Monkey See, Monkey Die

by Cynthia Baxter

  The woman who was about to become my mother-in-law peered over her shoulder at the free-standing Victorian mirror in the corner and frowned. “Does this dress make my rear end look big?”

  Your rear end is big, I thought. And that awful blue-gray dress—which gives new meaning to the word matronly—doesn’t do a thing to hide it.

  But I had a feeling she wasn’t looking for an honest answer.

  “You look lovely, Dorothy,” I told her. “You, too, Betty.”

  At least the second part wasn’t a lie. While I’d half-expected Betty to show up for my wedding dressed in some flamboyant outfit—one with feathers, perhaps, or a dress that incorporated several different colors of the rainbow—she looked positively regal in her pale yellow silk dress with a matching jacket. It was the perfect ensemble for a maid of honor.

  “You look nice, too, Jessie,” Dorothy said begrudgingly. “In fact, you actually look pretty!”

  “You mean she looks even prettier than usual,” Betty corrected her, smiling. “Dorothy is right, Jessica. You’re positively radiant.”

  Panic will do that to a person, I thought. Flushed cheeks, bright eyes, that special glow that can only come from an overabundance of adrenaline coursing through one’s veins . . .

  Yet once I finally dared to check the mirror, I saw that she was right. I did look nice, whatever the reason. Of course, the fact that Suzanne had spent the entire morning working on me didn’t hurt. She’d twisted my hair into an elaborate up-do, leaving a few loose strands to frame my face. She’d done an expert job with makeup, too, the result being that I didn’t look as if I was wearing any. I looked like my regular self, only better.

  As for my dress, it was nothing short of fabulous. Gabriella Bertucci, one of Long Island’s premier fashion designers, had created an empire-style dress that was simple yet amazingly flattering. The ivory silk was just creamy enough to keep me from looking like the mansion’s resident ghost. Since I’m not the veil type, I’d opted to wear a cluster of white flowers in my hair.

  Betty came up behind me and gazed at my reflection. Sighing, she said, “I wish your parents were here to see you.”

  “You’re here,” I replied, turning around to give her a hug.

  The tender moment was interrupted by Suzanne barging into the room, huffing and puffing from having just dashed up two flights of stairs without stopping. In high heels, no less.

  “I hope we’re running on schedule,” she declared, standing in the doorway as she struggled to catch her breath. “If not, we’re going to have a lot of unhappy campers to deal with. Do you believe this crowd has already gone through more than half the champagne?”

  “I told you we should wait until after the ceremony to open the champagne,” Dorothy said with a haughty toss of her head.

  “Nonsense,” Suzanne insisted. She stalked across the room, placed her hands on her hips, and stood nose to nose with Dorothy. “Some of these people just drove for three hours to get here. What kind of hostess doesn’t offer her guests something to drink the moment they show up?”

  Dorothy didn’t even flinch. “It didn’t have to be champagne,” she sniffed. “What’s wrong with lemonade?”

  “You’ve obviously never driven on the Long Island Expressway in weekend traffic,” Suzanne replied, glowering.

  “I certainly have,” Dorothy retorted. “Even though I don’t live on Long Island any more, I’m certainly aware of—”

  “Ladies!” Betty cried. “We’re putting on a wedding here, not a boxing match!”

  Dorothy and Suzanne both looked surprised by Betty’s outburst. But I noticed that neither of them looked contrite, since each one was completely convinced she was right.

  “I’m glad we’re putting all that champagne to good use,” I said. I realized I was taking a risk by siding with my bridesmaid, but I wanted to do my best to make sure no one at my wedding suffered any bodily harm. “It was very generous of Winston to provide it. And Suzanne, I really appreciate you making my guests feel welcome.”

  Suzanne cast Dorothy a look of triumph, then said, “It’s Kieran you should thank. He’s been doing a fabulous job of greeting everyone.” Smiling dreamily, she added, “And he looks absolutely amazing. I thought he broke the cuteness barrier in that state trooper’s uniform of his, but wait ’til you see him all dressed up in a suit and tie.”

  “I’m surprised Skittles let him out of her sight long enough for her to come to my wedding,” I joked.

  “Don’t you dare say anything bad about Skittles!” Suzanne shot back. “That darling dog saved your life!”

  True, I thought. But don’t I deserve at least a little credit for having had the foresight to arrange for a German shepherd with teeth the size of the Wicked Wolf’s and training the caliber of a U.S. Marine’s to be in the right place at the right time?

  Still, I couldn’t have been more pleased that Suzanne and Skittles had finally become friends. In fact, ever since Skittles had come through during my late-night adventure at the self-storage facility, not only with saving my life but also helping put Erin’s killer behind bars, Suzanne couldn’t do enough for her.

  And Skittles felt the same way. In response to Suzanne’s change of heart, Skittles had become equally protective of Kieran and Suzanne. Equally adoring too.

  In fact, I would have invited Skittles to my wedding if I hadn’t decided to limit the four-legged guest list to my own two canines. I was still shell-shocked by Frederick’s Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde routine on Pet People. At least Max and Lou had already proven themselves, at Betty and Winston’s wedding. Besides, Sunny had agreed to keep an eye on them during the ceremony, and even as capable as she’d proven to be, I didn’t want to give her more than she could handle.

  I froze at the sound of the string quartet, which Nick and I had agreed would serve as a signal to our guests that it was time to be seated. Once that had been accomplished, the musicians had been instructed to launch into “Here Comes the Bride,” which Nick had insisted had to be playing when he stood in front with the judge and watched his future wife walk down the aisle.

  “It’s time,” Betty said, her voice a near-whisper.

  As if I didn’t know, I thought, gulping loudly.

  At that moment, the butterflies that had been caged inside my stomach ever since I’d opened my eyes that morning began kicking up their heels.

  You can do this, a voice inside my head insisted.

  No, I can’t! another voice shot back.

  Yes, you can, the first voice repeated, more firmly this time.

  The argument would have continued if it hadn’t been for a sudden push from behind. Whether the hand that made firm contact with my back belonged to Betty, Dorothy, or Suzanne, I couldn’t tell. But my feet started moving, an automatic response to the not-so-subtle reminder that I hadn’t come all this way simply to model this gorgeous dress.

  Over the next few minutes, I was so dazed that I felt as if I was dreaming. I was vaguely aware of descending two flights of stairs, with Betty and Suzanne fussing around me. They seemed afraid that I’d either trip on my dress or tear the hem.

  The next thing I knew, I found myself walking down the aisle one step at a time behind Betty and Suzanne, my bridesmaids. As I did, I was struck by the similarities between a wedding and a funeral. They were both somber ceremonies with slow processions, an abundance of flowers, and ponderous music, performed in front of a crowd of well-wishers dressed in their finest clothes. . . .

  Stop! I commanded myself. You’re thinking too hard. The time for debate is over. Let it go!

  I forced myself to focus on Nick, who was standing at the other end of the aisle, between Winston, who was his best man, and the judge. He was wearing a tuxedo, a white boutonniere, and the biggest grin I’d ever seen.

  There’s Nick, I told myself, taking deep breaths. You like Nick, right? You love Nick, in fact. And that’s all this is about. Demonstrating your commitment to this wonderful man.

  I was sudden
ly having trouble breathing.

  The dress is too tight, I told myself. I shouldn’t have eaten such a big breakfast.

  I remembered that I hadn’t eaten breakfast at all.

  There’s not enough air in here, I thought.

  Then I realized I was outdoors, with a blue sky up above and green grass beneath my feet.

  By that point, I’d made it all the way to the other end of the aisle. I could feel the eyes of all my guests boring into me. Then there were Nick’s eyes. True, they were warm and filled with love, but they were still fixed on me in a way I found most unnerving.

  “We are gathered here today . . .” the judge began.

  I didn’t hear what he said afterward. The swishing sound that echoed through my head was much too loud. In fact, I fell into a stupor that came pretty darned close to an out-of-body experience.

  I didn’t snap back into the moment until I heard the judge say, “Do you, Jessica, take this man, Nicholas Burby, to be your lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold, in sickness and in health . . .”

  The entire planet seemed to be spinning. The planet is spinning, I told myself. It does that. It rotates on its axis. That’s what makes day and night . . . or maybe that’s what makes summer and winter . . .

  Even my most basic science knowledge was eluding me.

  “For better or for worse, to love and to cherish . . .”

  The people in charge should really slow this planet down, I thought. For goodness sake, somebody’s going to get hurt!

  Glancing around, I saw that Betty was frowning with concern. Suzanne, meanwhile, looked as if she was about to hurt me.

  Desperately I turned to Nick. He was still watching me, although at the moment, he looked pretty confused.

  “. . . ’Til death do you part?”

  The judge’s words cut through the swishing sound in my head with such clarity that even I couldn’t block them out.

  Say “I do!” I ordered myself. Say it! Just say it!

  “Jessica?” the judge prompted.

  I still wasn’t sure whether I was capable of speech. But I opened my mouth, hoping for the best.

  Acknowledgments

  Writing this book afforded me the privilege of learning from helpful experts in a number of fields. I would like to thank Chief Technical Sergeant Timothy L. Fischer, Canine Coordinator for the New York State Police, and Dr. Roger D. Farley, Professor Emeritus, Department of Biology, University of California, Riverside, for sharing their knowledge with me.

  I would also like to thank Dr. Marc A. Franz, Dr. Jennifer Mignone, Wendy Niceberg, and the entire staff of the Woodbury Animal Hospital in Woodbury, Long Island: Kim Marino, Lisa Rivera, Sharon Harker, Denise Spielman, and Diana Weiss.

  And thanks to Patricia C. Wright, Professor of Anthropology at Stony Brook University and Executive Director of the Institute for the Conservation of Tropical Environments, and her students Brienne Giordano and Domonique DeLeo; Cheryl Maude, Bridget, and Toby; Lisa Pulitzer; and as always, Faith and Caitlin.

  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 the next Reigning Cats & Dogs mystery, which Bantam will publish in 2009. She is also the author of Murder Packs a Suitcase, the first mystery in a new series, on sale in November 2008. Visit her website at www.cynthiabaxter.com.

  Also by Cynthia Baxter

  DEAD CANARIES DON’T SING

  PUTTING ON THE DOG

  LEAD A HORSE TO MURDER

  HARE TODAY, DEAD TOMORROW

  RIGHT FROM THE GECKO

  WHO’S KITTEN WHO?

  And look for

  MURDER PACKS A SUITCASE

  The first in a new series!

  On sale November 2008

  Read on for an exclusive sneak peek

  at two

  new mysteries by

  Cynthia Baxter:

  MURDER PACKS A SUITCASE

  The First in a Brand-new Series!

  On sale in November 2008

  &

  A New Reigning Cats & Dogs Mystery

  On sale in Summer 2009

  MURDER PACKS A SUITCASE

  The First in a Brand-new Series!

  On sale in November 2008

  After an entire afternoon of Courtney’s chattiness, Mallory welcomed the silence of her hotel room. The Florida Tourism Board reception wasn’t scheduled to start for a couple of hours, so she filled up nine pages with notes on the Titanic, then took her time showering and blow-drying her hair.

  At twenty minutes to seven, she slipped into a black halter-top dress splashed with red flowers. She smiled as she remembered what David said the last time he’d seen her in it: that it made her look like one of those women in the L’Oréal ads who claimed, “I’m worth it.” Then she slipped on a pair of strappy red sandals with heels that were much higher than she was used to. When she’d spotted them at Macy’s, she hadn’t been able to resist trying them on. When she saw how long they made her legs look, she’d had no choice but to whip out her charge card.

  The final touch was makeup. She put on more than she’d bothered with in months, with the exception of her interview at The Good Life. It was hard to believe that it was only days earlier that she’d ridden up the elevator with butterflies in her stomach. Now here she was, standing in front of the bathroom mirror more than a thousand miles from home, agonizing over which pair of earrings looked better, the white pearls or the red chandeliers.

  And enjoying every minute of the trip. In fact, she suddenly stopped what she was doing simply to marvel over how much fun she was having. And fun was something that had been in short supply since David’s accident.

  She understood that she’d needed time to mourn. That in fact she was still mourning. Yet she was dealing with even more than grief. She also had to cope with the feeling that everyone she loved was deserting her.

  It was something that dated back before David’s death. She’d spent so many years catering to the needs of her family that once they vanished, one by one, she had found herself floundering for a new way to define herself. When Amanda went off to college, she felt as if a part of her body had been cut off. But she still had David and Jordan with her at the dinner table every night. Then, when Jordan was only weeks away from going off to college, David was suddenly gone, too.

  Even her son’s return only a few weeks after leaving for school hadn’t helped the aching in her heart. True, he was living in her house again. But he didn’t belong there. He was just stopping in while he decided where to go next, like someone who was idling in a No Parking zone.

  The result was a feeling of emptiness that never quite went away. At least until now. Before coming on this trip, Mallory had been afraid that being thrust into a new and unfamiliar situation would cause her to lose whatever sense of balance she still clung to. Instead, she abruptly found herself being forced to play a completely different role. And her personal life didn’t matter one bit. Whether or not her children were at home, whether or not she had a husband . . . in this context, none of it was the least bit relevant. All that mattered was what Wade and Annabelle and Courtney and the others could see: that she was a travel writer working for a well-respected publication, here to do a job.

  The question that kept nagging at her was whether or not she could rise to the occasion. Yet here she was, doing exactly that. She was holding her own in a situation that a lot of people would find downright intimidating. She wasn’t surprised that she was managing to handle herself just fine. What did surprise her was the ease with which the old Mallory was resurfacing, pushing aside the timid, uncertain Mallory who had appeared from nowhere when David died.

  Still marveling over the attractive, self-confident woman staring back at her in the mirror, she decided that tonight she would quietly celebrate her unexpected return to her old self. Surely a reception in a big, flashy hotel would include champagne or some other appropriately festive drink. She vowed
to make a toast to the return of Mallory Marlowe, a woman who only hours before a virtual stranger had characterized as “spunky.”

  The Bali Ballroom, Mallory discovered as she teetered inside on her red high heels, had the same faux-Polynesian decor as the lobby. The walls were covered with coarse straw mats that she assumed were supposed to look as if they’d been woven in huts made of the same material. More artifacts from the South Seas dotted the walls, the usual assortment of tiki gods, masks, and weaponry. But the centerpiece was the ceiling-high waterfall, which splashed over fake rocks and then spilled into a dark pool that was surrounded by a low stone wall.

  There were also signs of the festivities to come. A long table along one wall was lined with empty chafing dishes, and a small bar was tucked into one corner. Clustered around it were small round tables covered in fabric that looked very much like the bedspread in her hotel room.

  As she headed in that direction, she stumbled. “Klutz,” she muttered, assuming her ineptness with impractical shoes was to blame. But when she glanced down, she saw that she’d tripped on a spear.

  She automatically leaned over and picked it up, figuring there was no reason for anyone else to trip on it. Besides, she’d spent half a lifetime cleaning up after other people, moving Jordan’s gargantuan sneakers out of the hallway and Amanda’s heavy textbooks off the dining room table.

  Once she was holding it in her hands, she saw that it was made of metal, unlike the wooden spears the natives of the South Sea islands undoubtedly used to kill one another. She also noticed that it was discolored at the end. It looked as if it had been dipped in something red. Dark red.

  But before she had a chance to examine it any further, the sound of a human voice—a very perturbed human voice—prompted her to turn around.

  “Oh, my God. Will you look at those horrendous tablecloths? Whatever possessed them to use those ancient things?”