Right from the Gecko

by Cynthia Baxter

  “Pretty high, I’m afraid.”

  “As high as the governor’s office?”

  He looked surprised. “So you knew about that too. We’ve had someone working there undercover. And we learned that John Irwin, one of the governor’s aides, had worked with Wickham to bring FloraTech to the island. They were both getting a big fat piece of the pie.”

  Marnie had found that out too. She even had the pictures to prove it—the photographs of the governor and his new best friend, the biotech firm’s founder.

  For the moment, I’d heard all I could stand about FloraTech. I was sopping wet, badly shaken, and totally wiped out. I was also worried about Betty and Winston, who were nowhere in sight.

  “Where are our friends?” I asked Graham anxiously. “Are they all right?”

  “They’re fine. They’re outside, talking to one of our people. But we can get statements from everybody later. I suspect that right now the four of you just want to go back to your hotel and start trying to put this behind you.”

  That sounded like the best idea I’d heard all day.

  It’s over, I thought, feeling dazed as I wandered out of the cool, damp darkness of the cave and back into the sunlight. Marnie’s murderer has been caught. The truth about FloraTech is going to come out, and everyone who was part of it will pay for what they’ve done. Most importantly, the people I care about are safe—and so am I.

  I spotted Betty and Winston standing near our rented Jeep. Betty’s eyes were bright and her hands fluttered excitedly as she related the details of her harrowing experience to a man in a suit. Winston stood beside her, looking as solid and supportive as the dramatic volcanic rocks jutting out of the dark blue-green water just beyond. I was glad to see how well they were handling this. Then again, given how strong they both were, I supposed I shouldn’t have been surprised.

  “Are you okay, Jess?” Nick, who was walking beside me, asked solicitously.

  “I’m fine,” I assured him. “And I’m glad you’re all right, Nick. I don’t know what I’d do if anything ever happened to you—” My voice had suddenly become too choked for me to go on.

  “Exactly how I feel,” he returned, putting his arm around my shoulders and pulling me close. In a near whisper, he added, “But it’s finished.”

  “Yes,” I agreed, leaning my head against his chest as we walked. “Thank goodness.”

  “Think of it this way,” Nick said lightly. “If it hadn’t been for this little adventure the two of us fell into, we never would have gotten to see Waimea Canyon.”

  I glanced up at him and grimaced. “Thanks, but I think next time I’ll do my sightseeing with a reputable tour company.”

  “But that little side trip gave us a chance to have a very important conversation. One in which I was able to ask you a very important question. I asked you—”

  “I remember what you asked me,” I assured him.

  “You do?” he returned. He tried to sound as if he was only teasing, but the huskiness of his voice gave him away. “Does that mean you also remember how you answered?”

  “Yes.”

  “And now that we’re out of harm’s way, would you still answer the same way?”

  I stopped, turning to face him. I reached up and put my hands on Nick’s shoulders, meanwhile looking earnestly into his eyes.

  “Yes, Nick,” I told him. “I’ll marry you.”

  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, Who’s Kitten Who?, which Bantam will publish in fall 2007. Visit her on the Web 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

  READ ON FOR AN EXCLUSIVE SNEAK

  PEEK AT CYNTHIA BAXTER’S

  NEXT MYSTERY!

  Who’s Kitten

  Who?

  A Reigning Cats & Dogs Mystery

  by

  Cynthia Baxter

  On sale October 2007

  Who’s Kitten Who?

  On sale October 2007

  Chapter 1

  “Man is the most intelligent of the animals—and the most silly.”

  —Diogenes

  Ouch!” I cried. “Stop, I’m begging you! You’re torturing me!”

  “Hold still!” my attacker insisted.

  I glanced around desperately, wondering if there was any way out. But I was afraid that continuing to resist would only anger my assailant—who was armed, dangerous, and clearly determined to make me her next victim.

  “You are moving too much, Signorina!” she exclaimed. “I cannot make the neckline straight if you will not stop—what is the word?—fidgeting!”

  I have every right to fidget, I thought crossly. First, I get roped into spending my Saturday morning standing on a ridiculous pedestal in the middle of a bridal shop, surrounded by enough ruffles and veils to make me break out in a rash. Then I get turned into a giant pincushion. As if that’s not bad enough, I’m periodically forced to twirl around like an Olympic ice skater to make sure the skirt of this preposterous dress swirls just the right way.

  But I knew I’d get no sympathy here. In fact, from the relentless way Gabriella Bertucci kept sticking me, you would have thought she was a voodoo priestess instead of a fashion designer whose wedding dresses were well known all over Long Island.

  “Take a look in the mirror, Signorina,” Gabriella said with a sigh. “You look so beautiful, no?”

  I screwed up my face before forcing myself to peer into the three-sided full-length mirror. When your idea of sprucing up is putting on a freshly washed Polarfleece jacket and a sparklin’ new pair of chukka boots, being encased in a Barbie Doll frock that reaches down to the floor (and is cut nearly as low) is about as much fun as changing a tire on a twenty-six-foot veterinary clinic-on-wheels. In the dark. In the rain. And sleet.

  But after all the time, energy, and emotion I’d invested in having this dress made, I figured it was time to check out the results. Maybe, I hoped, I would even look something close to nice….

  “E-e-ek!” I cried.

  “Signorina!” Gabriella sounded as if she was about to burst into tears. “You don’t like?”

  I stood a little straighter and forced myself to take another look. An objective look. Even though my dark blond hair hung limply, and even though, as usual, I wasn’t wearing any makeup, I was startled by what I saw. The dress Gabriella Bertucci had custom made for me fit beautifully, making me look more like Cinderella than I ever would have thought possible.

  The dress was made from a silky fabric that draped around my various body parts in a surprisingly flattering way. It skimmed over my torso and waist and hips, giving me a womanly shape that a comfortable pair of jeans just didn’t capture. Even the low-cut neckline looked good on me. At least, once I finally stopped tugging at it after remembering that the petite fashionista had a sharp pair of scissors in her possession and that even she had a breaking point.

  The only problem was the dress’s color.

  Mint green.

  When it came to planning her wedding, my dear friend Betty Vandervoort was turning out to be a real traditionalist. Instead of an edgy event with, say, a justice of the peace who did a rap version of the ceremony or a hippie minister who recited the poems of Charles Bukowski, she surprised me by insistng on something out of a fairy tale. And it included a bride in a long white gown accompanied by bridesmaids in pastel shades like baby pink and pale yellow and my own mint green, colors that made us look more like dishes of candy than grown women.

  I’d pleaded with Betty to let her bridesmaids wear a more dignified color.

  “How about black?” I had suggested hopefully. “These days, a bridesmaid dressed in black is considered the height of sophistication.”

  “Black is for f
unerals,” she returned with a frown. “When I married Charles longer ago than I care to admit, we eloped. This time around, I want the kind of wedding I’ve dreamed about since I was a little girl. And that means a maid of honor who looks like an angel, not the Grim Reaper!”

  The other details of Betty’s spring wedding, now just three weeks away, were equally traditional. She was even demanding that the canine guests come formally attired.

  In fact, it seemed as if she had put more thought into deciding what my snow white Westie, Max, and my black-and-white Dalmatian, Lou, would wear on the big day than she put into choosing her own dress. She’d finally decided on red bow ties for both of them, and for Winston’s dog, a wire-haired dachshund named Frederick, she’d selected a bright yellow bow tie that would complement his soft fawn-and-tan fur.

  Personally, I thought all three dogs looked just fine naked.

  But it wasn’t my wedding. Betty had already pointed that out several times. And a few of those times, she’d suggested that I’d have much more leverage if I’d consider making it a double wedding. That certainly put an end to my complaining.

  Now that I was officially engaged to Nick, ideas like that probably shouldn’t have surprised me. Yet becoming engaged had been a big enough step, one I was still trying to adjust to. I hadn’t quite gotten used to wearing the small but tasteful antique diamond ring that had belonged to Nick’s grandmother, so the idea of shopping for caterers and squealing excitedly over bridal shower gifts and enduring fittings for my own white dress—not to mention contemplating actually being married—was way beyond me.

  For the moment, the role of maid of honor was about all I could cope with.

  “What you don’t like?” Gabriella asked hopefully, studying my reflection with the same intensity I was.

  “The dress is beautiful,” I assured her. “It’s just that it’s so…so green.”

  The tiny native of Milan, Italy, with the build of Pinocchio and the determination of Julius Caesar, folded her arms against her chest. “Signorina,” she replied crisply, “is not me who choose the color. If you no like, you talk with Signora Vandervoort and see if she change.”

  Fat chance, I thought. There was no reasoning with a woman who, in her eighth decade of life, was suddenly subscribing to magazines like Over-the-Top Bride.

  Still, Betty had promised to meet me at Gabriella’s shop this morning so she could see the dress. I supposed this was my big chance to make whatever constructive criticisms I could come up with, but I was torn. Up until a few minutes ago, I’d believed I was willing to do anything in the world for her.

  I was pondering the possibility that the one thing I wasn’t willing to do was risk being arrested for impersonating Scarlett O’Hara when I heard a car door slam outside the shop. Seconds later, the bride-to-be—and the person responsible for my transformation into a life-size after-dinner mint—came dashing through the door.

  From Betty’s fringed, lime green Capri pants, lemon yellow linen blouse and orange espadrilles, no one would ever have guessed that at that moment Gabriella was busily stitching up a wedding dress for her that had enough satin, Belgian lace, and tiny beads to make my dress look like a military uniform by comparison. Just looking at her was enough to provide me with the day’s minimum requirement of vitamin C.

  I was mustering up the courage to register my concerns over the dress when I noticed the expression on Betty’s face.

  “Betty, what’s the matter?” I demanded. “You look like you’ve just lost your best friend!”

  “Simon Wainwright may not have been my best friend,” Betty replied seriously, “but that doesn’t make the fact that he was murdered last night any easier to take.”

  It took a few seconds for the meaning of her words to sink in.

  “Someone you know was murdered?” I cried. I lifted my skirt and started to step off the pedestal.

  “Scusi, Signorina,” Gabriella burst out, sounding completely exasperated. “We will never finish the dress if you do not stop moving around like a…a puppy!”

  “Let’s take a break,” I suggested, more calmly than I felt. Apparently, the dress designer’s English vocabulary didn’t include the word “murder.”

  But mine did.

  “Sit down,” I instructed Betty. “Take a few deep breaths and tell me exactly what happened.”

  “Signorina! The pins—”

  “I’ll be careful,” I assured Gabriella. Suddenly, getting poked with a few straight pins didn’t seem to matter at all.

  As soon as Betty and I perched on the brocade-covered couch that graced one corner of the shop, I turned to face her.

  “First of all, who is Simon Wainwright?” I asked.

  “He’s a member of the amateur theater group I belong to,” she replied. “He just joined us recently after the Port Players’ executive director heard about a fabulous play he’d written. It’s called She’s Flying High, and it’s based on the life of the famous aviator Amelia Earhart. It was going to be the world premiere.”

  “So he is—was—a playwright.”

  “He was also the male lead. He was playing the part of Amelia’s husband, George Putnam.” Betty sighed. “Simon was one of those ‘triple threats,’ a rare individual who was an amazing actor, singer, and dancer. But he was also an extremely talented writer. There was even talk of She’s Flying High being produced on Broadway!

  “He was so charismatic, someone who would light up a room the moment he walked into it,” she continued, wiping away a tear. “Yet he never let any of it go to his head. Everyone loved him. He was one of the kindest, most charming, most down-to-earth people I’ve ever met.”

  “And now he’s dead,” I said softly, still trying to take it all in.

  Betty nodded. “His body was found in the theater early this morning. The police won’t know the actual cause of death until an autopsy has been performed, but the detective I spoke to said it looked as if someone had struck him in the head from behind with something hard.”

  “Who discovered his body?” I asked.

  “The costume designer, a young woman named Lacey Croft. She was poking around the storage room, checking to see if there were any costumes left over from some other play that would be suitable for this production. She opened an old trunk that had been pushed into a corner and…” She swallowed hard. “Simon’s body was stuffed inside.”

  “That’s awful!” I cried. “You must be so upset, Betty. What a horrible thing!”

  She covered her face with her hands. “Simon was such a dear friend!” she cried in a choked voice. “I thought the world of that young man. I’d only known him for a few weeks, but I was already starting to think of him as a son, much the way I think of you as a daughter, Jessica.”

  I just nodded. “I’m so sorry,” I said. “If there’s anything I can do—”

  She lowered her hands into her lap and looked at me intently. “As a matter of fact, there is.”

  Theater One in Port Townsend had begun life as a button factory a hundred years earlier. Since then, the freestanding red brick building had also been a warehouse, a vaudeville house, and a movie theater. Its last incarnation was still in evidence, thanks to the big marquee jutting out over the glass-and-wood front doors, the large glass-covereed displays with posters publicizing the next production, and the old-fashioned box office in the middle of the tiled entryway.

  I must admit, I felt a little flutter in the pit of my stomach as Betty and I walked through the side entrance marked “Stage Door.” I knew the circumstances that were responsible for my being here in the first place were tragic. But I couldn’t help feeling a twinge of excitement over getting a behind-the-scenes look at a theater company.

  True, the Port Players was only a local group, run by amateurs. But theater had always held a certain mystique for me, mainly because I couldn’t fathom anyone actually having the guts to go onstage in front of an audience and perform. Personally, I was one of those behind-the-scenes people. Of course,
the only real theatrical experience I’d had was in college, when I’d worked backstage at the Bryn Mawr College Junior Show.

  Inside, the lights were low and the air was somber. It seemed fitting that the entire stage was black, not only the floor, but also the tremendous backdrops hanging behind the stage. As we walked down the short set of stairs off to one side, I glanced out at the audience. At least twenty-five people were scattered throughout the first four or five rows.

  As Betty and I sat down in dark red velvet seats, a tall, gangly man rose from the first row and turned to face the audience. He had gaunt features, piercing dark eyes, and dark brown curly hair so thick I wondered how he managed to get a comb through it. It kept falling into his eyes and he resolutely kept pushing it back.

  He was wearing black pants and a white turtleneck, an outfit that screamed “director.” At least to me, who’d learned most of what I knew about the theater from the movies.

  As if she’d read my thoughts, Betty leaned over and whispered, “That’s Derek Albright, the Port Players’ executive director.”

  “This is truly a sad day,” Derek began somberly. “We have lost a man who was more than a member of our troupe. Simon Wainwright was our spiritual leader. Yet even in this time of deep despair, it’s imperative that we continue,” he went on. “The expression ‘the show must go on’ has never been more true. I don’t think any of us doubts that that’s exactly what Simon would have wanted. Jonathan, who’s been playing Charles Lindbergh, has agreed to step into Simon’s role of Amelia Earhart’s husband, George Putnam. I’m hoping you’ll all agree that the best way we can remember Simon is to bring his work off the page and into this theater. Let’s work together to honor the man who was our friend and mentor by finishing what we started—”

  “How can you?”

  The high-pitched female voice that rose up from the back of the theater startled everyone, cutting through the somber mood. As I craned my neck to see who had spoken, I noticed that everyone else in the audience was doing the exact same thing.