Dead Canaries Don't Sing

by Cynthia Baxter

  “He must have had a larger organization at some point. I know of at least one person who worked for him.”

  “Tommee Frack, right?”

  “How did you know?”

  “I heard you and George talking the other day. But I already know all about him.” She shook her head. “George sure hated his guts.”

  “So I gathered. But it sounds as if he had good reason.”

  Belle shrugged. “I guess. I didn’t work for George then—I’ve only been here about five months—but I know there’s a whole file cabinet full of paperwork for ex-clients. And most of them left at the same time as this Frack guy. He swiped them when he stopped working for George and started his own company.”

  And here I’d thought that wasn’t supposed to be common knowledge.

  Belle continued, “George gave me the job of going through all his old files, supposedly to clean them out. But it was pretty much just busy work. I’ve had a lot of time on my hands since I started working here. There hasn’t been much going on.

  “But the last straw was just a couple of weeks ago. I swear, I’ve never seen George so bent out of shape. I was afraid he was going to have a heart attack or something.”

  “How awful! What happened?”

  “He found out Frack had stolen one of his oldest clients.”

  My heartbeat accelerated. “Do you remember the name?”

  “Sure. Pomonok Properties.”

  A lightbulb went on in my head. Of course! That was why Joey DeFeo’s name had sounded so familiar when Babcock mentioned him. DeFeo, the president of the land development company, had been one of the people quoted in Tommee’s Newsday obituary. I mentally kicked myself for taking so long to make the connection.

  “Anyway, George went on and on, ranting about loyalty and ethics and how Tommee was ruining him with his unscrup—unsoup—”

  “Unscrupulousness?”

  Belle grinned. “I can never say that word. But George sure can. Anyway, he was in this total rage. I’d never seen him like that before. It was kind of scary.”

  “I’m surprised you’re still working for him.”

  She nuzzled Max, who rewarded her with doggie kisses. “I keep telling myself it doesn’t matter, since Pete and I are leaving soon. To tell you the truth, I’ve been worried about getting fired, since George’s business is falling apart. I just need to hold on to this job until January so we can save up some money. If I lost it, it’d be really hard to find something else, with the holidays coming and all.” She shrugged. “George keeps telling me things are going to get better. And I guess he really believes it. For the last few days, he’s been acting weird. Kind of . . . I don’t know, happy. I mean, George is always wired. But lately he’s been acting positively . . . like he’s high or something. And he keeps going on and on about all these new clients he’s gonna get.”

  “Has he mentioned any names?” I inquired innocently.

  “No. I don’t even know if he’s telling the truth or just fooling himself. He keeps telling me that things are really going to go crazy, that his whole business is on the verge of exploding. That’s why he’s moving to a bigger office.”

  “How long has he been planning this move?”

  “Since, like, last week.”

  Interesting timing, I thought.

  I tried a different tack. “You know, this is turning out to be a bigger decision than I thought. I want to hire a public relations professional to help my career, and it’s a huge investment for me. I mean, I’m not some mega company with a big budget. I’m just one person. And I’m not convinced that George is the guy to go with. Given all his ups and downs, I’m beginning to wonder if he’s any good at what he does. . . .”

  “He used to be good,” Belle said thoughtfully. “Maybe even the best in the business, at least here on the island. But that was all before that Frack guy came along. At least, that’s the impression I’ve gotten from working here. But if what George is saying is true, maybe he really is about to get back on his feet again. I don’t know why, but he sounds like he expects a huge turnaround.”

  I’d gotten what I wanted from Belle. There would be extra treats for Max and Lou, pages of notes and questions recorded in my trusty notebook, and lots to think about.

  “I guess I should go in,” I told her. “Even though my gynecologist always keeps me waiting for hours, I always make a point of getting there on time.”

  Her eyes widened. “Yeah, they always do that, don’t they? What’s that about?”

  “Beats me. But it was nice talking to you, Belle.”

  “Nice talking to you, too.”

  She placed the ball of wriggling white fur gently on the ground. She started to turn away, then reconsidered.

  “You won’t say anything to George, will you?” she asked anxiously. “About me planning to leave soon?”

  “Of course not. Your secret is safe with me. And I hope you won’t say anything to him about me having doubts about his abilities.”

  “Yeah, right. Like me and George have ever had a heart-to-heart talk.”

  It was true that George Babcock hadn’t impressed me as someone who put a lot of effort into establishing close personal relationships with the people around him. From what I’d seen, the man was utterly driven. His entire life was his business.

  The question was, was his business something he’d been willing to kill for?

  I pretended to fuss with the dogs, waiting until Belle drove off and disappeared from view. Once it was safe to leave, I corralled Max and Lou back into the van, thanked them profusely for not blowing my cover, passed around a few Milk Bones and headed home.

  Every time I talk to someone who was involved with the late Tommee Frack, I’m convinced he or she had sufficient reason to murder him, I mused as I drove. For a guy who was such a well-loved pillar of the community, Tommee sure created a lot of ill will.

  My head was spinning with all the information I still had to sort out: the things I’d been told, the things I hadn’t been told, the subtle and the not-too-subtle nuances I’d picked up everywhere I went. The canaries in Merrilee Frack’s kitchen, the malapropisms in Barbara Delmonico’s vocabulary, the sudden optimism in George Babcock’s business future. . . .

  I definitely needed help.

  From Nick.

  Nonsense. I could do this on my own.

  “Are you busy?” I demanded a half hour later, after dialing his number the instant I got home. I balanced the phone in the crook of my shoulder as I took a squawking Prometheus out of his cage, perched on my finger.

  “Hello, Jessie,” Nick replied. “I’m fine. Thanks for asking. And how are you today?”

  “Nick, I am so overloaded—”

  “Awk! Damn you, Nick Burby!” Prometheus interrupted, cued by hearing Nick’s name.

  “Same to you, Prometheus!” Nick shot back, chuckling.

  “Sorry about that. Anyway, I’m so overloaded with everything I’ve learned about Frack, not to mention all the questions that are still unanswered, that I feel like I’m going to burst. Which brings me back to my original question. . . .”

  “Who’s the pretty boy?” my parrot squawked.

  “I know the answer to that one,” Nick replied. “ Prometheus is the pretty boy.”

  This was turning out to be a lot more difficult than I’d anticipated. “Thanks for answering my bird’s question. Now, maybe you’ll answer mine: Are you completely swamped? Or do you have an hour to spare—soon? Like tonight? I’ve got so much I want to tell you.”

  He sighed in my ear. “Yes, I’m busy. The LSATs are on Saturday, and I’ve been obsessing over this review book. And in about ten minutes, I have to stake out an office building so I can follow a married father of three. His wife suspects that after work, instead of going to the gym, he goes to a gay bar. But I guess I can spare an hour. A change of focus would probably be good for me. Want to come over around seven, seven-thirty?”

  “Your office, right?”

 
“No. Come to my apartment.”

  Seeing Nick at his office had been one thing. Going to his apartment was a much bigger challenge. For three years, I’d spent nearly as much time in his four spacious rooms on the second floor of a sprawling Victorian house in Port Townsend as I’d spent at my own cottage. His place was the scene of too many memories—dinners cooked for ourselves and for our friends, Christmas Eves spent sipping mulled cider and singing along to the schmaltziest carols we could find, laughing and arguing and making love—that I didn’t know if I was ready to go back there. Or if I’d ever be.

  But Nick was doing me a favor, so I was hardly in a position to argue. “Your place at seven,” I repeated.

  “I’ll be there.”

  “Oh, boy,” I said to Prometheus after I’d hung up. “I hope I know what I’m doing.”

  “Awk!” he squawked. “Damn you, Nick Burby!”

  “My sentiments exactly,” I muttered.

  As I walked around to the back of Nick’s house that evening, taking the route I’d followed hundreds of times before, I held my notebook tightly against my chest, reminding myself I was here on a mission. While he had played many different roles in my life, including lover, best friend, and confidante, tonight I was merely calling upon his expertise as a private investigator. Nothing more. Nothing.

  I rang the doorbell. Without waiting, I went inside and headed up the stairs. “Nick?” I called as I neared the top. “Anybody home?”

  He opened the door, filling the stairwell with Led Zeppelin. Hardly surprising: he was the ultimate classic-rock freak. The throbbing bass and eerie vocals of “Stairway to Heaven” may belong to the world, but I always thought of them as Nick Burby’s personal possessions.

  I could feel that damn ache starting in my heart.

  “I guess I should turn this down,” he said as I came inside.

  “Or off.” In response to his look of surprise, I said, “I’m here to work, remember?”

  “Right.” He lowered the stereo, then turned back to me. “Where do you want to sit? You know the options.”

  “Here in the living room is fine.” I hoped my cheeks were only pink, not bright red. I was beginning to believe this whole visit was a mistake.

  But it was too late for second thoughts. I plopped down in a chair and opened my notebook. I allowed myself only a quick glance around, taking in the Aerosmith poster and the Van Gogh calendar. Nick’s books were still piled up on a makeshift bookshelf made from cinder blocks and wood, Shakespeare mixed in with Beckett, Faulkner next to Vonnegut.

  I also saw Leilani in her tank, the chameleon’s tiny feet curled gracefully around a branch as she stared at me with one eye. I looked away.

  I cleared my throat. “Okay. This shouldn’t take too long. Up to this point, I’ve spoken to—let’s see, six people who were close to Tommee Frack. That includes his accountant, Jonathan Havemeyer, who I met at the funeral. The way I see it, so far we’ve got three suspects.”

  Nick sat down on the sagging couch he’d saved from demolition by hauling it home from someone’s curb. Our knees were nearly touching. “And they are . . . ?”

  “The first is Merrilee, the furious ex-wife who’s still smitten with him and who just learned he was about to marry someone else. The fact that she and Tommee kept canaries is another reason she’s made my top ten list.”

  “I already know your theory about the ex-wife.”

  “The second is George Babcock. He gave Tommee his start, and Tommee repaid him by stealing half his clients and starting his own PR firm. As if that weren’t bad enough, he continued stealing his clients—as recently as a few weeks ago. The latest was Pomonok Properties, one of Babcock’s oldest clients. And on top of that, his secretary claims that since last week, starting right about the time Tommee was murdered, George has been acting—and I quote—‘high.’ ”

  “Right . . .”

  “And number three is Barbara Delmonico, Tommee’s fiancée. I haven’t yet figured out what her motive would have been. Even if she was just marrying the guy for his money, she’d be ruining her chances for a lifetime meal ticket if she—”

  The shrill ring of the doorbell interrupted me. A shock wave ran through me as I imagined the worst.

  “Expecting someone?” I asked coolly.

  “As a matter of fact, I am. I’ll be right back.”

  As he made a dash for the door, I braced myself for the possibility that I was about to come face to face with the new object of Nick’s affection, the individual whose phone call the other day had reduced him to a teenager in the throes of puppy love. I glanced over at Leilani for strength, but I could already feel my defenses snapping into place.

  They drooped considerably when he returned, accompanied only by a large brown paper bag.

  “Takeout.” He held up the bag. “Chinese.”

  When I just stared without replying, he added, “It was always your favorite. I figured that hadn’t changed.”

  If he’s ordered spring rolls and Garlic Triple Crown, I thought, it’s all over.

  “I got Garlic Triple Crown and a couple of spring rolls. I hope that’s okay.”

  It was the culinary version of presenting me with a dozen roses.

  “I didn’t know we’d be having dinner together,” I protested feebly.

  “A working dinner.” He began unpacking the bag. “Unless you’ve already got plans . . .”

  “No. No plans.” I couldn’t help adding, “I guess you don’t have any plans, either.”

  “No. I’m free all night. I mean, all evening. Uh, until tomorrow.”

  It would have been the perfect time to ask about the woman I’d heard him talking to on the phone. During the silence that followed, I could have casually inquired, “So how’s your social life?” or even, “Tell me about the great new woman you’re seeing.”

  But while part of me was dying to know, another part—a much more sensible part, I’m sure—wanted as few details as possible. It wasn’t my business. Nick’s love life didn’t matter to me. My relationship with him was something I’d put behind me.

  “Anyway, I still haven’t figured Barbara Delmonico out,” I said firmly. “Whenever I try to focus on what she’s all about, I see a big question mark. On the one hand—”

  “Chopsticks?”

  “Sure.” I reached for the chopsticks, taking care not to make bodily contact. Boy, this was turning out to be difficult. “On the one hand, she’s playing the role of the heartbroken fiancée whose one chance for happiness has been snatched away. On the other hand—”

  “Tea?”

  “I get the feeling she’s not who she . . . What?”

  “I’ll make tea, if you like.” He held up the tea bag he’d just pulled out of the bag.

  Another one of my favorites.

  “Yes, tea. That’d be great. As I was saying, Barbara the fiancée strikes me as someone who’s trying very hard to be something she’s not. If I had a dollar for every lie she told me, I’d be sitting in a hot tub right now—in the Caribbean. I get the feeling her relationship with Tommee was part of some desperate attempt at upward mobility.”

  Unwrapping my chopsticks, I mused, “There’s something about her that just feels wrong. My gut tells me she could have killed him, even though my head hasn’t been able to figure out why she would have wanted Tommee dead—”

  Suddenly Nick stood up.

  “Where are you going?” I asked.

  “To make the tea.”

  I flopped back in my chair, not even trying to hide my exasperation.

  “What?” he asked innocently. “You said you wanted tea.”

  “I did. I do. But I’m trying to focus on the investigation and—and I feel like I’m talking to a brick wall! I thought you’d agreed to play Starsky to my Hutch.”

  “Within reason. I figured I could make a few calls, help you piece together bits of information . . . But frankly, Jess, if you’re going to go traipsing around Norfolk County, interrogating people l
ike the guy whose business Frack destroyed and his nutty ex-wife and his—”

  “None of them have any idea I’m investigating Frack’s murder.”

  “Says you.”

  “You don’t think I’m capable of doing this, do you?” Fury was forming a knot in my stomach.

  “On the contrary. You seem to be doing a terrific job.”

  “So what’s the problem?”

  “The problem,” he responded evenly, “is that this insane thing you’re insisting on doing has got me worried sick.”

  The word “insane” made my blood boil. “Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. Me coming over here tonight, I mean.”

  “Look, why don’t we take a break and eat?”

  “I don’t see what—”

  “The food’s here, it’s getting cold, and there’s no point in letting it go to waste.”

  “Fine.”

  We sat in silence, shoveling in shrimp. Then, just as the knot in my stomach was beginning to loosen, Nick asked, “So how did you do it?”

  “Do what?”

  “Get Frack’s fiancée to talk to you.”

  “I saw a photograph of Tommee and Barbara on a table in her apartment, so I asked about it. The rest was easy.”

  “No, before that. How did you get into her house? How did you find out where she lived?”

  I hesitated. I knew Nick would disapprove of my methods. At the same time, I couldn’t help being proud of my ingenuity.

  “I have a friend who got me Barbara’s address, based on her dog’s registration.”

  “And you just knocked on this woman’s door and introduced yourself?”

  “Not exactly.” I hated the defensiveness I heard in my voice. “I called her first and told her I had a client who wanted to mate her female Tibetan Terriers. I said I was looking for a stud.”

  “Whoa. Now there’s an opening even I would find difficult to turn down.”

  He laughed, a welcome sound. I couldn’t resist taking advantage of the cease-fire. “You know, Nick, there’s something that’s been bothering me. I’ve been tracking down all these people who knew Tommee, people who seem like the obvious people to talk to, and it doesn’t seem as if the police have been interviewing any of them.”