Hare Today, Dead Tomorrow

by Cynthia Baxter

  “Jess, when they showed up at my house, I just freaked! All these thoughts started racing around in my head, like, They’re going to think I killed Cassandra Thorndike because I was jealous! and I can’t let them know I was there!” The tears that had pooled in her eyes began streaming down her cheeks. “I didn’t want to get involved. I was afraid they’d suspect me.”

  In a choked voice, she added, “But I didn’t do it, Jessie! You believe me, don’t you?”

  “Of course I do!” I cried.

  In fact, I was one hundred percent convinced that she was innocent. Suzanne Fox and I had been friends since our freshman year of college, when the fact that we both wanted to become veterinarians had instantly bonded us. We’d memorized the periodic table together, filled out our vet-school applications together, and even opened our letters of acceptance together. Even though we lost touch for a few years after she went to vet school at Purdue University and I went to Cornell, the previous June we had reconnected when I discovered that she, too, was living on Long Island. She was someone I’d been friends with for more than a decade and a half. As far as I was concerned, that was more than enough time to be certain of her true character.

  “What did the police say when you told them it wasn’t you their witnesses had spotted?” I asked.

  Suzanne’s lip trembled. “I’m not sure they believed me. When they left, they told me not to leave the New York area. In fact, they said I’d be wise to stay on Long Island.”

  “Suzanne, listen to me,” I said, doing my best to remain calm. “You’ve got to tell them the truth. Sooner or later, the cops are going to—”

  “Don’t you see?” she cried. “I can’t change my story now. It’ll only make things look worse.”

  “But don’t you think that sooner or later they’re going to figure out you really were at Cassandra’s house that day? That they’ll find your hair or your fingerprints or... or some other proof?”

  She shook her head hard. “I’m not even going to think about that right now,” she insisted. “If that ever happens—and I don’t see any reason why it should—I’ll deal with it then.”

  Her capacity for denial was truly remarkable. Then again, she’d already astounded me with it through her choice of boyfriend.

  I decided to try a different tack. “Have you contacted an attorney?” I asked. “Someone who can give you advice?”

  She nodded. “Marcus put me in touch with somebody. A guy he went to college with. I think they were in the same fraternity.”

  Great, I thought as a wave of dismay swept over me. I hoped that, whoever he was, he’d turn out not to have gotten through school the same way as that boyfriend of hers, Marcus Scruggs: by majoring in Girls and Beer. “Who is he?”

  “Jerry Keeler,” she replied. “He’s got an office right across from the Norfolk County Courthouse.”

  I made a mental note of his name.

  “Is there anything you can do, Jessie? Can you talk to that obnoxious guy in homicide? You know him, don’t you? What’s his name—Vulture or something?”

  “Falcone,” I corrected her. “Lieutenant Falcone.”

  “If he hurries up and finds the real murderer, I’ll be off the hook, right?” she asked anxiously. “Besides, aren’t you two friends?”

  I hesitated before replying, “Actually, he and I are not exactly on the best of terms.”

  That was an understatement. Not only was the man utterly convinced that I spent way too much time investigating murders; the fact that I occasionally turned out to be better at it than he was only furthered the damage. Given our history, I suspected that alerting him to my connection to this case would only aggravate what was already an appalling situation.

  But I had to take action. Especially since Suzanne didn’t seem to realize that she’d made a bad situation a hundred times worse by lying to the police about having been at Cassandra Thorndike’s house the day she was murdered. Despite my feelings about Falcone, he was sharp enough that such a blatant lie was bound to raise red flags.

  And when Falcone was seeing red, there was no telling what he might do.

  Before I drove off, I took a long look at Suzanne’s house, a small West Brompton Beach bungalow that had clearly been built as a summer home. It looked ridiculously cheerful and full of hope for the future, despite the fact that whoever designed it had clearly been influenced by the Shoe Box Movement. Suzanne had done a valiant job of making the best of it. Its white shingles had been painted recently, probably around the time she and her then-husband, Robert Reese, moved in two years ago, when they’d relocated to Long Island so he could open his own restaurant. Back then, of course, Suzanne didn’t realize their marriage had already gotten to dessert.

  Even though she’d been born and raised in the Midwest, she’d opted to keep the house, buying out Robert’s share as part of their divorce settlement. She’d already set down roots in the area, establishing a veterinary practice in nearby Poxabogue. Somehow, the house suited her. The simple, one-story structure reflected her Midwestern practicality. Yet she’d added a few flashier touches—painting the shutters turquoise and lime green, for example, and putting out one of those cynical door-mats that read Go Away— that I tend to think of as her ever-increasing New York–ness.

  It was certainly true that Suzanne had changed a lot since our college days, when she’d arrived at Bryn Mawr literally right off the farm. But she was a long way from being tough enough to withstand something like this without completely crumbling beneath the stress.

  When she’d first called me to tell me she was in trouble, I was lying in a hospital bed, recovering from having my stomach pumped. The entire thing was so surreal that I’d wondered if I was simply experiencing some bizarre side effect from the drugs the doctors had given me.

  Unfortunately, the sick feeling that immediately lodged in my stomach told me it was all terribly real.

  Of course, that feeling was probably also due to the fact that I’d been poisoned not long before. I still wasn’t feeling even close to perky.

  I didn’t look particularly perky either, I realized as I climbed into my red VW and caught sight of myself in the rearview mirror. My face was pale and drawn, and my expression made me look like someone who had just received some of the worst news of her entire life. My dark-blond hair, badly in need of washing, was pulled back into an unflattering ponytail. And my green eyes had a dull look that I knew could only be cured with a cup of joe. I promised myself that I’d dash into the first Starbucks I spotted—whether my stomach agreed that it was a good idea or not.

  At least locating some desperately needed caffeine wasn’t likely to prove too much of a struggle. West Brompton Beach was like most of the other communities on Long Island’s South Fork, the nickname for the bottom prong of the fish-shaped island’s tail: It was filled with establishments that catered to the needs of individuals with more money than they could spend in several lifetimes. During the summer, swarms of ridiculously wealthy actors, writers, artists, pop stars, and rappers, along with the behind-the-scenes business moguls who’d made them all household names in the first place, moved the glitz and glamour of their Manhattan lifestyles one hundred miles east to the area known as the Bromptons. My mobile veterinary practice, a 26-foot van that serves as my office, frequently took me there to treat the dogs, cats, and other pets that belonged to both locals and summer residents. So I knew only too well that between Memorial Day and Labor Day, you couldn’t find a parking space, buy a cup of coffee for under three dollars, or walk more than twenty feet without spotting someone you’d seen on the cover of People magazine.

  But the seaside village had a split personality. September had just eased into October, and the summer playground of the rich and famous was already showing signs of rust. Many of the luxurious vacation homes were closed up for the winter season, along with some of the boutiques. As for the restaurants, maître d’s who would laugh at anyone calling for a reservation less than a month in advance during
the high season were now desperately pushing three-course prix fixe dinners for under thirty bucks.

  Actually, autumn and winter were my favorite times of year on the island’s East End. The beach towns took on a magical quality, thanks to the stark gray-white light of the luminescent sky. The endless white-sanded beaches, not a soul in sight other than the shrieking sea-gulls scavenging for food, always struck me as romantic. The same went for the beach communities’ Main Streets, as crowded as cities during July and August but as deserted as ghost towns in the fall. It was easy to see why the Tile Club, the group of artists who had first trekked out to the South Fork from New York City in the late 1800s, had instantly fallen in love with the area’s natural beauty. Famed architect Stanford White, painters Winslow Homer and William Merritt Chase, and the other members of their exclusive group published their drawings and paintings of the South Fork in a popular magazine, instantly creating a brand-new tourist destination.

  Besides, Starbucks was open year-round.

  Sure enough, I found one less than a mile from Suzanne’s house. After I’d obtained a double grande cappuccino, enough industrial-strength coffee to jump-start an entire football team, I settled back into the front seat of my car and made a bunch of phone calls, rescheduling the rest of the day’s appointments.

  Then I dialed Nick’s cell phone number. I only hoped he wouldn’t be so involved in contracts and torts and whatever else he was learning about in his first year of law school that I wouldn’t be able to reach him.

  Relief washed over me when he answered on the second ring.

  “Jess?” he asked eagerly. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine, Nick,” I assured him. “A little shaky, but that’s to be expected.” I paused before adding, “I wish I could say the same for Suzanne.”

  “What’s going on with her?” He’d been standing right next to me when Suzanne had called me at the hospital. And when he’d driven me home earlier that morning before heading off to a full day of classes, her predicament was pretty much all we’d talked about. So I knew he was anxious for an update.

  “It’s as bad as it sounded on the phone,” I told him, figuring there was no point in telling him the truth: that it was actually even worse. “Suzanne’s in serious trouble. She’s apparently a suspect in Cassandra Thorndike’s murder.”

  “But that’s insane!” he exclaimed. “Suzanne Fox is the last person in the world who would ever be capable of something like that!”

  “My sentiments exactly.” I paused for a few seconds before adding, “I have to help her, Nick, whether it means talking to the police or...or just holding her hand as she goes through this. . . .”

  “I understand that, Jess. But if she’s innocent—”

  “There’s something else.” I took a deep breath, bracing myself before dropping the real bomb in his lap. “She lied to the police. Several witnesses saw someone who fit her description in a car that matches hers near the victim’s house around the time of the murder. But when the police questioned her, she denied being there.”

  He let out a long, loud sigh. “Whoa, boy,” he muttered.

  “Nick, I can’t just sit by and watch her go through this without doing everything I can. I know I’m supposed to give myself a few days to recover—but that also gives me an excuse to take a little time off to do what I can for Suzanne. I want to check out her lawyer and make sure he’s the best guy she can possibly get and—and maybe talk to Lieutenant Falcone. I don’t even know what else to do yet, but whatever it is, I have to do it.” I hesitated before adding, “And even though you’re busy with law school and all, maybe you could help me...?”

  I really did need Nick’s help in this. For one thing, the years of experience he’d racked up as a private investigator, back before he decided to change careers and go to law school, might come in handy. But even more important, helping to get Suzanne through this wasn’t going to be easy, and I knew I’d need his moral support. Desperately.

  “Okay, Jess,” he said solemnly. “I hear what you’re saying. And I promise I’ll do whatever you need me to do.”

  “Thanks, Nick,” I breathed. “You have no idea how much that means to me.”

  That last part was painfully true. I suddenly felt overwhelmed by Suzanne’s situation.

  One thing was certain: I was glad she hadn’t wasted any time finding herself a lawyer, even though she’d had nothing more than Marcus Scruggs’s recommendation to go by. At this point, making sure she had crackerjack representation appeared to be our best hope.

  I just hoped that whoever Jerry Keeler was, he’d turn out to be really, really good.

  Chapter 2

  “A kitten is more amusing than half the people one is obliged to live with.”

  —Lady Sydney Morgan

  The temporary lift that resulted from my caffeine orgy had all but faded by the time I maneuvered my Volkswagen through the congested streets surrounding the Norfolk County Courthouse. As if feeling both exhausted and overwhelmed weren’t enough, a steady rain had begun to fall. I was glad I’d grabbed my navy blue polyester fleece jacket that morning before jumping into my car to drive to Suzanne’s. It wasn’t exactly the height of fashion, since it was embroidered with “Jessica Popper, D.V.M.,” but it was perfect for weather like this.

  The rain made it hard to read the numbers on the imposing glass and steel office buildings as I tried to find one that matched the address I’d found in the phone book. After half an hour of peering through the streaks the wipers made on the windshield, I decided it was time to stop and ask directions.

  I pulled into the first parking space I saw and was nearly sideswiped by a Mercedes whose driver had decided it should belong to him—even though I got there first. I wasn’t surprised that his license plate read ILL SUE 4U.

  “Lawyers,” I muttered, groping around the backseat for my umbrella. I only hoped somebody in one of the slightly seedy stores I’d parked in front of would be able to help me locate 1211 New Country Road. Between the bail bondsman, the pawnshop, and the delicatessen, someone was bound to know something.

  Once I was out on the sidewalk, cowering under my umbrella and mournfully watching raindrops splatter over the one pair of good shoes I own, I realized I was only steps away from the very place I was seeking. While I’d just assumed that Marcus’s college pal would have an office in one of the ultramodern buildings closer to the courthouse, he apparently ran more of a budget operation.

  I stood outside the nondescript red brick building for a good five minutes, hoping against hope that I’d gotten it wrong. Surely the man in whose hands Suzanne Fox’s entire future lay couldn’t be based in a third-floor walk-up above a deli whose claim to fame appeared to be the $4.99 Al Capone Meatball Sub Special.

  The peeling gold letters stuck on the third-floor window told me otherwise. I could see for myself that they spelled out Jerry Keeler’s name. Right below were the words Criminal, Divorce, Immigration, Bankruptcy. In smaller letters, down at the bottom, were the phrases Se Habla Español and Payment Plans Available.

  Not exactly in the same league as O.J.’s defense team, I thought, my spirits plummeting.

  Give the guy a chance, I told myself. Maybe he’ll turn out to be one of those dedicated types who’ll do anything for his clients—the kind who doesn’t give a hoot about fancy offices and other unnecessary niceties. Like functioning hardware, I thought, wrestling with a tarnished doorknob that didn’t appear to have been updated since 1975.

  When I finally managed to accomplish that feat, I stepped into a small foyer that was so dark that it took a few seconds for my eyes to adjust. Once they did, I cringed. The dull green linoleum in the hallway was cracked. So were the yellow plaster walls. I surveyed the row of mailboxes, noticing that the metal doors on two of them had been bashed in.

  I walked up two flights of stairs. The hallway smelled funny, from something I couldn’t quite identify. Frankly, I didn’t try very hard.

  On the top floor, I fou
nd several wooden doors, each one inset with a window made of frosted glass. Written on the one at the end of the hall were the words Jerry Keeler, Attorney At Law.

  At least, that’s what I thought it said at first glance. But something didn’t look right. I moved closer and studied the letters more carefully.

  What it actually said was Jerry Keeler, Attorny At Law.

  The little bit of optimism I’d been clinging to was fading fast. I opened the door and found myself in a small waiting room. It was furnished with dark-red plastic chairs with chrome armrests and a coffee table made of Formica that was designed to look like wood. A few horrifying pieces of what I assumed was supposed to be artwork hung on the mint-green walls. The floor was covered in the same type of linoleum that was in the entryway. Same vintage, too. And condition.

  The receptionist sitting behind a glass partition glanced up. She looked surprised, although whether that was because an unexpected customer had just walked in or because her eyebrows had been tweezed to form two unnaturally high arches, I couldn’t say. Her hair was a startling coppery color, styled into a bubble that reminded me of the last Doris Day movie I’d seen. She also wore a great deal of makeup, including an electric-blue eye shadow that I suspected lit up in the dark. If the blue stuff smeared on her lids didn’t, then the glitter in it had to.

  “Can I help you?” she asked doubtfully.

  “I’d like to see Mr. Keeler, please. And by the way, there’s an e in attorney.”

  She just stared at me and blinked, her heavily mascaraed eyelashes creating a breeze that was nearly strong enough to knock me over. In fact, she was so shocked that she even stopped chomping her gum.

  “ ’Scuse me?”

  “The word attorney,” I said again. “There’s an e in it. You might want to correct your sign.”