Hare Today, Dead Tomorrow

by Cynthia Baxter

  “I’m sure you’ll be just fine,” Winston insisted heartily. “You’re a very brave, resourceful young woman with a good head on her shoulders. I’m certain you’ll find success in clearing your friend’s name. As for any possible risks, I certainly can’t imagine that someone as clear-thinking as you would ever take on anything that wasn’t safe.”

  The look I saw Betty and Nick exchange told me they didn’t quite agree.

  Anxious to change the subject, I said, “Hey, I just realized we toasted Nick, but we haven’t toasted Winston! We don’t want him to feel left out....”

  As the champagne took effect, everyone mellowed, including me. Even the dogs were lolling on the thick Oriental carpet—all three of them acting like old friends, I was relieved to see. Noting that the menfolk were absorbed in a discussion of their own, I sauntered over to Betty, who was basking in the warmth of the fireplace.

  “I feel like I’m starting a brand-new chapter of my life,” I commented, trying to sound brave and adventurous.

  “We both are,” Betty returned. “And I’m going to give you a word of advice.”

  I waited in silence, knowing there was no way I could stop it, even if I wanted to.

  “Enjoy it, Jessica. Life’s too short not to.”

  I just nodded. She made it sound so simple. And maybe it was.

  At the very least, I could try.

  Coffee.

  As always, the thought that my morning shot of caffeine was just a few steps away was sufficient reason for me to drag myself out of bed. Of course, the sudden appearance of a warm wet nose in my face—Lou’s, this time, reminding me that not all of us were able to benefit from indoor plumbing—was another strong incentive.

  I climbed out of bed, groping my way toward the kitchen. My mind was still foggy, so much so that I’d forgotten that anything in my life had changed. It certainly felt just like any other day, what with Max getting underfoot and Lou hovering nearby and Prometheus already greeting the new day with annoying exuberance.

  Until I snapped on the kitchen light and was confronted with a carton of mismatched mugs with cute sayings like, Instant Human! Just Add Coffee, a Tupperware container of utensils whose various purposes I couldn’t begin to imagine, and the official Mr. Healthybody Super-Juicer, still in its original box.

  “He’ll find a way to make it fit,” I muttered as I poured water into Mr. Coffee, wondering if I should start thinking of my favorite appliance as Mr. CaffeineAddictedBody. “He’s really good at that kind of thing. He told me so himself.”

  As my beloved coffeepot began burping and sighing, I shuffled into the bathroom and launched into my usual morning routine. I grabbed my toothbrush, then opened the medicine cabinet to retrieve the toothpaste.

  And instinctively ducked to protect myself from an avalanche as not one but four tubes leaped off the shelf and into the sink.

  “Ni-i-ck!” I cried. “Why do we have four tubes of toothpaste?”

  A few seconds later, he stuck his head in the doorway. His hair was tousled and his eyes looked as if the Tooth Fairy had sneaked into the bedroom in the middle of the night and, just for fun, glued the lids together.

  “Wha-a-a, Jess?” he mumbled.

  “Either our toothpaste gave birth during the night,” I replied, trying to remain calm, “or someone is guilty of the crime of hoarding oral-hygiene products.”

  Nick yawned loudly, meanwhile scratching his head with both hands. “Is that all.”

  Not the right answer. “I’m serious, Nick. This place is too small for four tubes of toothpaste.”

  “They all do different things,” he explained. “See? That one’s got whitener in it, and that one’s for sensitive teeth. And that one’s just regular old fluoride toothpaste.”

  “Why do we need all these different kinds?” I persisted. “Besides, doesn’t some enterprising company make just one superduper toothpaste that performs all these vital functions at the same time?”

  “Probably. We’ll get some, okay?” He came up behind me and wrapped his arms around my waist. Looking in the mirror, I saw my reflection, except with an extra head resting on my right shoulder. “I’ve got a great idea. How about these two official roommates taking a shower together?”

  I was about to blurt out an excuse—something like the coffee was probably ready or we didn’t have enough time. Instead, I suddenly heard Betty’s words of advice from the night before in my head.

  “Enjoy it, Jessica,” she’d said.

  I had to admit, Betty was a bit older and way wiser than I was. So I figured I’d give it a try.

  “Only if you promise to wash my back,” I returned.

  “Tell you what,” Nick countered, sliding his warm hands under my T-shirt. “Just to show you what a nice guy I am, I’ll wash anything you want.”

  “Anything?”

  “Just point me in the right direction.”

  Maybe Betty’s right, I thought. And figured I should at least be willing to give her the benefit of the doubt.

  My morning of soapsud fun was long forgotten as I strode into the lobby of Sunshine Multimedia, the parent company of Channel 14 News, trying to exhibit a level of confidence I wasn’t even close to feeling. I gave my name to the woman at the front desk and, at her request, signed in. Then I took a seat in one of the comfortable upholstered chairs that formed a circle around the giant TV dominating the waiting area. Needless to say, it was tuned to Channel 14 News.

  I shouldn’t have said a word about this to anyone, not even Nick, I thought, battling the butterflies that kept insisting upon doing aeronautical maneuvers in my stomach. That way, when it turns out that this doesn’t go anywhere, I won’t feel like—

  “Dr. Popper?” an unnaturally chirpy voice broke in.

  A tiny woman in a bright red blazer and a tight black skirt had marched into the lobby. The top of her long blond hair was pulled back in a barrette, making her look like a cheerleader. In one hand, she clutched a clipboard. She stuck out the other and gave me a hearty handshake.

  “I’m Marlene Fitzgerald, the PA. We spoke on the phone, remember? We’re so glad you were able to come in today.”

  “Thank you.” I hesitated before adding, “What’s a ‘pee-ay’?”

  “Production Assistant. Come on back. I’ll introduce you to Patti. She’s the producer. I believe you two already spoke on the phone.”

  At least producer was an actual word, and one that I recognized, instead of just initials. I was already feeling out of my element, and I hadn’t even made it out of the lobby.

  I followed Marlene down a hallway that looked like a corridor in any other office building. At the end was a pair of double doors painted black. A red lighting fixture was perched above the doorway.

  “Whenever this light is on,” Marlene said, pointing upward without breaking stride, “it means we’re on the air—and that it’s crucial that this door remain closed. Of course, you’ll be inside while we’re broadcasting, so you won’t have to worry.”

  You mean if I get the job, I thought.

  I was shocked when she pushed open the doors and led me into a large room that looked just like the television studios I was used to seeing in the movies.

  “This is Studio A,” Marlene announced. “It’s, uh, our only studio.” Quickly, she added, “Most of our spots are remotes. You know, our reporters are out in the field.”

  Actually, I was amazed at what a simple setup it was. Studio A consisted of a single large room, painted black, with three different sets. One was a big desk with space for two anchors to sit and look authoritative. The backdrop looked like a huge fish but was actually a map of Long Island. Ten feet away was another set, two upholstered chairs separated by a wooden table. The arrangement was ideal for face-to-face, one-on-one interviews.

  The third set consisted of a high counter that was placed on a platform. Funny; I’d had a feeling that was where we were headed. Maybe the profusion of stuffed animals along the back wall tipped me off.
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  “This is where you’ll be doing your spot,” Marlene explained. “You’ll start off with some introductory remarks—”

  “I’ll take over from here,” a female voice boomed through the darkness. The woman it belonged to clipclopped over in a pair of treacherous-looking high heels.

  “This is Patti Ardsley,” Marlene said. “That’s Patti with an i.”

  Somehow, the i didn’t surprise me. I wished I could say the same about the fact that the show’s producer looked like she was about twelve years old. Like Marlene, she was dressed in a skirt and blazer. Only hers matched. A real suit. And her light brown hair was styled in a multilayered pageboy, as if she were at least trying to look like a grown-up.

  “Dr. Popper, we’re so pleased to have you as part of the Channel Fourteen News family,” Patti said, sticking out her hand and forcefully shaking mine. Even though she probably weighed in at about a hundred pounds, she had all the strength and energy of a used-car salesman. I just hoped I wasn’t about to make a purchase I’d end up regretting.

  She turned to her assistant. “Marlene, take Dr. Popper onto the set and help her get settled. I’ll be over in a minute.”

  “But—” I said lamely.

  “Okay, Dr. Popper,” Marlene said. “We’re working with two cameras. You look into whichever one has the red light on. Simple, right?”

  “I guess so—”

  “For the opening, the script will be right here on the teleprompter. All you have to do is read it. Got it?”

  “Got it.”

  “Great. Forrester told us you were a quick study.” She flashed me a big smile. “Okay. You’ll need to show up about half an hour before the spot airs. That way, we’ll have time for hair and makeup. This Friday, for the first show, you should probably come in a little earlier. And do you have any animals you could bring?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Pets. Dogs, cats, that kind of thing? Animals that you could use for demonstrating...I don’t know, procedures or whatever?”

  “I have pets,” I replied. “I suppose I could bring one or two.”

  Somehow, I got the feeling I was on a roller coaster that had started to roll before I had a chance to put the safety bar in place. I tried to remember how many appointments I had scheduled for Friday morning—and how much phone-calling it would take to reschedule everybody.

  “Uh, excuse me,” I interjected. “I thought this was a job interview, not an audition. I mean, I wasn’t prepared to sit in front of—”

  “You’ve already got the job,” Patti’s voice called from somewhere in the dark, sounding irritated.

  Marlene leaned forward. “We’re desperate,” she whispered.

  “But I’m not even sure I want to—”

  “Let’s have her run through the opening,” Patti instructed. “Stand here, behind the counter.”

  I did as I was told, meanwhile sneaking a glance at my cohosts, the twenty or thirty stuffed animals behind me. A grinning crocodile, a zebra with multicolored stripes, a fluffy fake-fur fish...I felt like a guest on Sesame Street. I only hoped a costume with a giant animal head and big furry feet wasn’t in my future.

  “Okay, try sitting on the stool,” Patti instructed.

  Obediently, I lowered myself onto the high wooden stool behind the counter. The fur from the purple stuffed orangutan tickled the back of my neck.

  “Now, smile!” Patti commanded. “Hold your head up high, but not too high. Sit up straight—that’s it. And above all, look natural!”

  “Whenever you’re ready,” Marlene prompted.

  I plastered on what I hoped looked like a sincere smile, peered into the teleprompter, and opened my mouth to speak.

  “Welcome to Pet People, the program for people who are passionate about their pets,” I stopped. “You can’t be serious.”

  Patti’s face emerged from the darkness. She was scowling. “Is there a problem?”

  “Don’t you think the opening sounds too much like ‘Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers’?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “It’s just that it’s kind of a mouthful.”

  “You’re doing fine,” Patti said acidly. “Let’s start again.”

  I took a deep breath. “Welcome to Pet People, the program for people who are passionate about their pets.” Out of the corner of my eye, I could see her nodding approvingly. But then she held up her hand like a crossing guard in a school crosswalk.

  “Wait. I had an idea.”

  Probably not a good thing, I thought.

  “Your name is Dr. Popper, right?”

  “Yes...”

  “We simply have to include that in the opening. The— the—what’s that thing called where everything starts with the same letter?”

  “Alliteration,” I said weakly. This whole thing was starting to sound like a really bad idea—and I hadn’t even gotten my first scathing review.

  “Right. Whatever. Let’s change the opening so you say your name first. Try, ‘I’m Dr. Popper. Welcome to Pet People’...and then the rest.”

  Please, please, don’t let the phrase “Thanks for popping in” pop into her head! I thought.

  “Got it,” I said cheerfully, wondering if the Crocodile Hunter put up with this kind of treatment. Somehow, I couldn’t picture Steve Irwin letting the Pattis of the world push him around. Not when even six-foot crocodiles weren’t allowed to do that.

  “I’m Dr. Popper...” Somehow, I got through the introduction. After tripping through an obstacle course of Ps, the rest of the script, which was written in normal English, was a cinch.

  Even Patti seemed pleased. “Good job, Dr. Popper. Okay, so next you give your five-minute presentation. We’ll go over it before you go on the air, but basically the content will be up to you. Then it’s time for the call-in segment of the show.”

  I blinked. “No one said anything about that.”

  Marlene nodded like a bobble head. “They’re very popular. Audience participation and all.”

  Patti clearly agreed. “Let’s give it a try. Your opening line is on the teleprompter. You just wait until a red light on the phone lights up, press it, and read your line.”

  “Wait a sec. Exactly who are these people? The ones who are calling in, I mean.”

  “Don’t worry,” she replied impatiently. “We screen all the calls.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Before we allow them to talk to you, we find out their name, where they live, and the nature of their question. That way, we can keep the crazies from getting on the air.”

  Marlene leaned forward and whispered, “We get a lot of crazies.”

  “Could we cut the chitchat?” Patti barked. “Okay, Dr. Popper. Let’s see how you handle this.”

  “Thank you for calling Pet People,” I said brightly, pretending to press one of the buttons. “How can I help you and your pet?”

  “Excellent. You just listen to the caller’s question and answer it the best you can. Got it?”

  “Got it.”

  It sounded simple enough. In fact, now that I’d gotten this far, I was pretty sure that the whole thing sounded like something I could manage.

  As long as I could master the Peter Piper part of the job. If I could manage that, the rest would be a piece of—er, pie.

  Chapter 9

  “I wish I could write as mysterious as a cat.”

  —Edgar Allan Poe

  How did it go?” I’d barely made it back into my car before my cell phone jingled. I checked the Caller ID screen and saw it was Forrester. I wondered if Patti had already let him know that I’d passed the audition and was on my way to becoming a star.

  “Fine,” I told him, surprised by how proud I felt. “I got it.”

  “Far out, Popper! I knew you’d be great!”

  I didn’t bother to mention that, from what I’d seen, “great” wasn’t one of the qualifications for the job. Breathing, yes. Able to read a teleprompter, certainly. Good at working with stuff
ed animals, definitely a plus.

  “So when is your television debut?” he asked.

  “Friday morning at ten.”

  “I’ll be watching, even if I have to call in sick.” He paused. “I hope the fact that you’re skyrocketing to fame doesn’t mean you’ve lost interest in the Thorndike case. I’ve got something you might find interesting.”

  Adrenaline was already shooting through my veins. I felt like my dentist was prepping me for a particularly painful procedure. “News about what?”

  “The three peculiar objects that were found near Cassandra’s body. You remember them, right?”

  “Of course.”

  “Get this,” Forrester announced. “The only fingerprints the forensics people found on any of them were hers.”

  I was right! I thought. “So it was Cassandra who was trying to tell us something, not her killer.”

  “That’s what it looks like.”

  “But are the cops any closer to figuring out what it means?”

  “Nope. At least, not that I’ve heard.”

  I contemplated telling Forrester my theory about The Scarlet Letter referring to an affair—a real one, not the one that involved Hester Prynne and Reverend Dimmesdale. My contemplation lasted all of two seconds. I decided that there was nothing to be gained by sharing my theory with him or anyone else. At least, not until I’d found out more about Cassandra’s love life.

  “By the way,” Forrester interjected, “I spoke to our buddy Lieutenant Falcone this morning. He’s been putting together a list of the people who’d recently been in the room where Cassandra’s body was found.”

  My heartbeat was just starting to speed up again when he added, “Don’t get your hopes up. It’s turning out to be a pretty long list. In fact, just about everybody she knows is on it. Seems the place was crawling with the fingerprints and hairs of the people she knew and loved.”

  “Like who?” I prompted.

  “Let’s see.” I heard him rustling papers. “Okay. Gordon Thorndike, Joan Thorndike, Ethan Thorndike, family members. Robert Reese, fiancé. Jean-Luc Le Bec, pastry chef at Robert Reese’s restaurant. Theo Simcox, family friend. Virginia Krupinski, neighbor. Suzanne Fox, of course.” He paused. “There are quite a few more names. Should I go on?”