Hare Today, Dead Tomorrow

by Cynthia Baxter

  True, my cottage was dwarfed by the other house on the property, a dignified mansion built in the mid-1800s by the estate’s original owner, a successful industrialist named Tallmadge whose grandfather had been part of a famous spy ring during the Revolutionary War. But its grandeur only made my little abode seem cozier. Besides, my friend and landlady, Betty, lived in the Big House. Having her right on the premises was like having friendship on tap.

  As I climbed out of my car, I noticed that a familiar cream-colored Rolls Royce was parked outside her house, a sign that she was spending this Friday evening entertaining. That was fine with me. At the moment, it wasn’t companionship of the human variety I yearned for.

  As soon as I threw open my front door, I was greeted by two leaping, barking canines who were so happy to see me you would have thought I’d been gone forty-eight years rather than forty-eight hours.

  The feeling was mutual.

  “Hey, you guys!” I cried, crouching down. “I am so glad to see you!”

  My Westie, Max, bounced up and down, his dark brown eyes bright as he pawed the air with his fluffy white feet. As always, my adorable little terrier looked like a cuddly stuffed animal come to life, a cloud of white fur with a black nose that reminded me of the cherry on top of an ice cream sundae. Even though my Maxie-Max had lost his tail while living with his previous owner, he shook the stub that remained so hard he conjured up the image of a hula dancer who’d had too much caffeine.

  Lou, my Dalmatian, was also beside himself with glee. My gangly charge with sleek white fur dotted with black and only one eye was unusually assertive, a sign that he’d really missed me. While he usually deferred to his canine brother—even though Max weighed a third of what he weighed—today was one of the rare occasions he took advantage of his greater size to shove Max out of the way. Terriers don’t usually take no for an answer, so the two of them were having a grand old time slamming against each other, each one trying to prove that Mom liked him best.

  “Who’s the pretty birdy? Awk! The pirate’s life for me!” Prometheus screeched from his huge cage in the corner of the living room. The sound of his shrill voice cutting through the barking, the panting, and the clicking of doggy toenails against the wooden floor made me laugh. My blue and gold macaw with his glossy, brilliantly colored feathers was also glad I was home, as evidenced by his confusion over which of his favorite phrases to screech next.

  “Prometheus is the pretty birdy,” I replied, as if I were the one who’d been well-trained.

  “Awk, shake your booty!” he returned happily.

  Amid the happy confusion, I noticed Catherine the Great emerging from the kitchen, leaving her favorite warm spot on the rag rug in front of the refrigerator to greet me. My gray cat with the dignified carriage of the empress who was her namesake moved slowly, her arthritic joints limiting her movements more and more every day.

  But even before she’d made it across the living room, the commotion stopped. The newest member of my menagerie had just come in from the back of the house—and Max and Lou acted as if their boss had just entered the conference room and caught them throwing paper airplanes. The dogs moved aside, suddenly looking sheepish, as if they realized they’d overstepped their bounds. Even Prometheus quieted down, lowering his voice from an earsplitting shriek to a parrot version of muttering.

  Tinkerbell was in the building.

  The little tiger kitten had only recently become part of my family. Even though she was just a few weeks old and still small enough to fit in the palm of my hand, it was already clear that she had the personality of a diva—and that she just assumed she was in charge.

  “Hey, Tink!” I cried, scooping her up and nuzzling her amazingly soft fur against my cheek. Still cradling her in my hand, I gently picked up Cat and sank onto the couch, lowering both felines into my lap. Tinkerbell immediately attacked the button on my jeans, while Cat looked up at me as if to say, “Kids.” The dogs followed, romping around my feet as Prometheus squawked a long string of nonsensical phrases that made it hard to keep a straight face.

  “There’s no place like home,” I said with a sigh, nestling back against the soft cushions and relishing the moment. “Especially when it’s obvious you guys missed me as much as I missed you.”

  “Hey, I missed you too.” Nick emerged from the bedroom, lugging a thick textbook and grinning.

  He was wearing what I’d come to think of as his law student outfit, which I had to admit looked a lot like what had been his private investigator outfit before he’d decided to go back to school. It consisted of a button-down shirt—pale blue today—with khaki pants that were invariably a little wrinkled. He’d been working so hard lately that he hadn’t had time for a haircut, meaning his dark brown hair looked a tad shaggy and the poorly behaved lock in front had even more of a tendency than usual to fall in his eyes.

  While I was used to my animals acting absolutely thrilled that I was home, I wasn’t as accustomed to finding Nick waiting for me. Of course, I’d been tipped off by the music of the ’60s rock group Cream that filled the room, with Eric Clapton mournfully singing, “In a white room...” accompanied by a twangy guitar.

  “But I’m not going to jump all over you, like the rest of this group. At least, not until later.” Nick strode over to the stereo, turning the volume down from earsplitting to merely numbing.

  I had to admit that coming home to Nick felt kind of nice. The fact that a big shopping bag with the Szechuan Palace menu stapled to it was sitting on the dining-room table didn’t hurt either.

  “You read my mind,” I said, gesturing toward what could only be dinner.

  He grinned. “I knew that by the time you got home, you’d be starving. Do you think your stomach can handle Szechuan Garden’s finest?”

  “I could be wrong, but I believe my doctor specifically said I should drink plenty of fluids and eat lots of Chinese food. You did good.”

  “Then do I get a kiss?” he asked.

  “Did you remember the spring rolls?”

  “Would I forget the spring rolls?”

  “Garlic triple crown?”

  “Would I dare show my face without it?”

  “Then you get more than a kiss. But you have to wait until I’ve satisfied my most basic urges—like scarfing down all the food I can get my hands on.”

  As usual, I enjoyed the ritual of setting out plates and chopsticks, boiling water for tea, and opening all the waxy white containers and the rectangular plastic dishes. I always think of eating Chinese food as one of the special things that Nick and I do together, even though millions of people do the exact same thing. Billions, if you count all the people who are actually Chinese.

  Predictably, Max and Lou both picked out a choice spot underneath the dining-room table. It wasn’t my habit to feed them people-food, but every once in a while the force of gravity carried some tasty little morsel down to their level. They’d learned that it didn’t hurt to be ready, just in case. Cat hovered nearby, slightly more reserved, while Tinkerbell was too distracted by a spider crawling up the wall to notice it was dinnertime.

  Nick and I didn’t do a much better job of controlling ourselves. We pounced on the food as if we were field hands who’d just come in from a long day of clearing the back forty. Frankly, I would have loved it if we had nothing more important to talk about than how wiped out we were, filling each other in on details like the most interesting medical case I’d seen that day or the latest intrigues of his study group. Unfortunately, that wasn’t the case.

  “So how’s Suzanne holding up?” Nick asked as soon as we’d both piled our plates high.

  The feast before me suddenly looked a whole lot less appetizing.

  “I’m really worried,” I told him. “She’s not handling this well at all.”

  “Not surprising. And you didn’t make any headway in convincing her to tell the police what really happened that day?”

  “She still doesn’t seem to get it,” I said, shaking my he
ad. “At least, not at this point.”

  He grimaced. “Bad move on her part.”

  “Nick, Suzanne is in serious trouble,” I said somberly. I paused for a few seconds before adding, “If I’m really going to help her, I’ve got to find out who murdered Cassandra Thorndike.”

  I braced myself for his reaction. After all, I was well aware of his feelings about my nasty habit of sticking my nose into the shadowy nooks and crannies that surround murder investigations. And the fact that I’d just been released from the hospital, thanks to my latest escapade as veterinarian-turned-Nancy Drew, didn’t exactly strengthen my position.

  Sure enough, his response was a mild explosion. “Correct me if I’m wrong,” he cried, “but didn’t you and I recently agree that you might be better off pursuing a hobby that’s less dangerous than homicide investigation? That maybe you should consider something along the lines of stamp collecting or basket weaving or...or classic rock?”

  “But this is different!” I exclaimed. “This is Suzanne! Nick, I talked to Falcone today, and he really has it out for her. He’s anxious to pin this murder on somebody, and he’s decided she’s the most likely target. I have to help her, no matter what it takes. And the only way I can clear her name is by finding the real killer. You understand, don’t you?”

  Anxiously, I waited for his reaction. And I was as startled as I was relieved when he finally said, “You’re right. You have to do it. There’s no other way to get her out of this.”

  “Thank you, Nick,” I said breathlessly. “For understanding, I mean.”

  “But Jess?” Nick added. “Please do me a favor.”

  “What is it?”

  “Be careful.”

  “I will,” I croaked, suddenly having a hard time speaking. No one knew as well as I did that murder investigation was serious business.

  “So what did Falcone have to say?” Nick asked earnestly. “Was the Norfolk County Police Department’s answer to Columbo his usual charming self?”

  “He said what he always says: that I should butt out and mind my own business. But I also talked to Forrester Sloan. Remember him?”

  “The guy you claim I met at the hospital,” Nick said. “But I barely remember him.” Frowning, he added, “He’s also the person who got you involved in your last foray into the fun and frolicsome world of homicide.”

  “That’s the one,” I replied. “He was at Cassandra’s house this afternoon.”

  His eyebrows shot up to his hairline. “You were at the murder victim’s house?”

  “Nick, how else am I going to help Suzanne if I don’t check out the scene of the crime? I have to learn everything I possibly can about the murder.”

  He gave a grunt that said that, even though he didn’t like it, he understood. “Was this reporter guy helpful?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact. Turns out he’s covering the case, so he told me everything he knows.” I hesitated, wondering if I should mention the three clues the murderer had left behind. Given Forrester’s vehemence about keeping it a secret, I decided there was no reason to let anyone else in on it at this point—not even Nick. “Forrester is convinced this isn’t a case that forensics will solve. He thinks I have a good chance of finding out who murdered Cassandra just by talking to the people who were in her life and piecing together the story of what was going on—especially the part about why somebody wanted her dead.”

  “What about her lawyer?” he asked. “Who is he—or she—and what’s his take on this?”

  “It’s a he,” I replied. “Jerry Keeler. The guy’s a disaster.”

  “Then why is Suzanne using him?”

  I hesitated before answering. “Marcus recommended him. Apparently they went to college together.”

  “Marcus?” Nick cried. “That jerk?”

  I had to admit that Marcus Scruggs was a pretty good veterinarian. But that was about the only positive thing I could say about him. In fact, whenever I thought about Marcus, the word lout always came to mind.

  I’d met him back when I was applying to veterinary school. But I’d realized from our first interaction that he was one of those men who made most decisions with the part of his body that was covered by his pants, not his hat.

  Introducing the two of them three months earlier had been Suzanne’s idea, not mine. I’d made the mistake of mentioning him in the same conversation in which she told me about her divorce, and before I knew it, she was insisting that I bring him along to dinner. From the moment they met, so many sparks flew that I hoped the restaurant’s smoke detectors were up to code.

  “If Marcus recommended this Jerry Keeler, no wonder he’s a disaster!” Nick grumbled. “What’s wrong with that woman? How can Suzanne trust a guy who insists on referring to himself as ‘the Marc Man’ with something this important?”

  I cringed, even though I felt exactly the same way. Somehow, hearing Nick express the same feelings of alarm that had gripped me since I’d met the man who was supposed to be getting Suzanne out of this mess made the whole situation seem even more horrifying.

  “I tried to change her mind,” I told him. “She won’t budge.”

  “Great, just great,” Nick muttered. “If you don’t mind, let’s not talk about Marcus while we’re eating. This topic of conversation is giving me indigestion. Besides, you and I have something important to discuss.”

  It took me a few seconds to figure out what he was talking about. “Oh,” I finally said. “Right.”

  Our future. At least, our immediate future. The fact that Nick was on the verge of being thrown out of his apartment, an illegal rental on the second floor of a charming Victorian house in nearby Port Townsend. And that his sudden and unexpected lack of a place to reside made this a good time for the two of us to consider living together.

  At least, that was how Nick saw it.

  “Can we be perfectly honest with each other?” he continued.

  I gulped like a Looney Toons character. Even though I’ve always considered honesty one of the Top Five requirements for a solid relationship, I suddenly felt as if someone had turned the thermostat up about twenty degrees. I had to fight the impulse to run over to the front door, fling it open, and stick my head out into the cool night air—the best way I could think of to start breathing normally again.

  “Let’s face it, Jess,” Nick went on. “You have some major commitment issues.”

  “I have pets,” I pointed out feebly. “That’s a commitment.”

  He nodded, but I knew he was just being polite. “That aside, I think you recognize how special our relationship is.”

  That was true enough. Nick Burby was one of a kind. He was intelligent, funny, patient, sensitive...and willing to put up with a mouthy parrot, a needy senior citizen of a cat, a tiger kitten who was the size of a coffee mug but firmly believed she was the successor to the Lion King, and a couple of canines who made the Three Stooges look as dignified as Belgian royalty.

  He even accepted my obsession with investigating murders. More or less.

  “At any rate, there’s absolutely no doubt in my mind that nothing would make me happier than us living together,” Nick went on. “Especially since our schedules have become so insane. Between the crazy hours you work and the time demands of my first year of law school, you and I hardly see each other. If we were sharing the same bed and the same breakfast table and the same bathroom, at least we’d have some semblance of a relationship. And since we’d be splitting expenses half and half, think of all the money you could save.”

  I took a particularly large bite of a spring roll, which I considered to be an effective way of buying time. He was right about the practical aspects of him moving in with me. Our crazy schedules aside, his landlord wanted him out by the end of the month. Apparently the landlord’s newly divorced daughter who’d moved back home was getting tired of living with the Peter Frampton and Boy George posters in her old room. The idea of forcing Nick to scramble around to find a new place to live, especially given
the demands of his course load, seemed kind of coldhearted.

  I had to admit that I’d run so hot and cold with Nick over the years that he practically needed a plumber. True, I’d fallen for him hard almost right from the moment we met, back in the days when he was still a private investigator and I was helping him out with a case that involved pit bulls. But even my strong feelings for him weren’t an effective antidote to my so-called “commitment issues.”

  Who knows? I thought. Maybe it’s time to take a deep breath, hold my nose, and jump into the commitment pool—for lack of a more graceful metaphor. There were certainly some definite pluses to being in a serious relationship, ranging from having a wonderful man around to sneak up behind you and give you a hug while you were brushing your teeth to being able to complain about the electric bill to somebody who cared as much as you did because he was paying half of it. I could handle that part.

  The feeling that I was giving up something precious and hard-won—namely, my independence—was more complicated. And that was where the attacks of claustrophobia came in.

  But Nick was waiting for an answer. As I was teetering between “Sure, why not?” and “Help!” he suddenly said, “You know, Jess, we could consider this a trial. Decide that we’ll try living together for three months— let’s say until the New Year. At that point, we can step back and reevaluate. You know, look at all our options.”

  It occurred to me that Nick was already starting to talk like a lawyer—even though he’d only been a law student for a few weeks. But what mattered here was that he recognized my apprehensions and, even more important, that he was leaving me a way out. An escape clause, for lack of a better expression.

  That alone was enough for me to say yes.

  “Nick,” I told him, putting down my chopsticks, “I think it’s a great idea. Let’s do it. On a trial basis, the way you suggested.”

  A big grin spread over his face. He put down his chopsticks, came over to my side of the table, and put his arms around me.