Who's Kitten Who?

by Cynthia Baxter

  The fact that Kyle’s giant knife was lying on the ground, just out of reach, must have convinced them that I knew what I was talking about. He also kept demanding a lawyer, which didn’t help his case much either.

  When one of the firefighters somehow used his clout to get hold of Falcone and tried to explain what was going on, I interrupted, “Let me talk to him.”

  “What the hell are you doing, Dr. Popper?” Falcone demanded as soon as I’d said hello.

  “Catching Simon Wainwright’s murderer,” I replied. “It’s Kyle Carlson. He confessed.”

  “But what about his roommate? The one who provided his alibi?”

  “When I tell you the whole story,” I told him, “you’re not going to believe it. Unless you keep in mind that Kyle Carlson is an actor.

  “In fact,” I added, “it turns out that he’s actually a surprisingly good actor.”

  Betty and Winston’s wedding day was the perfect spring day. Early that morning, I stood in the open doorway of my cottage, clasping a mug of breakfast coffee and basking in the warmth of the May sun. It seemed to be smiling down from the cloudless blue sky. The flowers in the garden were in full bloom, filling the air with their fragrance.

  The ceremony was scheduled to begin in the early afternoon, with the reception immediately afterward. The caterers had already arrived and were setting up tables and chairs under the big white tent that had arrived the day before. As I sipped my coffee and Max and Lou frolicked in the grass, I watched the crew drape pale pink linen tablecloths over a dozen big round tables, then set each place with matching napkins and Betty’s fine white china and silverware.

  Then the florist drove up. She busily set about placing a crystal vase of pink and white roses at the center of each table. Meanwhile, a group of her employees fastened pink roses onto the white gazebo that had been delivered along with the tent. Another group festooned the walkway with lengths of white netting dotted with more pink roses.

  That was my last moment of peace the entire morning. Betty had arranged for two women from a local salon to come to the house to do our hair and makeup. I was afraid I’d end up looking like Marge Simpson. Instead, the two of them performed something close to magic.

  Suzanne showed up late that morning to help me dress. She insisted she couldn’t wait for the actual ceremony to see how I looked, but I think she wanted to make sure I didn’t walk down the aisle with toilet paper stuck to the bottom of my shoe.

  “You’re going to look fabulous,” she gushed as she slipped the mint green monstrosity of a bridesmaid’s dress over my head. “The only thing I’m worried about is how you’re going to handle yourself in those shoes. Maybe you should have practiced walking in heels all week.”

  “Nothing wrong with adding a little comic relief to the occasion,” I commented, my voice muffled by the endless folds of fabric that still swarmed around my head.

  After tugging at the dress a few times and pushing a stray strand of hair behind my ear, Suzanne stood back and studied me. Her silence was driving me crazy.

  “What do you think?” I finally asked, unnerved by her expressionless face.

  She considered my question for what seemed like a very long time. “I think…I think Nick was nuts to let you get away.” She pulled me toward the full-length mirror in the bedroom. “Take a look for yourself.”

  I held my breath, dreading the sight of Kermit the Frog in drag. Instead, I did a double take. I’m not big on vanity, but I was astonished that the elegant-looking woman in the mirror was actually me. I took a few baby steps, just to see how the skirt swirled when I moved. The effect was dazzling. Gabriella Bertucci was an absolute genius.

  “Speaking of Nick,” Suzanne continued, clearly trying to sound casual, “what’s up with him? Isn’t he in the wedding party?”

  I nodded, still unable to take my eyes off the astounding image in the mirror. “He’s walking Betty down the aisle.”

  “Did you see him at the rehearsal?”

  “Yup. Last night’s rehearsal dinner too. We made a point of ignoring each other the whole time.”

  She sighed. “I don’t know which one of you is more stubborn.”

  Fortunately, we didn’t have time for any further discussion of my character flaws. I happened to glance at the clock next to my bed, then let out a shriek.

  “It’s time!” I cried.

  I actually had butterflies in my stomach as I joined the other members of the wedding party who were assembling in Betty’s front parlor—minus the bride herself, of course, who was following the tradition of staying hidden until the very last minute. Winston looked wonderfully dignified in his tuxedo. Happy too. And I had to admit that the other bridesmaids looked lovely. One was dressed in pale blue, one in yellow, and one in lavender. Little Fiona, Chloe’s daughter, wore pink, and her waist-length blond hair was tied back with a matching ribbon. All those pastels together reminded me of a bouquet of flowers.

  Not that the bridesmaids necessarily acted the part. Chloe, who stood nearly six feet tall and in her yellow dress reminded me of a giant banana, was scolding her husband. She acted as if he, like her daughter, was six years old. The blasé expressions of Winston’s son, James, and his wife, Grace, said they’d seen all this before.

  Watching the interactions was fascinating. Yet I suddenly got the strange feeling that someone was staring at me. I turned and discovered that somebody’s eyes were, indeed, boring into me.

  They belonged to Nick.

  Whatever mushy sentimentality I was feeling over Betty’s wedding day disappeared—fast. My heart began racing and I stood frozen to the spot.

  Nick, however, had not lost his powers of mobility. In fact, he was heading right in my direction.

  He looked pretty darned good too. His tuxedo fit him perfectly, and he’d actually managed to tame the lock of dark hair that was always falling into his eyes. Actually, I kind of missed it.

  “Hi,” he said simply.

  “Hi,” I returned.

  “You look…amazing.” He’d barely gotten the words out before patches of red broke out on his cheeks.

  “You look nice too,” I replied. I suspected my own face was a matching shade of crimson.

  We were both silent for what seemed like a really long time. “Betty told me you’ve been doing a terrific job in the play,” Nick finally said.

  I grimaced. “I’ve been muddling through. Opening night was a little scary, but it gets easier each time.”

  “Does that mean you’ll be going to Broadway when it opens in the fall?”

  “I think I’ll stick with the veterinarian biz,” I said. “But it really has been fun. And it turned out to be worthwhile too. I can’t tell you how rewarding it was watching Lieutenant Falcone arrest Simon Wainwright’s murderer.”

  “Yeah, Betty told me all about that too.” Nick swallowed, making a loud gulping sound. “Listen, Jessie. I—”

  Just then the string quartet sitting next to the gazebo broke into the opening bars of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons, our cue that the ceremony was about to begin.

  “We should probably get into our places,” I suggested.

  “Right,” he replied. “And I’d better go find Betty. I don’t want to keep the bride waiting on her big day.”

  As a result of that short, meaningless conversation, my head was spinning as I began strolling down the aisle in time to the music, clutching a bouquet of white roses tied together with a mint green satin ribbon. I forced myself to concentrate on what was going on around me. I scanned the faces of the hundred or so guests sitting in the chairs lined up in front of the gazebo, craning their necks to watch the procession. Suzanne smiled and nodded approvingly as I walked by. I noted that Derek and Jill and several other people from the Port Players were in attendance, along with some of Winston’s friends whom I’d met while treating their polo ponies and house pets.

  Speaking of house pets, the three dogs who were invited guests sat in front, kept in line by a young man from t
he catering company. I had to admit that Betty had also been right about their fashion statement. Max and Lou looked adorable in their bright red bow ties. I’d bathed them both the day before, and Max looked like a fuzzy white teddy bear. Lou’s white fur gleamed so brightly that it was hard to believe that less than three weeks before I’d been afraid he’d spend the rest of his life as orange as Garfield. Meanwhile, Frederick’s soft light brown fur served as a nice contrast to all that blinding white. And the sunshine-yellow bow tie complemented it perfectly.

  As I reached the gazebo, the string quartet broke into “Here Comes the Bride,” a sign that Betty was about to start down the aisle. The guests stood and we all turned to watch her grand entrance.

  She looked absolutely beautiful, mainly because she was as radiant as every bride should be. Her sapphire-blue eyes were shining, and a serene smile played at her lips. In short, her expression was one of pure joy.

  And her white satin dress was like something out of a fairy tale. The long-sleeved bodice was made of Belgian lace, and a row of tiny beads ran down the front. It also had just a touch of theatricality: a skirt that was full enough to swirl around her ankles, making her look as if she was waiting for Fred Astaire to join her in a dance.

  Just looking at her made my eyes mist over.

  As Betty began to walk slowly down the aisle on Nick’s arm, I glanced at Winston. He, too, looked as if he was about to burst.

  The ceremony was short but personal. Betty and Winston each recited vows they’d written, pledging their love and their loyalty. I only hoped all the eye makeup I was wearing was waterproof.

  “By the power vested in me by the State of New York,” the justice of the peace boomed, “I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride.”

  Winston leaned forward and gave Betty a chaste kiss. She responded by throwing her arms around his neck and planting a big wet one on his mouth.

  Everyone laughed, then burst into applause.

  Once the ceremony was over, the guests swarmed around the garden. I thought I was done with my part. But before long, Chloe clapped her hands for attention.

  “Come, come, ladies,” Chloe insisted. She may have been dressed in swirls of yellow satin, but she sounded like the drill sergeant in a World War II movie. “Betty’s ready to throw the bouquet. You, stand here. You, over there.”

  Reluctantly I allowed Chloe to shepherd me to the back of the garden along with all the other single women. They included her six-year-old daughter. Since Fiona had youth on her side, I was betting on her catching the bouquet.

  Then Betty pranced over, cradling her bouquet in her arms and beaming. Still, there was a look of determination in her eye that made me nervous. Keeping my head low, I shuffled toward the back, hoping no one would notice me. Especially Betty. I parked myself two or three feet behind the rest of the group, hoping all the towering heads with their elaborate hairdos would keep me hidden.

  Big mistake. Standing apart from the crowd only made it that much easier for Betty to hurl her bouquet right at me. You’d have thought she was playing shortstop for the Yankees.

  “Oomph!” I cried as I caught it in both hands. I had to. Otherwise, it would have smacked me in the solar plexus with such force I probably would have been rushed to the nearest emergency room.

  I glanced down at the bouquet I was clutching, the symbol for You’re next. And wondered how I’d managed to let this happen.

  “Hey, that was rigged,” Nick commented, appearing from out of nowhere.

  “Exactly what I was thinking,” I replied. Somehow I couldn’t bring myself to look him in the eye.

  “It looks like Betty refuses to give up on you.” He swallowed, then added, “Just like me.”

  I turned to him, all my defenses suddenly dissolving. “Oh, Nick, I’m so sorry,” I said. “I acted like a jerk.”

  “Or maybe you acted like somebody who’s nervous about getting married,” he returned lightly. “But you don’t have to be afraid, Jess. It’s just me. Deep down, you’ve got to believe as strongly as I do that if there were ever two people who could live happily ever after, it’s you and me.”

  I nodded. “I do.”

  He laughed. “Can I hold you to that?”

  “Yes,” I replied. “Absolutely.”

  And then, just like Betty, I threw my arms around the man of my dreams and planted a big wet kiss on his mouth.

  About the Author

  Cynthia Baxter is a native of Long Island, New York. She currently resides on the North Shore, where she is at work on her next mystery, Monkey See, Monkey Die, which Bantam will publish in summer 2008. Visit her on the Web at www.cynthiabaxter.com.

  Dear Reader,

  In the next Reigning Cats & Dogs mystery, MONKEY SEE, MONKEY DIE, Jessie is drawn into her most dangerous investigation yet when she receives an urgent phone call from an old veterinary school friend—who soon turns up murdered. Nick plays a starring role in the case, of course, along with ever-flirtatious reporter Forrester Sloan and Jessie’s close friend Suzanne. Even Marcus Scruggs reappears, this time promoting a questionable new business venture involving diamond dog collars and gourmet cat food!

  I’m equally excited about my brand-new series, which I’m thrilled to introduce to you for the very first time! In the Murder Packs a Suitcase mystery series, recently widowed spitfire Mallory Marlowe embarks on a new career as a travel writer—and inadvertently ends up with an even more unexpected occupation: amateur sleuth. In each book, Mallory explores a different destination in search of hot travel tips for a magazine article—but her knack for discovering secrets and her sense of adventure soon land her somewhere she never imagined she’d visit: smack in the middle of a murder investigation. Even if you’ve never been a tourist or armchair traveler, I think you’ll find Mal a delightful mystery tour guide. A sample from the first book follows. I hope fans of the Reigning Cats & Dogs mysteries enjoy the new Murder Packs a Suitcase mystery series just as much!

  Until next time,

  DON’T MISS

  THESE TWO EXCITING

  NEW MYSTERIES

  FROM

  CYNTHIA BAXTER!

  READ ON FOR AN EXCLUSIVE SNEAK PEEK

  AT

  MONKEY SEE,

  MONKEY DIE

  A New Reigning Cats & Dogs Mystery

  On sale August 2008

  and

  The First Book in the Brand-New

  Murder Packs a Suitcase Mystery Series

  On sale December 2008

  MONKEY SEE, MONKEY DIE

  On sale August 2008

  Chapter 1

  “Whenever you observe an animal closely, you feel as if a human being sitting inside were making fun of you.”

  —Elias Canetti, The Human Province

  Jessie? I’m sorry for calling so early. I know I probably woke you up. But I don’t have your cell phone number, only your home number. And I wanted to make sure I got hold of you before you left for the day.”

  What a lot of words to be hit with at—what time was it? I forced my eyes open long enough to look at the alarm clock next to my bed.

  Five-thirty. In the morning.

  “I’m sorry, who is this?” I asked groggily.

  Whoever had dragged me out of my sleep at this ridiculous hour certainly sounded as if she knew who I was. The problem was, I had no idea who she was. And given the fact that only seconds before, I had been lost in a wonderful dream starring Brad Pitt and George Clooney, I wasn’t exactly in the mood to play guessing games.

  “Erin Walsh,” the caller replied breathlessly. “Remember me? From vet school?”

  It took me a few seconds to connect the name with my years at Cornell University’s veterinary college. More than a decade had passed since I’d been a student there. But slowly, even through the thick wad of tissue paper still wrapped around my brain, I managed to attach a face to the name. An entire identity, in fact.

  “Sure I remember you, Erin,” I said through a mouth
that felt as if it were coated with glue. “You and I crammed for the neuroanatomy final together, right? I seem to remember the two of us pulling an all-nighter in the basement of the vet school library. Didn’t we keep ourselves awake by eating a different candy bar from one of the vending machines every hour…?”

  “That’s right. Jessie, the reason I’m calling—”

  “You married somebody else who was in our class, didn’t you? Bill or Brad…”

  “Ben Chandler,” Erin corrected me, rather abruptly. In fact, I realized that she’d sounded as if she was in a hurry ever since I’d answered the phone. “But I’m afraid I didn’t call to reminisce. I need to see you. Right away. Like, this morning.”

  I turned to glance at the figure lying beside me, fast asleep. Fortunately, I hadn’t woken up Nick. He was so tangled up in the sheets you’d have thought he’d been dreaming about alligator wrestling. Personally, I’d take the Brad Pitt–George Clooney dream any day.

  By this point my head was clear enough that I did some calculations. I hadn’t spoken to Erin Walsh for more than five years. If I remembered correctly, the last time I’d seen her was at my five-year Cornell reunion. She and Ben were newlyweds back then, both of them glowing like fluorescent lightbulbs as they chattered away about their fabulous wedding and their honeymoon in Barbados and their plans to open a practice together.

  “What’s the hurry?” I asked.

  “Believe me, Jessie, I wouldn’t be doing this if it wasn’t really important. Please say you’ll meet me this morning. It’s crucial that I talk to somebody like you!”

  Somebody like me? What did that mean?

  “Where are you?” I asked, still confused.

  “On Long Island.” She was still talking way too fast. “It’s a long story, but Ben and I have been living in Bay Terrace for the past couple of years. We’re probably no more than ten miles from where you live. I can meet you anywhere. Just name the time and place. A diner, a street-corner…but the sooner, the better.”