Who's Kitten Who?

by Cynthia Baxter

  “I suppose it is,” I agreed. “And it’s a great show. I didn’t know Simon, but I think he would have been pleased that this production of She’s Flying High is going to live on.”

  “I suppose,” he agreed gruffly. “But I still think it’s a travesty that they’ve allowed Lacey to remain part of this production.” And then, after an awkward silence, he asked, “So what do you do when you’re not thrilling audiences with your innate acting talent?”

  “I’m a veterinarian.”

  “No kidding! How cool is that?” Kyle seemed to have completely recovered from his tirade over Simon’s death. He hesitated for a few seconds, then asked, “Be honest: Would I be overstepping the bounds of polite conversation if I asked you for some free advice?”

  “Not at all,” I replied. “I give out advice all the time—even some that’s completely unsolicited. What’s the problem?”

  “A couple of days ago, Monty, my Weimaraner, was chasing a squirrel and he squirmed through a hole in the metal fence around my property. I guess it had some sharp edges, because he got a couple of pretty bad cuts. I’ve been trying to clean them with bacitracin and hydrogen peroxide, but they don’t seem to be getting any better. What do you think I should do?”

  “I hate to make recommendations without actually examining the animal,” I told him. “Monty might need stitches, but I can’t tell without seeing how bad his cuts are. If you’d like, I could check him out.”

  “Where’s your office?”

  “All over Long Island. What I mean is, I operate a mobile services unit. A clinic-on-wheels. I travel to my clients’ homes to treat their animals.”

  “Wow. I’ve never heard of that. But it sounds great, not only for your patients and their owners but for you too.”

  “I enjoy it,” I agreed. “It’s certainly better than being holed up in an office all day. If you’d like, I’d be happy to stop by your house to take a look at Monty. How about tomorrow? It’s a fairly light day, so I’m sure I could fit you in.”

  The vehemence with which Kyle Carlson had insisted that Lacey killed Simon had piqued my interest. I sensed that making a house call to treat his dog would be an excellent way to begin my investigation.

  “Tomorrow would be great,” Kyle said. “I often go home for lunch, since the place where I work is so close to my house in Melton. Would twelve-thirty work for you? I’ll give you my address and phone number….”

  I’d barely had a chance to copy the information down when Derek clapped his hands.

  “Okay, everyone, let’s run through the opening scene,” he boomed.

  This time, going up onstage didn’t seem nearly as frightening. I wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was because I’d already broken the ice by delivering my first line. Or maybe it was because my little chat with Simon’s pal Kyle had helped me put things in perspective, reminding me of the real reason I was here.

  I hoped going to his house to check out his dog the following day would give me a chance to find out more about Simon and the rest of the cast. At the moment, however, my focus was Lacey Croft. The fact that she’d reported Simon’s murder to the police and been found standing next to the body, combined with Kyle’s contention that she was the culprit, had earned her the honor of becoming the very first person on my list of suspects.

  While Theater One was the obvious place to corner Lacey, I didn’t think it was the best place. For one thing, she was almost always surrounded by other cast members, and most of the time they were either stripped down to their underwear or up to their necks in straight pins. But I also wanted to catch her with her guard down by talking to her in a completely different environment than the one she’d shared with Simon Wainwright.

  That meant calling in the big guns.

  “Forrester?” I said as sweetly as I could after dialing the Newsday reporter’s cell phone number on Tuesday morning. “It’s Jessie.”

  “Hey, Popper!” he returned with his usual enthusiasm. “Always a treat to hear from you. What’s up?”

  “I was wondering if you could tell me where I can find Lacey Croft during the day. She’s the costume designer at Theater One.”

  “I know who she is, since she also happens to be the person who discovered Simon Wainwright’s body.”

  “Good memory,” I commented.

  “That’s why they pay me the big bucks,” he returned. “And it just so happens I have that piece of information.”

  “I thought you might,” I said, gritting my teeth and wishing he would just tell me.

  Instead, he said, “If I tell you, it’s part of our deal, right?”

  “What deal—oh, that.” I realized he was referring to the ridiculous terms he’d laid out when I first asked for his help: that in exchange for his assistance, I’d agree to go out with him if Nick or I ever broke off our engagement. “Sure, Forrester,” I said impatiently. “Whatever you say.”

  “Just checking. Lacey Croft runs workshops at the Yellow Brick Road. It’s a school for kids who are interested in the theater arts.”

  “That’s a relief,” I returned. “For a minute there, I thought you were telling me Lacey’s day job was being a Munchkin.”

  “Good one, Popper. See, that’s just one of the things I like about you. You’re as sharp as a tack.”

  “I try.” Jotting down the name of Lacey’s workplace, I added, “I don’t suppose you have an address or phone number?”

  “I’ve got both.” Once he’d delivered that information, Forrester said, “So tell me, Popper. How are things going with you and that fiancé of yours?”

  “Just fine,” I shot back.

  He chuckled. “Am I imagining things, or do I detect a little defensiveness in your tone?”

  “Things between Nick and me have never been better,” I insisted.

  “Goodness gracious, I do believe I’m sensing trouble in paradise. Be still my heart.”

  “Oh, why don’t you go…interview someone.” I knew I sounded childish. But it was better than telling him to go jump in a lake, which was the first thought that had popped into my head.

  He laughed. “As a matter of fact, I was about to do just that. Your pal Anthony Falcone, in fact. At the moment, I’m parked right in front of police headquarters.”

  “Do they have the results of the autopsy yet? Are there any leads in the murder investigation?” I asked anxiously.

  “If there’s anything new, I promise you’ll be the first to know. Later, Popper!”

  As usual, my conversation with Forrester left me feeling both angry and flustered. On top of that, my body was reacting as if I’d just chugged five cappuccinos. My heart was pounding, my head was spinning…. Frankly, I found my reaction to him totally confusing.

  What is it about that man? I wondered, staring at the phone as if it had the ability to answer my question.

  At least there was one thing I wasn’t confused about, and that was what my next step would be. It was simple: just follow the Yellow Brick Road.

  Not surprisingly, the Yellow Brick Road was made out of bricks and painted bright yellow. The children’s acting academy was located in a maze of industrial buildings in Barnwood, a spot of sunshine amid one-story warehouses and forklifts and huge trucks that made annoying beeping sounds as they backed into loading docks.

  As soon as I walked through the front door later that morning, however, I forgot all about the forklifts and trucks. The interior walls of the anteroom were painted turquoise and lime green, the hallway just beyond was hot pink, and the rooms that jutted off it were painted similarly bright colors that made me wish I’d brought along the leftover orange paint to donate.

  The uplifting sound of a tinkling piano wafted into the front hallway. On the walls hung eight-by-ten glossies of exceptionally well-groomed children, little girls with perky bows in their hair and little boys wearing T-shirts that looked as if they’d been ironed. The academy’s success stories, I surmised.

  Off to one side, through a closed door with a wind
ow, I could see the business side of the operation. Two women sat at desks, their eyes glued to their computer screens as if they’d been hypnotized.

  I stepped away before they noticed me, figuring I’d get much further without their assistance. I slunk along the hallway, following the sound of dreamy music, then peered through the glass in the door of the large, sunny room at the end of the corridor. It had an expansive wooden floor and not a stick of furniture. One wall was completely covered with mirrors, making it look like every dance studio I’d ever seen in the movies.

  The twelve or fifteen little girls whirling around in circles weren’t exactly dancing. But they were definitely in motion, some twirling gracefully and others milling around with the randomness of puppies. They all had their arms spread out, and the colorful silk scarves attached to their sleeves with safety pins fluttered around them.

  “Okay, butterflies!” cried the only grown-up in the room. She, too, had flowing squares of fabric wafting from her arms. As she whirled and twirled among the little girls, the undulating chiffon looked surprisingly like the wings of a butterfly. In fact, even though the instructor didn’t have the willowy build of most dancers, she almost floated across the room, her pink ballet shoes barely touching the ground. “We’ve just spotted a bunch of beautiful flowers over in that corner. Let’s all fly over to them!”

  I lingered in the doorway, fascinated by the energy in the room. The innocence too. I watched, mesmerized, as the sweet-faced little girls did their best to emulate the colorful butterflies they were no doubt picturing in their minds.

  I was so busy enjoying the charming scene that I didn’t notice that someone had snuck up behind me until I heard, “Can I help you?”

  I whirled around, instantly feeling guilty. The person who’d spoken was a sour-faced woman who accessorized her beige sweater set with a pair of glasses hanging on a clunky gold chain. I recognized her as one of the two office workers I’d spotted on my way in.

  “I’m looking for Lacey Croft.”

  The woman frowned. “As you can see, she’s tied up at the moment. But if you can wait, her class ends in a few minutes.”

  Confused, I peered into the studio again. Was it possible that the head butterfly, the woman who practically floated through the air, was the mousy wardrobe mistress I’d seen at the theater?

  Sure enough, as she fluttered in my direction, followed by a flock of younger, smaller butterflies, I saw that the woman with the look of pure joy on her face was, indeed, Lacey Croft. A completely different version of her, perhaps, but the same person nonetheless.

  “Perhaps you’d be more comfortable in the waiting area,” the woman from the office suggested coolly.

  It was only then that I remembered that I didn’t exactly belong there. In fact, I suddenly felt as if I was intruding on a special moment that belonged only to Lacey and her young charges.

  “Of course.”

  After a few minutes of sitting dutifully beneath a photo of a freckle-faced boy I was sure I recognized from a Cheerios commercial, the door to the dance studio opened. The little girls scrambled out of the room and into the arms of the mothers who had been gathering all around me. I took that as my cue to seek out their instructor. Weaving through the chattering crowd, I made my way back to the end of the hall.

  I found Lacey in the big, mirrored room, keeping a watchful eye on her reflection as she practiced a few dance steps.

  “Lacey?” I said gently.

  She glanced over, startled at the interruption. But as she dropped her arms to her sides, her moon-shaped face lit up with a smile, causing two huge, distinctive dimples to appear in her cheeks.

  “Sorry to disturb you,” I began.

  “Not at all. What can I do for you?”

  Lacey’s words were colored with a hint of an accent, one I couldn’t place. “I’m Jessie Popper,” I began. “I’m—”

  “I know who you are,” she replied. “You just joined the cast of She’s Flying High, right?”

  “That’s right. I’m a friend of Betty Vandervoort’s. She’s the one who got me involved.”

  Lacey nodded. “Betty’s great. A really terrific dancer too. What about you? Have you done much theater?”

  “Practically none,” I admitted. “But when Aziza dropped out and Elena became Amelia Earhart, Derek and Betty railroaded me into making my stage debut.”

  “Gee, that was awfully nice of you. To help Derek out like that, I mean.” The muscles in her forehead tensed as she added, “That horrid Aziza. It’s so typical of her to do something like that.”

  I recognized an opportunity when it fell into my lap. “Really? I don’t know Aziza very well. What’s she like?”

  Lacey snorted. “Self-centered. Dramatic. Inconsiderate. I mean, look at the way she left Derek in the lurch. After weeks of rehearsal, she walks out two weeks before opening night! Not only do a whole bunch of cast members have to switch roles to accommodate the prima donna; now I have to do major alterations on all their costumes, including yours. You’ll need to try on the Anita Snook outfit tonight so I can see if I have to make any adjustments.”

  Shaking her head disapprovingly, she added, “Aziza isn’t even her real name. She made it up. Her real name is Ann or Anna, but that’s too ordinary for her. It just goes to show what a phony she is.”

  “In that case,” I commented casually, “it’s hard to understand what Simon ever saw in her.”

  “You’re telling me,” she said, sounding surprisingly bitter. “Their relationship was practically a play in itself. The drama queen was always picking fights with him over the stupidest little things—like if he was five minutes late or…or if he didn’t look happy enough to see her. She was incredibly possessive too. She was always going ballistic, accusing him of flirting with this woman or that woman. And she sure wasn’t shy about embarrassing him in front of other people. Everybody in the theater company got used to their shouting matches. She was always making a scene over some imagined transgression of Simon’s.”

  I blinked. “So why do you think Simon put up with behavior like that?”

  Lacey’s eyes were blazing as she replied, “According to Aziza, it was because he was madly in love with her. When he wasn’t around, she’d go on and on about how she was his muse and how he couldn’t live without her. But I think it was just because Simon was such a nice guy. He had more tolerance for that kind of thing than most people. But none of us could understand it.”

  “How long were they together?”

  “About a year, off and on,” she said. “Aziza was constantly breaking up with him, although I’m sure she just did it so he’d beg her to come back to him. Which he did, over and over again. Once, when we were rehearsing another production a few months ago, he even showed up at the theater with an armful of roses. He got up onstage and on bended knee recited Romeo’s famous lines: ‘But soft! What light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and Juliet is the sun!’” She twisted her mouth into a sneer. “Only he substituted her name, saying, ‘It is the east, and Aziza is the sun!’”

  It sounds as if Simon had a flair for melodrama himself, I thought.

  “But every once in a while, he would be the one to break it off,” Lacey went on. “Simon was capable of putting up with a lot, but sometimes even he’d had enough. Of course, that would make Aziza furious. She’d cry, she’d threaten to kill herself, she’d do anything she could think of to convince him to take her back.”

  I’d clearly touched a raw nerve. Yet I was still taken aback when she added, “I wouldn’t be surprised if it turned out Aziza killed Simon.”

  “Why would she have done that?” I asked, surprised.

  She shrugged. “Maybe he finally dumped her for real. Maybe he realized once and for all that there was no room in his life for such a high-maintenance relationship now that he was finally about to achieve the success he longed for. I always believed that sooner or later, Simon would come to that conclusion. If he told her that on Friday
night, and if she understood that this time he really meant it, I could easily imagine her going nuts and attacking him. In fact, she was the first person I thought of when I found him Saturday morning.”

  “Lacey,” I asked gently, “can you tell me about that? What it was like finding him in the dressing room?”

  Instantly her shoulders slumped and all the muscles in her face sagged. The anger was gone. In its place was sadness.

  “It was horrible,” she said, lowering her voice to a near-whisper. “I went into the men’s dressing room to check if this old trunk that had been stashed in the corner for as long as I could remember had any costumes or props inside that might be useful in She’s Flying High.”

  A faraway look came into her eyes. “As soon as I walked in, I knew something was wrong. There was this horrible smell…” She made a choking sound, as if she was reliving the entire scene. “But I went over to the trunk anyway. I noticed immediately that it wasn’t in the spot where it had always been. Someone had obviously moved it.

  “It seems funny now, but my first thought was that I was glad it was in a more convenient place. It hadn’t been moved very far, just a few inches away from the wall. But that meant I didn’t have to drag it out of the corner myself. Anyway, I went ahead and opened it.”

  And in the process covered it with your fingerprints, I thought cynically. Just in case you needed to explain how they got there.

  But I kept my theories to myself. “Was the trunk difficult to open?” I asked.

  “Not at all. I mean, it wasn’t locked or anything. As I was lifting the lid, I noticed that the smell got much worse. And then I saw what was inside. Simon, all crumpled up in this really unnatural position. That was what struck me most. That and the horrible expression on his face. He looked…surprised.”

  As any of us would be, I thought, if someone bashed us in the head from behind.