurfaced.

Then I realized this made it a good time to inject some reality of my own.

“Nick,” I said, unexpectedly experiencing a twinge of nervousness, “that reminds me that I have something kind of...strange to ask you.”

“I think I can handle strange.”

You have no idea
how
strange, I thought. “How would you feel about going to a dungeon event?”

“It depends on how busy I am with—a
what
?”

I had to admit, I mumbled those last few words. This time, I forced myself to speak more clearly. “A dungeon event.”

He frowned. “Sorry, I don’t know what that is.”

I could feel my cheeks growing warm. I was glad the blankets hid them. “It’s kind of a party. For people who are into bondage and sadism and similar kinds of sexual behavior.” Quickly, I added, “It’s for the investigation. It seems Cassandra was involved in some fairly unusual things.”