Who's Kitten Who?

by Cynthia Baxter

  “I’d better not eat too well,” I replied, “or I might not fit into my costume.”

  “Speaking of the show,” Betty said, “I have a couple of things I’d like to give you. Follow me—and bring your tea.”

  Frederick padded after us as Betty led me into the front parlor, a large, sunny room decorated with gilt-framed mirrors, a dramatic marble fireplace, and ornate Victorian couches upholstered in silk brocade and strewn with beaded silk pillows. But today it also contained an old-fashioned wooden trunk she must have dragged out of some closet.

  “I think this might help,” Betty said, reaching into the trunk and pulling out a piece of flowing pink chiffon.

  “What’s that?” I asked nervously.

  “A skirt,” she replied. “One that’s especially made for dancing. You can wear it at tonight’s rehearsal.”

  I cast Frederick a look of desperation. But he seemed enthralled by the fluttering fabric. In fact, his soft dark-brown eyes remained fixed on it and he began wagging his tail, as if he hoped that it might be earmarked for him.

  I sighed. The pink skirt was a far cry from the jeans I was so much more comfortable wearing, but I could see where this was going. If Betty had the power to dress me up in a mint green frock, there was nothing to stop her from decking me out in pink chiffon.

  “Here, Jessica. Wrap it around your waist, like this—there! Doesn’t that make you feel like doing a few jetés?”

  “I can hardly stop myself.”

  “And now for the pièce de résistance…” She pulled out a pair of beige shoes with a strap across the top. They also had heels that were ridiculously high, as far as I was concerned. I’d seen some of the other women in the show wearing them, and I’d been dreading the moment I’d have to affix a pair to my feet.

  “We’re suppose to dance in these?” I asked, sounding as woeful as I felt.

  Betty laughed. “You’ll get the hang of it. I promise. In fact, why don’t we run through some of the dance numbers right now? Let’s start with ‘Wild Blue Yonder.’”

  I had to admit, all the pressures of the day vanished as I worked with Betty, sliding and turning and pivoting across her living room floor. I even got a kick out of the way the skirt flared out when I twirled. As for the shoes, I reminded myself that I’d overcome more difficult challenges in my life than aching feet. Surely I could conquer this one!

  By the time I said good-bye to Betty and Frederick and climbed back into my van to drive the few hundred yards to my own driveway, I felt a thousand times better. I experienced a real sense of triumph over having mastered the dance steps that up until that point had seemed impossible. Even the prospect of an evening with the Barbaric Burbys didn’t dampen my mood.

  I’d just turned the key in the ignition when my cell phone trilled. Glancing at the caller ID, I saw it was Forrester.

  My euphoric mood faded as I remembered that the reason I was swishing around in a pink chiffon skirt in the first place was that I was investigating a murder. And that Forrester was one of my main sources of information.

  “What’s up, Forrester?” I answered eagerly.

  “Whatever happened to, ‘Hello! How are you? It’s so nice to hear from you!’” he replied.

  “Hello! How are you? It’s so nice to hear from you. What’s up, Forrester?”

  “What a shame the social graces have fallen to such a low level.” He sighed. “What’s up, Popper, is that I’ve got something I think you might be interested in.”

  “What is it?” I demanded, not even trying to disguise my eagerness.

  “Our deal is still in place, right?”

  “Forrester, if you don’t tell me what’s going on in the next two seconds, I’m going to—”

  “I’ll take that as a yes,” he replied. “So here it is: There’s been a break in the case.”

  Chapter 8

  “If you think dogs can’t count, try putting three dog biscuits in your pocket and giving Fido only two of them.”

  —Phil Pastoret

  My heart pounded furiously as I waited for Forrester to go on. Listening to the seemingly endless silence that followed was pure agony.

  “So are you going to tell me or do I have to beg?” I finally asked.

  He laughed. “You know I love it when you beg, Popper.”

  “Hey, we made a deal,” I reminded him sharply. “One I expect you to live up to, if you have any sense of honor whatsoever—”

  “Okay, okay! It seems a witness has come forth.”

  The news stunned me. This was a break. A major break.

  “A witness to the murder?” I asked anxiously.

  “Not exactly. More like a witness to what happened right before the murder. Apparently there’s a cleaning woman who comes into the theater a few times a week. She told the police that on Friday evening, she was cleaning backstage. When she went into the women’s dressing room, she overheard Simon arguing with a woman.”

  My head was spinning with all the questions I was dying to ask. “What did the woman Simon was arguing with look like?”

  “The cleaning woman didn’t see her. She couldn’t identify her by her voice, either. She said she recognized Simon’s voice but not the woman’s.”

  “What were they arguing about?”

  “She didn’t hear enough to know. She said she figured that what was going on in the next room wasn’t any of her business, so she put on her earphones and turned up the volume on her iPod.”

  “What time was this?”

  “Around nine. The police think Simon was killed shortly afterward. She wasn’t wearing a watch, so she couldn’t be exact.”

  “Did she hear what they were arguing about?”

  “Apparently not.”

  “Was there any particular phrase she heard? Or maybe a name? Anything at all?”

  “Hey, I’m beginning to feel like I’m getting the third degree here. I can picture a single lightbulb hanging over my head—”

  “Two more questions,” I interrupted. “What’s her name and where can I find her?”

  “Her name is Sunflower McGee—”

  “Did you say Sunflower?” I asked, not sure I’d heard him correctly.

  “That’s what they tell me. As for finding her, that might be a little tricky. She works for a cleaning company called Home Maid, so the folks at the theater aren’t in direct contact with her. She has a key to the building and she comes and goes as she pleases. She works around the acting company’s schedule, so she won’t be in the way.

  “Actually, I wouldn’t mind talking to her myself,” he continued. “But she’s ignored the messages I’ve left on her cell phone. And I don’t have time to keep going to the theater, hoping I’ll run into her.”

  “The fact that she doesn’t have a regular work routine does complicate things,” I agreed.

  It certainly complicated them for Forrester. But as a member of the Port Players, I was in possession of the company’s rehearsal schedule. And I planned to study it the first chance I got to see if I could figure out a likely time a cleaning woman would be taking advantage of an empty theater to mop and dust without getting in anyone’s way.

  “So did I earn some brownie points with that piece of information?” Forrester teased.

  “Definitely,” I assured him. “And if I find out anything interesting, you’ll be the first to know. Thanks a million. Later.”

  I hung up before he had a chance to make some unseemly comment about cashing in those brownie points of his.

  I knew that Sunflower McGee could turn out to be an important witness. The fact that Simon had had an argument with a woman right before he was killed obviously pointed to a female murderer. Two names immediately popped into my head: Aziza Zorn and Lacey Croft, two sides of the love triangle that Simon had been embroiled in.

  There was another name that came to mind: Gloria Stone. I still had a lot to learn about her, as well as her relationship with Simon. But there were two things I did know. One was that Glor
ia and her husband were largely responsible for the success he was about to realize at the time he was murdered. The other was that when I met her at the wake, she had definitely impressed me as someone who was unusually coldhearted—perhaps even coldhearted enough to commit murder.

  As far as I was concerned, the combination of those two things made her someone worth looking at very closely.

  Of course, the woman arguing with Simon could also have been one of the other twelve or fifteen females in the cast or crew. Or even someone who wasn’t in the Port Players but had followed him to the theater or even accompanied him there.

  But I was determined to narrow down the possibilities. And while Theater One’s cleaning woman couldn’t identify whose voice she’d heard that night, it was possible that by asking the right questions, I could.

  I certainly intended to try.

  “How was your day?” I asked my future in-laws Tuesday evening, trying to sound genuinely interested in how Dorothy and Henry had occupied themselves.

  Even though it was almost six, Nick wasn’t home yet. So the three of us sat in the living room, me with Cat in my lap, Tinkerbell on one side, and Max on the other, gnawing on the squeaky pink poodle. Henry was settled in the big, comfy upholstered chair he’d monopolized since he’d arrived. His allergies hadn’t kicked in yet. Neither had the Benadryl he’d popped as soon as he walked in the door. In fact, he was energetic enough that he’d taken on the never-ending task of scratching Lou’s ears, making a friend for life in the process.

  Dorothy, who’d staked out her usual spot in the corner of the couch, was cradling Mitzi in her arms lovingly, no doubt recovering from having spent an entire day without her alter ego. And Mitzi was equally enraptured over her reunion with Dorothy. Yet I noticed Mitzi kept eyeing Max’s favorite toy in a way I didn’t like. Poodle envy, I figured.

  “Did you enjoy the Cradle of Aviation Museum?” I added, trying to encourage pleasant conversation. That morning I’d suggested they check it out, gushing about Long Island’s historic role in aviation history. I’d told them all about how its flat terrain and windy conditions had made it the home of numerous aviation milestones, including distance records, speed records, and the first U.S. airmail flight. And Charles Lindbergh had taken off on the first nonstop transatlantic flight ever from Roosevelt Field—a plot of land that these days was occupied by a sprawling shopping mall.

  I’d developed an interest in aviation since accepting the role of Anita Snook. But when it came to the Burbys, I had an ulterior motive. Suggesting an airplane theme for their day of sightseeing was my subtle way of encouraging them to travel—as far away from here as possible.

  “I don’t know why you sent us to that horrid place, Jessie,” Dorothy complained. “It was filled with airplanes. Old airplanes.”

  “I thought it was interesting,” Henry piped up. Five points for Henry, at least in my book. “And I’m not usually much for museums.”

  “You’re just saying that to be contrary, Henry,” Dorothy retorted. Turning back to me, she said, “Do you have any ideas about what Henry and I should do tomorrow? Perhaps something fun?”

  I had several ideas, but I didn’t dare say any of them out loud. “You could drive out to the North Fork and visit some wineries,” I suggested. “A lot of them have tours and tastings. And there are some wonderful farm stands out there—”

  “Jessie, I’m exhausted,” Dorothy interrupted. “Why don’t you make me a cup of coffee? You actually manage to make it the way I like it.”

  Was that a compliment? I thought, amazed. But I simply said, “Of course, Dorothy. I’d be happy to.”

  “Some of those chocolate chip cookies from yesterday would be nice too,” she added. “Just something to nibble on before dinner. That is, if you haven’t finished them all off yourself.”

  “No problem.” Nothing like carbohydrate loading, I thought as I headed into the kitchen. Especially if it improves someone’s mood.

  I was actually pretty exhausted myself, having put in a long day of calls all over Long Island in addition to all the detours I’d made to further my investigation of Simon’s murder. But I was the hostess, I reminded myself. Besides, waiting on Dorothy hand and foot would give me an excuse to escape into the kitchen for a while.

  In addition to making Dorothy a cup of coffee using the same recipe I’d already dazzled her with, I made a cup for myself and some black coffee for Henry. Then I brought our snack into the living room, setting up the cups and cookies on the coffee table as if I were serving tea.

  “These cookies are quite good,” Dorothy remarked, pouncing on them the moment the saucer hit the table’s surface. “I usually eat only homemade sweets. I don’t suppose these are homemade…?”

  I was so tempted to lie. Instead, I said, “They’re from a really terrific bakery that’s not far from here.”

  “I must give Mitzi a taste,” she said, breaking off a piece the size of a hockey puck.

  Not surprisingly, Max and Lou were watching with great interest. My brave little Westie went so far as to approach Dorothy and park himself at her feet, in case she decided to share with everybody.

  “But, Dorothy,” I protested, “it’s not a good idea to feed dogs people food. Especially chocolate. Did you know that chocolate—”

  “Nonsense,” she interrupted dismissively. “I’ve been feeding Mitzi people food for years, and she’s the picture of health. Besides, she loves her chocolate, just like I do. Don’t you, Mitzi-Bitzi? Don’t you? Don’t you?”

  “But chocolate can cause serious problems,” I insisted. “Chocolate contains theobromine, which is poisonous to dogs. It affects the animal’s central nervous system and the heart, it can cause epileptic seizures—”

  “For heaven’s sake, a little bit won’t hurt. Some people just worry too much.” Dorothy smiled triumphantly as the little white Maltese eagerly gobbled up the huge chunk of cookie.

  I was about to rip Mitzi from Dorothy’s arms when the sound of the front door opening distracted us all.

  “Nick!” I cried, rushing over to him. Dropping my voice to a whisper, I pleaded, “Would you please make your mother stop feeding chocolate to Mitzi? I was just about to tear that poor dog away from her myself.”

  “Calm down, Jess,” Nick returned, patting my shoulder. “I’m sure Mitzi is fine.”

  “Come sit with us, Nicky,” Dorothy called from the couch. “We’re having such a lovely time.”

  “Taking care of animals’ health is my job, Nick,” I reminded him through clenched teeth. “Actually, it’s more than my job. It’s my life. It’s probably the thing I care about most. So how can you expect me to sit by and watch—”

  “Okay, okay! You’ve made your point. My mother is a terrible person.”

  “What are you two being so secretive about?” Henry asked.

  Nick and I both ignored him. “I didn’t say that,” I hissed. “The fact is, chocolate is seriously dangerous for dogs.”

  Nick cast me an odd look, then strode over to the coffee table and scooped up the plate of cookies.

  “Where are you taking those, Nicky?” Dorothy asked petulantly.

  “Back into the kitchen,” he replied. “I don’t want you to spoil your dinner, Mom, since I’m about to order in the best Chinese food you’ve ever tasted. Sound good, Jess?”

  I forced myself to smile. “It sounds great. Unfortunately, I, uh, have to get to the theater.”

  “So soon?” Nick cried. “But it’s not even six o’clock!”

  I did some quick thinking. Rehearsal didn’t start until seven, but I was sure Betty wouldn’t mind me killing the extra time at her house. She’d probably even feed me dinner. “I know, but, uh, since I joined the cast so late, the director asked me to come in early this evening. He wants me to work on a few things.”

  “But I just got home!”

  My fake smile got even wider. “Which means you have the whole evening ahead of you to enjoy your parents’ company.”

/>   “What about dinner?”

  “I’ll pick up something in Port Townsend.” Grabbing my jacket off the back of Henry’s chair, I added, “You know what they say. The show must go on!”

  I never thought I’d live to see the day, I thought as the front door closed behind me, but I can’t wait to put on my dancing shoes.

  My second rehearsal with the Port Players went considerably better than the first one. It was actually fun, now that I was starting to get the hang of it. Surprisingly, I managed to wear the beige dancing shoes all evening without developing a single blister. However, prancing around in public in a pink chiffon skirt was definitely going to take some getting used to.

  The following morning, I made my first stop of the day the Port Townsend branch of the Bank of Long Island, hoping for a chance to talk to Lacey Croft’s romantic rival. And since Aziza was no longer involved with She’s Flying High and wasn’t coming to rehearsals, I had to seek her out on her own turf.

  Lacey had used some pretty strong words to describe Aziza Zorn, saying she was a “drama queen” who was “always going ballistic.” Her characterization, along with Sunflower McGee’s claim that she’d overheard Simon arguing with a woman shortly before he was murdered, made me anxious to find out whether Lacey’s claims were valid or merely the result of jealousy. Besides, the police always took a close look at the wife or girlfriend of a man who’d been murdered, so I figured it made sense for me to do the same.

  The bank was quiet, with only three other customers. Eight tellers sat behind bars, rows of deposit slips were neatly lined up on counters equipped with pens on curly cords, and, along the back wall, a big banner read, The Bank of Long Island: Make Your Money Work for You!

  I cased the joint, feeling kind of like a bank robber. But I finally spotted my target sitting at one of the half-dozen desks in back, the area in which customers sat down with bank employees to talk one on one about new accounts and loans and other topics of interest to people who were trying to make their money work for them.