Dead Canaries Don't Sing

by Cynthia Baxter

  “Who is—?”

  “You know, I think we’ve talked about Frack enough,” George said curtly. “I’ve already said more than I should. He’s gone now, so why don’t we just let bygones be bygones?”

  “You’re right. Besides,” I couldn’t resist saying, “I’m sure you’ve already been through all this with the police.”

  “The police?” George looked puzzled. “What would the police want with me? They have no reason to think I had anything to do with what happened to Tommee.”

  But before I had a chance to explore that further, George Babcock was back to business. “Here’s my card, and here’s our brochure. Why don’t you give me a call after you’ve had a chance to think about what you saw here today, Dr. Popper? Better yet, I’ll follow up with you in a few days.”

  He walked me as far as the reception area. Or to be more exact, half-walked and half-ran. Before I’d even made it out the door, he’d grabbed a sheet of paper out of the fax machine and started reading it, already focused on the next order of business.

  Once I was back in my car, I lingered in the parking lot. I made some notes, but I also kept my eye on the entrance of the building. A light rain had begun to fall, making it a little hard to see. Then again, Belle was hard to miss.

  When I saw her emerge, I checked my watch. Three minutes past twelve. I watched in my rearview mirror as she went to her car, a white Honda. I waited until she got in before turning the key in my ignition.

  I followed her out of the lot, memorizing her license plate and taking mental notes on the car’s other distinctive characteristics, including the Mean People Suck bumper sticker and the shattered left taillight.

  She didn’t appear to notice me, which was just as well. It would make phase two that much easier.

  As I drove home along Niamogue Highway, I was convinced that George Babcock had murdered Tommee Frack.

  It’s got to be him, I reasoned. George had every motive in the world to hate Tommee. He’d taught him everything he needed to know, and Tommee paid him back by swiping half his clients. And as if that weren’t bad enough, Tommee wouldn’t let up, even after his business had become far, far more successful than George’s. It makes perfect sense.

  The rain grew heavier: I turned my windshield wipers to Frenetic and they could still barely keep up. As if that weren’t bad enough, a light fog had swept in. Long Island drivers are notoriously bad in rotten weather, and I decided I’d be safer sticking to less traveled roads. I turned north on Selah’s Path. As I expected, there wasn’t nearly as much traffic. I ambled along at a much slower—and safer—speed.

  I continued replaying my conversation with George in my head, glancing in the rearview mirror every once in a while and noting with relief that the car behind me had the sense to keep a good distance away. Braking hard on these rain-slick roads would be treacherous.

  It wasn’t until I came to a red light and the car eased up behind me that I realized it was a black Jeep.

  My heartbeat ratcheted up considerably. I peered into the rearview, trying to see the driver. With the fog and the pelting rain, all I could make out was that the driver wore a baseball cap.

  He was also wearing sunglasses, although the sun clearly had no intention of putting in an appearance.

  “Damn!” I muttered.

  It took me a few seconds to realize I was gripping the steering wheel so tightly that the muscles in my hands ached. For some reason, that was my wake-up call.

  “Okay, buddy,” I breathed. “Let’s see if I’m just being paranoid. Especially since the VW doesn’t exactly advertise my identity the way my van does. Fasten your seat belt, because you’re about to take the grand tour of Long Island’s scenic North Shore.”

  Instead of heading east, I raced through the light as it turned from green to yellow. The Jeep followed. I headed north on a road I couldn’t remember having ever been on. I made a right turn, then two quick lefts. The Jeep stuck right behind me, always a safe distance away. I made three more turns and headed north. The vehicle clung to me like a black shadow.

  How dare he? I thought. Not only is this guy following me; he’s not even good at it.

  Suddenly, numbness washed over me.

  Oh, my God. He wants me to know he’s following me! Maybe he really is tailing me to see where I go and who I talk to. But what really matters to him is making sure I know I’m being watched.

  And now he knows that I know.

  I didn’t like feeling as if I’d walked—driven—right into a trap. I pulled into the next driveway and braked hard. It was time to turn the tables and follow him. But by the time I backed out, he’d sped off.

  As I entered the driveway that led to my cottage, I had just decided not to say anything about this to Nick the next time I saw him. That decision fizzled when I saw his car parked in Betty’s driveway, right in front of the Big House.

  “What’s he doing here?” I cried, pulling up right behind him and dashing out into the rain. My heart pounded so furiously I felt dizzy.

  I ran around to the back door, which I knew Betty usually kept unlocked during the day. The beating rain ran down my neck in icy rivulets and plastered wet strands of hair around my face. Without bothering to knock, I stormed inside.

  “Nick?” I demanded. “What are you doing here? Is Betty all right?”

  I stopped cold at the sight of the two of them sitting placidly at the kitchen table. Porcelain cups of tea steamed in front of them.

  “Oops! Sorry.”

  “There’s nothing to be sorry about,” Betty insisted gaily. “This is actually a lovely surprise.”

  “Paranoia is a good thing,” Nick chimed in obnoxiously. “Especially when your hobby is poking around into murders.”

  “I didn’t mean to interrupt. It’s just that I got nervous when I saw Nick’s car. I was afraid that . . .”

  “Betty did her dance routine for me,” Nick told me. “One thing’s for sure: the girl’s still got it.”

  “Oh, you flatterer, you!” Betty batted her eyelashes at him. I could see that the two of them had been flirting wildly.

  “Maybe I should leave you two alone. I wouldn’t want to be in the way.”

  “You might as well pull up a chair,” he said cheerfully. “Betty’s already made it clear that she won’t have me.”

  “I told him I’m saving him for someone who really deserves him.” Betty winked at me.

  Before I could defend myself, she jumped to her feet. “Let me make you some tea, Jessica. And you look like you could use a towel.”

  “Actually, we were just talking about you,” Nick said as I reluctantly joined him at the table.

  “Somehow that doesn’t surprise me.” Had they been bemoaning my pathological fear of commitment or commiserating over my foolhardy insistence on playing Hercule Poirot? Probably both.

  “Have you been staying out of trouble, young lady?” Nick’s tone was joking, but the look in his eyes was dead earnest.

  “Of course,” I returned indignantly. Still, I looked down, pretending to find the pattern on Betty’s flowered tablecloth fascinating.

  Nick—damn him—noticed. “Jessie? Is everything okay?”

  “Everything’s fine.”

  “Jess?”

  “Oh, all right. It’s possible—maybe even probable—that I was followed again.”

  So much tension filled the room it was as if someone had turned it on with a switch.

  “When?” Nick demanded tersely. “Just now?”

  I nodded.

  “Where were you? And where were you coming from?”

  “This morning, I met with a man named George Babcock. He has a PR firm in Apaucuck. He’s the guy who gave Tommee Frack his start. And I found out that Tommee thanked him by stealing half his clients and nearly destroying his business. Anyway, as I was driving home, the black Jeep I saw the other day followed me.”

  “Are you sure?” Betty was frowning as she handed me the fluffy hand towel she’d retriev
ed from a drawer. “Between the fog and the rain . . .”

  “I’m sure. Not only was the car the same, so was the driver. He was wearing a baseball cap and sunglasses.”

  “If only you’d gotten the license number.” Nick didn’t even try to hide his exasperation. “I’ve got a friend who could trace it for me. Then, we’d be able to find out who—”

  “B-L-D,” I said, wiping rain off my forehead.

  “Excuse me?”

  “B-L-D. The first three letters of his license plate. I couldn’t make out the numbers, but I got that much.”

  Nick grinned. “Good work, kiddo. Now you’re acting like a pro.”

  I wished his words of praise didn’t make me feel so warm and fuzzy.

  “But there’s something really strange about this, Nick,” I mused.

  “The whole thing is strange, Jessica,” Betty interjected, setting a cup of Earl Grey in front of me. “Which is why I wish you’d forget all about this sleuthing nonsense and spend your time—”

  “Yes?” I smiled innocently, unable to resist the temptation to put her on the spot and make her squirm. “What do you think would be a better use of my time, Betty?”

  I should have known she wouldn’t back down. She looked me right in the eye and said, “You’d be better off asking Nick that question.”

  He was watching us both warily. “What’s strange, Jess?”

  “The way this whole thing is being done. I mean, I’m sure the guy who’s following me wants me to know he’s following me.”

  “Happens all the time,” Nick said. “It’s a form of intimidation. In fact, there’s even a name for it in the PI biz. When someone doesn’t want you to know he’s following you, it’s called ‘stalking.’ When someone does want you to know, it’s called ‘tailgating.’ ”

  “Surely it’s more troubling when they want you to know?” Betty said thoughtfully. “Jessica, this man, whoever he is, is clearly sending you a message—the same message he was sending when he made that awful phone call to me Saturday night. Assuming it was the same person, of course.”

  Up until that point, I hadn’t made the connection. I instantly felt a pang of guilt. “Oh, Betty! I’m so sorry for having dragged you into this.”

  “Believe me, Jessica, it’s not me I’m worried about.”

  “I know,” I assured her gently, touched by her concern. “I’ll be more careful. I promise.”

  Two cups of tea later, Nick stood up to go. He reached for Betty’s hand.

  “Thank you for the tea, and thank you for the dance recital. And most of all, thank you for the superb company.”

  “Ah, Nick,” Betty sighed. “If only you were a few decades older. . . .”

  “I keep telling you, Betty. Superficial things like age don’t matter. It’s what’s in your heart that counts.” He kissed her hand and turned. “Come on, Jess. I’ll walk you out. At least I had the good sense to bring an umbrella.”

  “Thanks for visiting Betty,” I said once we had reached our cars. We stood shoulder to shoulder, huddled under his bright red umbrella. “It was nice of you to look in on her.”

  “Actually, it wasn’t Betty who brought me here. I’m doing a little stalking of my own.”

  “You were spying on me?”

  “Calm down, Jessie. I was checking on you. I promised Betty I would, remember?”

  “I really can handle this, you know. No matter what you and Betty think.”

  “Let me put it this way: You worry about Betty, right?”

  “Of course I do! She’s someone I care about.”

  “And I worry about you. Face it, Jess. The people who care about you are going to elbow their way into your life. I suggest you get used to it.”

  He leaned over and planted a swift kiss on my cheek.

  “Keep the umbrella,” he said gruffly. “I’ve got others.”

  I stood in the chilly downpour, watching him climb into his car and drive away. Even though Nick had kissed me more times that I could count, at times with so much passion that it took my breath away, the brush of his lips against my skin had sent a shiver through me that had nothing to do with the cold, rain-swept November day.

  Chapter 10

  “There may be more than one way to skin a cat, but you only get one try per cat.”

  —Unknown

  There was only one antidote to the state of mind Nick’s kiss had put me in. As soon as I walked into the house and went through the welcome-home ritual with my furry housemates, I called Jimmy Nolan.

  “He-e-ey! It’s the doggie doctor!” he greeted me. “Save any lives lately?”

  He sounded happy to hear from me. Really happy. And I could tell he was trying his best to be charming. As we made plans to get together that weekend, a little voice inside my head kept asking me what I thought I was doing.

  You’re confused enough! The voice scolded. Why drag someone else into this?

  I never came up with an answer. But as I hung up the phone with a date for Saturday night, I decided that dead men were definitely a lot easier to deal with than the living variety.

  I was still holding onto that thought two days later as I drove back to Apaucuck, home of The Babcock Group. This time, I brought along my posse. Both deputies were extremely cooperative, expressing their canine enthusiasm for having been invited along by coating all the car windows liberally with nose slime.

  The parking lot was so crowded that it took me a few minutes to locate Belle’s little Honda. I finally found it way in back, parked near a small concrete divider covered in dirt and a few dying blades of grass. Perfect.

  I pulled into the nearest empty space. Seventeen minutes later, just before noon, I turned to my two pals.

  “Okay, you guys. You’re on. I’m not asking you to take on anything you can’t handle. Just do what you do best.”

  Out in the lot, the two of them romped around as if they’d been unexpectedly released from twenty years in prison. The instant they spotted the grassy corner of the parking lot, they knew precisely what to do with it. So far, so good.

  I wandered along beside them as they sniffed every square inch of the ground as diligently as if they were rooting for truffles. The moment I saw Belle emerge from the building, I bent to Westie level.

  “Okay, Max,” I instructed. “Be cute.”

  Belle spotted me right away, her attention undoubtedly drawn by the incongruity of a woman walking two frisky dogs in an office building’s parking lot.

  “Dr. Popper?”

  I glanced up, feigning surprise.

  “Hey! Hi!” I called as she strode toward me. Her black leather jacket was covered with silver studs that were the perfect complement to her eyebrow ring. She also wore a colorful knitted cap, a strange design with oversized ear flaps that could only have been considered fashionable in the Himalayas. “It’s Belle, isn’t it?”

  “Belinda, actually. But everybody calls me Belle.”

  Just as I’d anticipated, she crouched down right in front of Max. The little con man never let on that he was my shill. Instead, he jumped up and rested his paws on her knees, then proceeded to nuzzle her face in that irresistible way West Highland Whites have mastered.

  “O-o-oh, you are so cute!” she told him, as if he didn’t already know. “He’s a Westie, right?”

  “Yup. Don’t tell me you’re a terrier fan.”

  “Are you kidding? My boyfriend has a wirehair! I love terriers. They’re just the sweetest little doggies . . .”

  As she gave Max an expert head-and-neck scratching that showed she did, indeed, know her way around a terrier, Lou nosed his way in. He wasn’t about to miss out on any attention, especially now that he knew he’d found a pushover.

  “What are their names?” she asked me eagerly.

  “The Westie is Max. And this guy’s Lou.”

  “What happened to Max’s tail? And what’s the matter with the Dalmatian’s eye?”

  “Let’s just say that their previous owners weren’t d
og lovers the way you and I are.”

  “Oh, you poor little doggies,” she crooned, then proceeded to lavish enough love and affection on both of them to make up for at least some of the trials of their puppy days.

  “Are you here to see George?” Belle asked, glancing up at me.

  “Actually, I have a gynecologist’s appointment.” Grimacing, I gestured vaguely toward the building. Belle nodded sympathetically. As I hoped, the mere mention of gynecology resulted in instant female bonding. “I had to bring my dogs because they have haircut appointments this afternoon. Max’s fur gets so matted when I let it go too long.”

  “Aren’t terriers the worst?” Belle rolled her eyes. “Last summer, Pete and I had Dudley completely shaved.”

  “What about you?” I asked casually. “Going to lunch?”

  “Yeah. By the time noon comes around, I’m desperate to get out of there. So even if I bring a yogurt or something, I go sit in a park for an hour. Sometimes, if the weather’s bad, I sit in my car. Anything to get away from that office.”

  “Mr. Babcock does seem a little intense,” I ventured. “I got the feeling he’s probably not the easiest person in the world to work for.”

  “Are you kidding? George is a madman! Have you ever seen anybody that hyper in your life? I’m just working for him until January, when Pete finishes school. Then him and me and Dudley are packing up and moving to Montana.”

  “Montana! What’s there?”

  Belle shrugged. “It’s just someplace different. We want to get away from our parents and everything that’s familiar and start experiencing life.” Looking at me shyly, she asked, “Is it okay if I pick Max up?”

  “He’ll love it.”

  She scooped him up and hugged him like a teddy bear. Max was more than happy to cooperate, especially since belly scratching was now involved.

  “I guess you won’t miss working at The Babcock Group when you go to Montana,” I commented.

  “That place is so not me. I mean, everything about it is phony. Even the name is a joke. ‘The Babcock Group’? Give me a break! A ‘group’ has to have more than one person in it. But George is it. He’s the group!”