Monkey See, Monkey Die

by Cynthia Baxter

  “Suzanne!” I exclaimed. By that point, I was practically ready to deck her.

  What else could possibly go wrong with an occasion that was supposed to be happy? I thought crossly, downing the champagne in a few quick gulps.

  But before I’d had a chance to even contemplate a possible answer to that question, the silence that had once again fallen over the room was interrupted by the sound of screaming.

  “Is that what I think it is?” someone asked.

  “It sounds like someone screaming,” somebody else added.

  “It sounds like Sunny screaming,” I cried, dropping my glass onto the carpet and dashing toward the front door.

  Chapter 15

  “A person who misses a chance and the monkey who misses its branch can’t be saved.”

  —Indian proverb

  As I sprinted across Betty’s lawn, I glanced over my shoulder and saw that Suzanne was a few steps behind me. The other guests stood clustered in the doorway, looking confused.

  “Somebody call 911!” I shouted.

  “I’ve got my cell phone right here!” somebody yelled back.

  When I reached the cottage, I found the front door wide open. Even though it would have been smart to proceed with caution, for some reason having Suzanne along made me brave. I rushed inside, meanwhile taking a mental inventory of the contents of my living room and trying to decide what I could use as a weapon.

  Frankly, I didn’t know what I expected to find. But it certainly wasn’t Sunny standing by herself in the middle of the room. From what I could tell, she didn’t appear to be in any danger.

  That didn’t keep me from grabbing the umbrella leaning against the wall. Maybe it wasn’t the most threatening object in the world, but I wasn’t in a position to be picky.

  “Sunny, are you all right?” I demanded, clasping the umbrella tightly.

  “What happened?” Suzanne cried at the same time.

  “I’m fine,” Sunny replied breathlessly. “Jessie, somebody broke in. Whoever was in here climbed out the bedroom window when they heard me come in. I don’t know why, but I just started screaming.”

  Now that I’d seen that Sunny was safe, I calmed down enough to look around. The entire room was in chaos. The intruder had slashed two throw pillows on the couch, including the one that had recently become Cat’s favorite lounging spot. Clumps of orange foam rubber spilled over the cushions and onto the floor. Lamps were knocked over, books were pulled from shelves, and the contents of a twenty-pound bag of dry dog food had been dumped in front of the TV.

  At first I thought the birdseed strewn under Prometheus’s cage was one more act of vandalism. But then I realized that the perpetrator was probably Prometheus himself. For some reason he found it endlessly amusing to use his powerful beak to wrestle with his plastic dish until he managed to turn it upside down.

  Still, the state of the room made my chest tighten. “Oh, my,” I breathed.

  Sunny’s face crumpled. “It gets worse,” she said miserably. “Look behind you.”

  Suzanne and I swiveled around in unison. We both gasped when we saw that scrawled in red on the blank wall next to the front door were the letters MYOB.

  Mind your own business.

  The champagne I’d gulped down suddenly felt as if it was burning a hole in my stomach.

  The feeling wasn’t helped by Suzanne shrilly demanding, “Is that blood?”

  Even though the room was swirling around me, I forced myself to step over to examine the big red letters up close. “I’m pretty sure it’s paint,” I said, only slightly relieved. “But I bet it’s supposed to look like blood.”

  I turned back to Sunny. “You said the intruder disappeared out the bedroom window?”

  She nodded. “I heard a thump when I came in. It sounded like it was coming from the bedroom, and when I went in, the window was wide open.” She swallowed hard, as if her mouth was dry. “I’m positive I left it closed. There are no screens on that window, and I’ve got a thing about bugs.”

  I wrapped both arms around my waist. Even though it was June, I suddenly felt chilled.

  “Maybe you’d better go back to the beginning,” I suggested, doing my best to sound matter-of-fact.

  “Okay.” Sunny took a deep breath. “I went out with some friends tonight. A guy a bunch of us know just started a garage band a few months ago, and they got their first gig at a club in Port Townsend. But I came home pretty early, right after their first set. I just wasn’t into the kind of music the band that came on after them was playing, and I didn’t want to hang out because—”

  “Sunny?” Suzanne interrupted. “What happened when you came home?”

  “Oh. Right. Okay, so when I got here, I noticed that the front door was open. Not a lot, just a couple of inches. At first I wondered if maybe I’d left in such a hurry that I hadn’t closed it all the way and the wind had blown it open. But I knew that couldn’t be what happened. I always make sure I shut the door behind me on the way out, and since this isn’t my place, I’ve been even more careful than usual.”

  She paused to take a breath. “Anyway, I was afraid something might be wrong, but I figured I’d better check. And wham! As soon as I walked in, not only was I instantly hit with the fact that the place had been vandalized; I also heard a noise in the bedroom. Like I said, it sounded like a thump. The kind of thump a person would make by bumping into a piece of furniture or knocking against the wall.

  “I figured it had to be whoever had done all this damage. So I grabbed a knife from the kitchen drawer and ran into the bedroom. I didn’t think I’d have the guts to use it, but I figured it wouldn’t hurt to look scary. It turned out it didn’t matter, since by the time I got there, all I saw was the open window. I looked out, but nobody was there. Not even any footprints in the dirt. At least, not that I could see.”

  She looked at me expectantly. “Jessie, do you have any idea what’s going on?”

  I did, but I wasn’t ready to talk about it. Instead, I stepped over to Prometheus’s cage. He’d helped me out in a situation like this once before, and even though it was a long shot, I hoped he’d be able to do it again.

  “Prometheus?” I asked him. “Did you see what happened? Who came in here? Can you tell me anything about what you saw?”

  “Awk, Prometheus loves apple,” he cawed. “Happy birthday to you.”

  So much for that strategy. With a frustrated sigh, I went into the bedroom. Sunny and Suzanne trailed after me.

  “I didn’t touch the window, in case the intruder left fingerprints,” Sunny said anxiously.

  “It’s great that you’re being so responsible,” I assured her distractedly. At the moment, I was focused on trying to figure out exactly what the intruder had been trying to accomplish inside my cottage. Aside from giving my living room a makeover, that is.

  As I headed toward the bedroom, I suddenly experienced a sinking feeling.

  The cocktail napkin. The one with the mysterious scribblings that Kimberly was convinced had something to do with her sister’s murder.

  I dashed to my dresser and with trembling hands wrenched open the top drawer. Then blinked. There was the napkin, still safe in its Ziploc bag. Next to it was my jewelry box, my passport, and even the small pile of cash I keep on hand for emergencies. They seemed untouched too.

  “What’s that?” Sunny asked, pointing at the napkin.

  I opened my mouth to tell her the whole story. But I snapped it shut when I realized that at the moment I simply didn’t have the energy. “Nothing. Just some doodles drawn by somebody I know.”

  She leaned over to study the napkin, her forehead furrowed. “That’s a relief. For a minute there I thought that whoever broke in left behind that picture of a skull and crossbones.”

  Her words sent a jolt of electricity shooting through me. “Skull and crossbones?” I said. My mouth had become uncomfortably dry.

  “Ye-a-ah,” she replied uncertainly. “That is what that’s supposed to be, is
n’t it?”

  As I studied the napkin for what must have been the hundredth time, I realized she was right. That was exactly what the shaky drawing of Erin’s was supposed to be.

  All along I’d assumed that it was a weird take on a smiley face. But now I could see that the reason the circle was misshapen was that the indentation at the bottom was supposed to indicate the jawline. And the two lines I’d presumed formed an X were meant to signify two crossed bones.

  Before I had a chance to tell Sunny how brilliant she was, Suzanne asked, “Was anything taken, Jessie?”

  “It doesn’t look like it,” I replied, sticking the napkin back into the drawer with all my other valuables and quickly checking the other drawers, the closet, and the space under the bed.

  In fact, not only did it look as if the intruder hadn’t taken anything; it appeared that he or she hadn’t been looking for anything in particular, including the cocktail napkin. And it wasn’t simply a case of running out of time, given the fact that all the obvious hiding places, like the dresser drawers and closets, looked untouched.

  Suzanne frowned. “So it wasn’t a burglary,” she said, drawing the same conclusion. “It looks like whoever broke in just wanted to scare you. And it was you they were sending a message to, right? I mean, you’re the one who lives here. Most people would have no idea that Sunny was staying in the cottage for now.”

  My thoughts exactly, I thought grimly.

  In fact, I knew precisely what the intruder was trying to tell me, thanks to the bloodlike paint on the wall. And I got the feeling that whoever had gone to all this trouble to send me that message wasn’t kidding around.

  As I expected, the police who arrived in response to the 911 call couldn’t do much. I filed a report about the break-in, but since nothing had been stolen, no significant damage had been done, and the graffiti on the wall hadn’t been either obscene or particularly threatening, the uniformed officer who showed up at my door didn’t seem too alarmed.

  “Probably an ex-boyfriend,” he concluded with a smirk as he sashayed out the door. “Don’t worry. He’ll get over you as soon as he hooks up with somebody new.”

  Ordinarily, his lack of concern about both the crime and the victim would have gotten my dander up. But my expectations had been low from the start.

  I knew that if anyone was going to figure out who had decorated my walls with a warning spelled out in blood-red letters, it would have to be me.

  Which meant there was no time to lose before I turned to the next item on my to-do list. And that was following up on the information I’d gotten while sneaking around the back office at the Pet Empawrium.

  First thing on Monday, after enlisting Sunny to shuffle around my morning appointments, I climbed into my clinic-on-wheels and headed toward the home of Louis Santoro, whose address I had memorized during my spying spree at Pet Empawrium.

  I had to find out once and for all if my suspicions about Donald Drayton’s real line of business were correct.

  Finding Lloyd Cove, one of Long Island’s most exclusive communities, was no trouble. Located on a peninsula that jutted into the Long Island Sound, just north of Earlington, the strictly residential area was dotted with huge estates, most overlooking the water. They were the kind of residences that came equipped with their own swimming pools, guesthouses, and in some cases, helicopter pads.

  However, finding the Santoro residence was a different story, mainly because Hillsboro Drive didn’t appear on my map. The only reason I eventually found it was that I veered onto a side street to turn around and happened to notice the street sign.

  This is a man who really values privacy, I concluded as I drove down what looked like a thoroughfare but which I soon realized was a long driveway.

  When I reached the end, I stopped dead in my tracks. Or was stopped dead in my tracks, to be more accurate. As the old saying goes, I’d hit a brick wall. A real brick wall.

  A high one too. Probably twelve or fifteen feet high—certainly tall enough to keep anyone from seeing what was on the property.

  But that was just the beginning of a security system that looked as if it had been engineered by the same folks who designed San Quentin. Only this one looked as if it had been devised to keep people out, rather than in.

  Okay, so the place doesn’t exactly scream welcome, I thought, surveying the wall and noting that it stretched as far as I could see. But there has to be a way to get inside. Without a helicopter, that is.

  I finally located the entrance after driving along the brick wall for a quarter of a mile. But the iron gate that separated me from the driveway wasn’t very encouraging. For one thing, it was almost as high as the brick wall. For another, it had metal spikes running along the top that looked as if they meant business.

  It was also secured with a lock that was practically the size of a small refrigerator.

  The good news was that there was a buzzer set into a metal plate along the edge of the wall, as well as a speaker that appeared to be part of an intercom system.

  Here goes, I thought, driving up alongside it.

  I lowered my window and pressed the buzzer. I’d barely gotten my arm back in the car before a gruff voice demanded, “Yeah, can I help you?”

  Interestingly, the owner of that voice didn’t sound the least bit eager to be helpful. But in the most confident voice I could muster, I replied, “I’m here to see Mr. Santoro. Donald Drayton sent me.”

  Silence. My heart pounded so loudly that I suspected the faceless individual at the other end of the intercom system could hear it. I wished I’d thought of turning on the radio and playing a song with an unusually loud drumbeat.

  “Drive in,” the voice finally said.

  As the gate slowly opened, I wasn’t sure if having been invited onto Louis Santoro’s property was a good thing or a bad thing. But one thing I was sure of was that getting through the next few minutes was going to demand some first-rate acting on my part. And that included pretending to be cool, calm, and collected.

  I took a deep breath, jutted my chin in the air, and drove in. I just hoped this little adventure of mine wouldn’t turn out to be something I’d end up regretting.

  I covered a fairly large stretch of property before Santoro’s house even came into view. It looked like a museum, thanks to its size, the numerous steps leading to the front door, and the abundant use of marble in places where more economy-minded homeowners might have used more ordinary materials, such as slate, concrete, or aluminum siding. There was also plenty of statuary in front, leading me to wonder if Santoro and Drayton used the same landscaper.

  As I walked up the steps toward the front entrance, clutching the handle of a black bag with a few medical instruments in it, I hoped the person who answered the door would be a housekeeper. Some nice older woman who would take pity on me—or at least wouldn’t be packing heat in her apron pocket. That was certainly preferable to confronting the owner of the ragged voice that had beckoned me inside. It was a voice I imagined belonged to a beefy guy with no neck and the IQ of a kumquat. Then again, I’ve seen a lot of Scorsese movies.

  So I was somewhat relieved that the man who answered was surprisingly ordinary. He wasn’t much taller than I was, but he probably weighed close to twice as much. His pink knit shirt, embroidered with an energetic-looking polo player, stretched over a middle-age paunch that demanded he wear his khaki pants almost as low as a rapper’s. The pinkish skin of his pudgy nose and cheeks matched the top of his head, which peeked out from what remained of his strands of dark hair.

  My relief faded as he stood in silence for what seemed like a very long time, looking me up and down.

  “Drayton sent you?” he finally growled.

  I recognized the voice as the one that had floated through the intercom. Much to my surprise, the man actually possessed a neck.

  “Of course,” I replied, acting annoyed over his apparent confusion. “You make it sound as if you weren’t expecting me.”

  “Should
I have been?” he asked curtly.

  I sighed, meanwhile waving my hand in a gesture of frustration. “I guess there’s been some kind of miscommunication. My name is Dr. Popper. I’m a veterinarian.” I gestured toward my van to substantiate my claim. “I’m here to do a routine checkup of your . . . a routine checkup.”

  The man, who by now I figured had to be Louis Santoro, eyed me suspiciously. “I didn’t make an appointment.”

  “Maybe somebody else in the household did,” I suggested. “Your wife, perhaps.”

  “She’s not home right now,” he said, still guarded.

  I frowned, still pretending to be annoyed. “Look, all I know is that I got a call from someone in Donald Drayton’s office giving me your address and telling me to come today at ten o’clock.” Checking my watch, I added, “Actually, I’m a few minutes early.”

  “Donald set this up?” he asked, furrowing his brow. “I don’t remember him saying anything about that. Unless it has something to do with the new delivery.”

  “Exactly,” I said. “It’s standard practice whenever there’s a new delivery. Maybe that’s why Don forgot to mention it.”

  Santoro frowned. “It didn’t used to be.”

  “It is now.”

  Please don’t call him to check, I thought, suddenly on the verge of panic. Something told me that getting out of this place could turn out to be as difficult as getting in.

  Instead, he shrugged, and opened the door to let me in. “In that case, let’s just get this out of the way.”

  As I stepped inside, I didn’t know whether the feeling that swept over me was delight or dread. Anxious to believe it was the former, I told myself that no matter what I found, I wouldn’t be in any danger. At least not if I managed to act as if nothing I found on this side of the wall surprised me in the least.

  I followed Santoro through one cavernous room after another. If Donald Drayton’s house was an American version of Buckingham Palace, this place was Versailles. The decor embraced ornately carved tables and chairs, gaudy chandeliers, and hand-painted murals that recaptured the glory days of the Roman Empire. I suspected that this man’s cable TV service didn’t include the Home and Garden channel.