Hare Today, Dead Tomorrow (38 page)

Then there was Cassandra’s dalliance with the S&M set. What Nick had learned was that people with a proclivity for violence in their fantasy lives sometimes let things get out of hand in their real lives. That scenario pointed not only to both Jean-Luc and Preston once again but also to Thor and any number of others I couldn’t name but had seen at the BDSM party I’d attended with Nick.

Having identified all those strong possibilities, it wasn’t surprising that I felt pretty darn close to solving the case. Of course, another part of me felt I wasn’t even in the right galaxy. Sure, I’d uncovered many of the threads that had comprised Cassandra Thorndike’s life. But I was still struggling to untangle all the loose ends— complex intrigues, secrets, and lies that had led to one of them unraveling.

Friday morning, as I drove to Sunshine Media’s television studio, I promised myself that I’d dedicate the next few days to Cassandra Thorndike’s murder. By this point, I was desperate to help Suzanne put this whole ugly episode behind her. Especially since Lieutenant Falcone was hot on her trail, anxious to prove to his adoring public what a great job he was doing.

But for now, I had to put all that out of my mind and focus on perfecting my performance for
Pet People.
It was showtime.

The second time around was easy, compared to the first. For one thing, I now knew that while Max and Lou were stars in my eyes, they simply weren’t cut out for the celebrity life. My instincts told me Tinkerbell was equally likely to use her fifteen minutes of fame to commit acts that were better off not being televised. As for Cat, subjecting her to the studio’s bright lights and strange sounds, not to mention all that moving around, would cause her too much discomfort. So this time, I’d brought along my least mobile loved ones: Prometheus and Leilani.

Now that I was an old hand at this, I was able to find my own way to the greenroom, then sit patiently while Aldo performed his subtle but effective magic. I walked confidently into the studio, secure in the knowledge that my lips were sufficiently glossy and my cocker-spaniel hair concealed my unsightly ears. As soon as Patti pantomimed the countdown, I launched into my intro.

“I’m Dr. Popper,” I began, feeling oddly at home amid a set that not long before had struck me as positively bizarre. “Welcome to
Pet People,
the program for people who are passionate about their pets.

“Today I brought along two of my own pets for you to meet. The first one is Prometheus, a blue and gold macaw.” I raised the hand holding my exquisite bird up in front of the camera so everyone in TV land could admire him. “Parrots make terrific pets. They’re not only beautiful; they’re also extremely intelligent. They can be taught to speak and to play games, and they’ll quickly learn to recognize different members of your family.

“However, anyone who’s thinking about getting a parrot should be aware that they require a great deal of care—in many ways even more than a dog or a cat. It’s important to provide them with social interaction, as well as some time outdoors whenever possible.”

“Awk!”
Prometheus screeched. “I’m gonna give you my love!”

I cringed. My lovely, graceful parrot had chosen this moment to treat the viewing audience to his rendition of a well-known Led Zeppelin song. One that wasn’t particularly suited to daytime television.

“Uh, as you can see,” I continued in a much less confident voice, “one of the fun aspects of parrots is their ability to repeat anything they hear. Prometheus probably heard this song on the radio—”

“Every inch of my love!” Prometheus shrieked.

“The problem, of course,” I said through gritted teeth, “is monitoring what they hear in order to limit the words and phrases they learn.” I made a point of avoiding eye contact with Patti.

“Every inch!” he squawked.
“Awk!”

“Uh, I think this may be a good time to move on to Jackson’s chameleons,” I said, desperately eyeing Mel. Mainly because they’re blessedly silent.

Fortunately, Mel took the hint. He slunk across the studio and, ducking down out of the camera’s range, reached for Prometheus with his ham-hock-size hands.

Unfortunately, Mel didn’t know the first thing about handling birds.

“Ow!” he yelped. While his face might have been out of the camera range, the microphone picked up his gravelly voice loud and clear. “The little bastard bit me! I’m
bleedin’
!”

“Hey, don’t call Prometheus names!” I shot back without thinking. “He wouldn’t have bitten you if you’d handled him correctly! He’s only trying to protect himself!”

“Listen, dealing with birds ain’t in my job description!” Mel returned gruffly. “Who’s cockamamy idea was it to put a stupid talking bird on the air in the first place?”

I finally dared to look over at Patti. From the agonized expression on her face, anyone would have assumed that
she
was the one who had just had her skin pierced by a bird’s sharp beak.

But she had the presence of mind to start making the “move it along” rolling motion with her hands. Always the professional.

“Maybe we’ll bring Prometheus back another time,” I said. Then I caught sight of the latest expression on Patti’s face. “Or...maybe not. Anyway, let’s talk chameleons. While Jackson’s chameleons are native to East Africa, in the early 1970s a pet-store owner in Hawaii began importing them. The first of them arrived so sickly and so dehydrated that he let them loose in his backyard for what was supposed to be a short time. However, they escaped and started reproducing...”

I kept that segment short and sweet, then breezed through my presentation on Keeping Halloween Safe for Your Pet. Patti nodded enthusiastically all the way through, letting me know how relieved she was that we were back to putting on a G-rated show.

I finished with a warning about feeding dogs chocolate, since one of its ingredients, theobromine, is toxic and may be fatal. By that point, I felt relaxed and confident and pretty much ready for anything.

Even quirky phone calls.

“Thank you for calling
Pet People
!” I told my first caller. “This is Dr. Popper. How can I help you and your pet?”

“Dr. Popper? My name is Maria. I live in, uh, Brompton Bay?”

“Good morning, Maria. What’s on your mind?”

“I just got a cat, and even though I’ve had cats my whole life, I’ve never seen one act like this. When he walks, it’s almost like he’s marching? And I don’t know if this is related, but whenever he tries to jump up on the couch or go upstairs, he falls. My husband keeps telling me he’s just a klutz, but I’m wondering if there’s something wrong with him.”

Oh, good, I thought. An easy question.

“I suspect you’re right, Maria,” I said. “It sounds as if your cat has a neurological problem. There are several ways this could have happened. He might have gotten a head injury, or he might have even gotten an infection while he was still a kitten. But if he’s doing all right otherwise, he’s probably fine. Still, you might feel better if you have your vet check him out, just to be sure.”

“Thanks! I told my husband he was wrong. See, he always acts like he’s the only person in the world who—”

“And thank
you
for calling, Maria. I see we have another caller.” Pressing the glowing red button, I breezily answered, “Thanks for calling
Pet People.
How can I help you and your pet?”

“I know what you’re doing,” the caller said in a hoarse whisper.

He spoke so softly, in fact, that I wasn’t sure I’d heard him correctly. I blinked, not knowing how to respond to something I didn’t really understand.

“This is Dr. Popper at
Pet People,
” I said, nervously glancing at Patti. She just looked confused. “How can I help?”

“I know what you’re doing,” the caller said again, speaking in the same peculiar voice. “I’m watching you. And I’m warning you.”

My mind raced and I suddenly felt nauseated. At least I had the presence of mind to push another button. But there was no need to cut off the call. He’d already hung up.

“Uh, it’s, uh, always nice to hear from a fan,” I stuttered, looking into the camera and trying to smile. “And now, uh, let’s take another call...”

As soon as the show was over and the studio lights went out, I stormed over to Marlene.

“I thought you were screening all the calls that came in!” I cried.

“We are,” she insisted, looking stricken. “Honestly, I asked him all the usual questions: his name, where he lives, what his question was about—”

“And what were his answers?” I demanded.

Anxiously she scanned her clipboard. “He said his name was Jesse and that he lived in Joshua’s Hollow. He has two dogs, a Westie named Max and a Dalmatian named Lou, and two cats named Tinkerbell and Cat— wait, did I get that right?”

“Oh, you got it right,” I assured her, my stomach tightening into a painful knot.

I did too. At first, the mysterious person who called himself AGoodFriend had wanted to tell me he knew what I was doing.

Now he was making it clear he wanted me to stop.

I had to admit, I was frightened. My secret pal had no qualms about intruding into my life, whether it was by sending me creepy e-mails or breaking into my house and messing up my possessions.

But there was something that frightened me even more: the possibility of him getting away with killing Cassandra while my real pal, Suzanne, paid for the crime. And so rather than scaring me off the case, the idea that the murderer thought he had even a chance of getting away with what he’d done only fueled my determination.

As I headed out of the studio and into the parking lot, I found myself ruminating about something Ethan had said when I saw him two days before. His reminiscence about his sister reading to him when he was a kid had struck me as familiar at the time, but it wasn’t until now that I made the connection.

Maggie Rose had also told me that Cassandra read to her. In my head, I could hear her high-pitched voice. “I know a story about a bunny,” Maggie Rose had told me. “Cassie used to read it to me.”

Books were obviously important to Cassandra. And the one she repeatedly read to her next-door neighbor featured a bunny—which might possibly have something to do with the stuffed rabbit she had struggled so hard to leave behind.

It was a real long shot, I knew. But without much else to cling to, it suddenly seemed like my last chance.

Chapter 16

“Do not attempt to teach your cats tricks— They already know every trick there is.”

—Sidra Malik

Late Friday afternoon, as soon as I’d finished my last call, I trekked out to the North Fork once again. I was determined to follow up on the one path I had yet to follow, even though the trail marker was nothing more than a sweet voice that continued to echo through my head.

I knew that the possibility that Maggie Rose, of all people, might be able to provide me with some information that would turn out to be helpful was a long shot. Yet her persistent attempts at telling me about the book Cassandra used to read to her echoed through my head. I kept berating myself for not having paid more attention to them sooner. It wasn’t until Ethan mentioned his sister reading to him that I’d taken them seriously.

Calm down, I scolded myself as I trundled along Route 35, barely glancing at the flat, green fields stretching out on both sides of the road. You’re acting on a hunch. Nevertheless, I couldn’t stop thinking about the stuffed bunny Cassandra had put so much effort into leaving behind the day she was killed.

As I turned onto Cliffside Lane, my heart was pounding so hard I was practically dizzy. By that point, I’d become so focused on learning exactly what Maggie Rose’s bunny story was all about that I half-expected the little girl to be standing on the front lawn, waiting for me. But as I pulled up in front of Virginia Krupinski’s house, neither she nor her great-granddaughter were in sight.

Still, Virginia had told me herself she rarely went anywhere while the little girl was in her care. I climbed the steps to the front porch and knocked on the screen door.

“Mrs. Krupinski? Are you home?”

I knew she had to be, since from inside I could hear the blaring television. I noticed she kept the volume turned way up. Between the loud TV and her aging ears, it was no wonder she hadn’t heard anything the day Cassie was murdered. Since knocking wasn’t getting me anywhere, I tried pounding.

“Mrs. Krupinski?” I yelled, peering through the screen. “It’s Jessica Popper. Hello? Anybody home?”

“Grammy,” I finally heard Maggie Rose say, “somebody’s at the door.”

The volume of the TV immediately went way down and I heard footsteps.

“Goodness, girl, you got to make a little more noise if you expect me to hear you,” Virginia scolded as she scurried toward the door, pulling her bulky sweater more closely around her.

“I’m sorry to bother you,” I told her. “I just wanted to ask Maggie Rose a question. She mentioned something about Cassie that I think might be important.”

Virginia glanced down at Maggie Rose protectively. “Now, I don’t want you getting her upset that her friend Cassie’s moved away and all.”

“I won’t, I promise.”

Virginia eyed me warily before finally opening the door and gesturing for me to come in. Then, standing in the same spot—as if making it clear she fully intended to sit in on any interrogation her young charge was subjected to—she said, “Maggie Rose, Dr. Popper here has a question for you. You answer it as best you can, okay?”

The little girl nodded uncertainly.

“Maggie Rose,” I said in a gentle voice, “you told me Cassie used to read you a story about bunnies. Do you remember that?”

She nodded again, this time with complete certainty. My heart resumed its frenetic pounding, even though I kept telling myself it was unlikely that a four-year-old girl would provide me with the critical information I needed to figure out what Cassandra had been trying to tell us during her last few minutes of life.