Hare Today, Dead Tomorrow

by Cynthia Baxter

  Ethan smiled eerily. “I was just playing around with you, Dr. Popper.”

  “I already figured that out.”

  He shrugged. “I can’t help it if I happen to be good at picking locks and getting into places where I don’t belong.”

  I was about to ask him the obvious question—why he would even want to break into my car and leave behind such a peculiar calling card—when he added, “Looks like that’s a talent you have as well.”

  “I—I don’t know what you mean.” I could feel my cheeks getting hot, a sure sign that they were turning the same shade of red as my VW.

  “Tsk-tsk,” Ethan replied. “Dr. Popper, you’ve been such a naughty girl. Breaking and entering. Isn’t that what the cops call it? Or maybe there’s an even more serious charge that would apply in this situation. Something along the lines of tampering with a crime scene.”

  “I did no such thing!” I insisted indignantly. Instinctively I stuck my hand into my pocket, fingering the rolls of undeveloped film I’d stashed there. I hoped that Ethan’s wooden dummy was the only one around here whose nose was likely to grow longer from lying.

  “Speaking of tampering with a crime scene, I don’t suppose you ran into Joan in there,” Ethan continued. “Or as I like to call her, Step-Mommie Dearest.”

  Since I’d clearly been caught in the act, I didn’t see any point in pretending. “There’s no one inside. And I can assure you that the only reason I went into your sister’s house is that I’m trying to find out who’s responsible for her death.”

  “Then I suggest you look no further than our own close-knit, loving family,” he said bitterly.

  I just stared at him. “Ethan,” I finally said, “I’m sure both you and your sister had a difficult childhood. It’s tragic that you lost your mother at such a young age. And I know that getting used to a stepmother isn’t easy for anyone. But no matter what went on while you and Cassandra were growing up, surely you don’t believe Joan is capable of murder.”

  His expression remained hard. “Let’s just say I hear things. And see things. Things other people might not be aware of, mainly because they’re so busy obsessing about their own lives.” With an odd smile, he added, “That happens to be one of the benefits of not having a life.”

  I was itching to find out more about this peculiar young man. And the most obvious question was why he had never chosen to develop what he so casually referred to as “a life.” Somehow, a man in his twenties who was living in a tiny apartment above his parents’ garage—a man who, from the looks of things, had no job, no friends, and no interests besides ventriloquism—didn’t exactly impress me as somebody who was living up to his full potential.

  But I couldn’t resist asking a much simpler question. “By the way, where did you learn to break into cars?”

  I was rewarded with another eerie smile. “I haven’t spent my entire life living above a garage. I was at MIT for three and a half years. I learned a lot of useful things there.”

  That particular tidbit of information certainly answered the question of where he’d honed his technical abilities. Of course, it also raised more questions, like why anyone would leave college, especially such a prestigious one, with only one semester left before graduation.

  But that was Ethan for you, I decided as I watched him head toward his sister’s house. I didn’t know him well, and I suspected that nobody else did either. I also got the feeling that was exactly how he wanted it.

  As I pulled away from Cassandra’s house, I contemplated Ethan’s claim that to find the murderer, I didn’t have to look any further than what he sarcastically referred to as his “close-knit, loving family.” He certainly made no bones about his belief that his stepmother was responsible for Cassandra’s murder.

  Frankly, I found it impossible to take him seriously. I’d met the woman, and while she’d made it clear from the start that she and Cassandra had never been close— that, in fact, they’d been at odds pretty much during their entire relationship—I couldn’t see her in the role of murderer. In fact, the only member of the Thorndike clan I could imagine being capable of such a brutal, hateful act was Ethan himself.

  But there were so many other pieces of Cassandra’s life I had yet to understand. I hoped the telephone number I’d found in her date book, or maybe the undeveloped film, would help.

  I made a point of getting away from Captain Kidd Cove before dialing the phone number that would hopefully tell me who or what Thor was. As far as I could tell, Ethan wasn’t following me. Then again, he’d already proven himself a master of sneakiness. For all I knew, he also had the ability to tap into my cell-phone calls. So just to be safe, I drove a few miles before turning into the parking lot of a 7-Eleven.

  “Six-six-eight...” I muttered as I punched in the numbers, noticing that my mouth was dry. As I listened to the ringing at the other end, I didn’t know what to expect. A mysterious sexy man with an exotic accent? A drug dealer who answered in single syllables? Some sleazy bar or strip club—or even an opium den?

  Given my ridiculously overactive imagination, I was disappointed when a cheerful female voice answered, “The Spa at Greeley’s Inn. Kristin speaking. How can I help you?”

  Greeley’s Inn was a combination hotel, restaurant, and spa dotting the farthermost tip of the North Fork. Seven or eight decades ago, it had opened as a rustic summer retreat for city folk in search of a little sea and sun. In recent years, however, as the North Fork became more popular with tourists and summer residents, Greeley’s raised its room rates, brought in a first-rate chef from a Manhattan restaurant, and added a spa that featured treatments that, to me, sounded either painful or edible. I suspected that the only thing remotely sinister about it was the inflated price of its Seaweed Scrub.

  I did some fast thinking. “Uh, I’d like to schedule an appointment...with Thor.”

  I held my breath, wondering what kind of response I’d get.

  “Certainly,” Kristin chirped. “What kind of massage do you want?”

  So Thor was a massage therapist. Thinking back to all those entries in Cassandra’s date book, I wondered if she was just really, really tense or if Thor had offered her something beyond the glow that undoubtedly came from reduced muscle tension and improved circulation.

  Hopefully, paying a house call would help me find out.

  “What kinds of massages are available?” I asked.

  “Swedish, deep tissue, shiatsu, lymphatic drainage, the sports massage, the amma massage...”

  This was getting complicated. “Uh, Swedish.”

  “Sixty-minute or ninety-minute?”

  After checking my date book, I scheduled an hour with Thor for early the following afternoon. As I hung up the phone, I was already tingling with anticipation— and Thor had yet to lay a finger on me. In fact, I’d never actually had a real, official massage, mainly because it had never occurred to me to seek one out. But now that I was, I figured getting a Swedish massage from a guy named Thor was definitely the way to go.

  My next stop was a photography shop. Even though the photo service at a supermarket or drugstore would have been more convenient, I wanted the film I’d taken from Cassandra’s house to be developed by professionals. I knew it was likely the pictures would turn out to be nothing more intriguing than shots from Cassandra’s last vacation. But I couldn’t keep myself from hoping there had been a good reason she’d gone out of her way to hide them, or at least store them in a place they weren’t likely to be discovered. In fact, I was clinging desperately to the possibility that they would turn out to contain something much more revealing than which Caribbean resort or European capital she preferred.

  Fortunately, there was a small shop called Photo Stop less than a mile from my home. Not only did I like the fact that the business focused in one specific area; a huge sign in the window advertised its one-hour filmdeveloping service.

  As I stepped inside, an old-fashioned bell attached to the door tinkled, announcing my arrival.
However, there wasn’t anything the least bit old-fashioned about the man behind the counter. He was dressed in very dark jeans, a black Star Trek T-shirt printed with Beam Me Up, Scotty, and black-framed eyeglasses so thick I doubted lasers could pass through. Even though he appeared at least thirty, his pudgy face had a youthful look—mainly because of the pimples sprinkled over his forehead, cheeks, and chin. I wondered if the thick grease that held his dark hair in place had anything to do with the unfortunate state of his skin.

  Still, it wasn’t his geeky appearance that irked me. It was the fact that even though he and I were the only two people in the store, he seemed much too busy rearranging boxes and straightening up piles of paper to deal with something as trivial as providing service to a customer.

  “Is this a bad time?” I finally asked, not even trying to contain my sarcasm.

  At least I’d shamed him into acknowledging my presence. “Yuh?” he asked, exhibiting about as much personality as I’d expected.

  “I have some film I need developed,” I said, placing the rolls on the counter. “You do that here, right?”

  “Actually, we’re Starbucks’ main competitor,” he returned. “We just call ourselves Photo Stop to confuse them. Latte or cappuccino?”

  I forced myself to smile. I didn’t want to create any bad will here. Not with the photos I’d retrieved from Cassandra Thorndike’s house at stake—retrieved being a much nicer word than stolen. “These are really important,” I told him.

  “Aren’t they all,” he said, looking bored. “The new baby, the new puppy, the trip to Disney World...”

  I got the feeling that none of these events had been a part of Mr. Photo Stop’s full life. I wondered if he’d like to meet a guy I knew named Ethan.

  “I’ll have these for you tomorrow morning,” he said, grabbing an envelope and a pen. “Any time after nine.”

  “But I thought you were a one-hour service!” I protested.

  “On a normal day.” Rolling his eyes theatrically, he added, “We get maybe three of those a year.”

  So much for immediate gratification, I thought, handing over the film. Or even one-hour gratification.

  With nothing to do at that point but wait—not only to meet the mysterious Thor who warranted so many entries in Cassandra’s date book, but also to find out what the photos she’d hidden were all about—I decided to try forgetting all about the investigation, at least for a few hours. Nick was spending the evening studying at the library, leaving my beloved cottage to me and my menagerie. Not only was I looking forward to settling in for a quiet evening of my own; as I went inside, pulled off my chukka boots, scooped up Tinkerbell, and dropped onto the couch, I realized I actually craved it.

  The annoying whoop, whoop! of some fancy car’s alarm system told me I wasn’t about to enjoy such luxury.

  I sat up and glanced out the window, then groaned at the sight of the familiar low-slung Corvette. Marcus Scruggs didn’t exactly drop in on me every day of the week. In fact, I couldn’t remember him ever coming over before. Calling me either, unless there was something he wanted.

  Which was no doubt the reason for this visit. “Make it short, Marcus, whatever it is,” I muttered to myself before opening the door.

  “Hey, Marcus!” I said, trying to sound friendly but not too friendly. It was the same tone I used with a large dog I’d never encountered before. I wanted him to feel unthreatened, but not so welcome that he thought it was okay to jump on me.

  “Glad I caught you in,” he said, striding inside.

  I assumed that, like most normal people, he’d sit down and tell me what was on his mind. Instead, he continued striding. Unfortunately, it was quite disconcerting, the way he kept pacing back and forth, even though my living room isn’t exactly what you’d call spacious. Even my dogs seemed confused by my visitor in motion. Max trotted alongside him, happy to have an excuse to keep moving. But Lou gave him a wide berth, as if he wasn’t sure what to make of this interloper who had even more pent-up energy than he did.

  As he paced, Marcus’s forehead was so wrinkled that he looked like the Before in a Botox ad, and he kept running his fingers over his stubby dark-blond hair. “Can I get you anything?” I offered, always the polite hostess. “Coffee? A Coke?” A couple of Valium?

  “I’m good.”

  He looked anything but good. In fact, just watching him was making me tired. I sank into the upholstered chair. “Well, then,” I said, the little patience I still had fading fast. “What’s on your mind, Marcus?”

  He finally stopped pacing and lowered himself onto the couch. Still, as he sat with his legs spread far apart, the right one jumped up and down nervously, prompting Max to venture over to investigate. Being a terrier, he felt quite comfortable with hyperactivity. “Popper, I’m about to tell you something that very few people know.” He paused. “Something about me. Something personal.”

  The word set off alarms in my head. “Marcus, I really don’t think—”

  “I’m about to turn forty.”

  I involuntarily let out a sigh of relief.

  “I know what you’re thinking: How could a guy as young-looking, as vital, as sexy as the Marc Man be hitting the big four-oh? But it’s true, Popper. I swear on my life.”

  “Actually, I figured you were around that age,” I said matter-of-factly. “After all, you’d already been in practice for a couple of years back when I was just applying to vet school, so—”

  “Let me tell you, it’s a sobering time in a person’s life,” he went on. I realized I needn’t have bothered to speak at all. “It makes you step back and reevaluate. I’m thinking that one day—not yet, but in the foreseeable future—I’m going to want to settle down. Maybe even have kids, a picket fence, an SUV, the whole Hallmarkcard thing.”

  “That’s great, Marcus. You and the wife must have me over for a barbecue some time.” I still didn’t have the slightest idea where he was going with this. Hinting around for a surprise party? Campaigning for a really great birthday present?

  “And, well, that makes a guy start thinking about the kind of woman he’d like to grow old with.” He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down so hard I suddenly remembered that Halloween was only a few weeks away.

  Then, slowly, I started to get it. The sensation reminded me of waking up in the middle of the night because one of those leg cramps has begun gripping your calf. You can feel it happening in slow motion, and you know what’s coming, but even so there’s no way you can stop it....

  “Marcus, what’s your point?” I demanded icily. And here I’d actually been wondering whether he was a Medium or a Large, just in case I decided to get him a T-shirt printed with a funny saying for his fortieth.

  “I feel really bad about this,” he went on. “But I’ve got to tell somebody.” He drew in his breath sharply. “Popper, I want to believe Suzanne is innocent. I mean, she’s everything to me. I never believed anyone could get to me the way she has.”

  He paused, swallowing hard as if something was stuck in his throat. I simply stared at him, hoping that something was. And that it would prove fatal. After all, you didn’t have to be a mind reader to see where Marcus was going with this.

  It took everything I had to keep from picking up a large, heavy object and causing him physical harm.

  “Marcus,” I said through clenched teeth, “if you know anything at all about Suzanne—if you have even an inkling of who she is—how could you think for even a nanosecond that she could possibly be capable of murder?”

  “I know, I know. That’s what I keep telling myself. And I’m ninety-nine percent convinced she’s innocent. It’s just that there’s this one tiny little part of me that can’t help wondering. I mean, when you think about it, how well do any of us really know anybody? All you have to do is pick up a newspaper and you’ll read some story about a guy who everybody loved, some average Joe who went to work every day and played with his kids and coached Little League...and then it turns out that
for the past ten years he’s been burying bodies underneath the rose garden.” He shook his head slowly. “My point is that even though I’m nuts about Suzanne, how can I really be sure she didn’t bump off her ex’s fiancée?”

  By this point, I could barely contain myself. In fact, I’d begun thinking some pretty murderous thoughts myself.

  “Marcus,” I said sharply, “I hope you have enough decency to keep your doubts to yourself, at least until Suzanne gets through this ordeal.”

  He blinked, looking confused for a few seconds. I realized then that the idea of taking the high road hadn’t even occurred to him.

  “She needs you,” I went on. “Right now she’s going through what’s undoubtedly the most difficult part of her entire life. And for whatever reason, you’re the person she’s chosen to be her life partner right now.”

  “But—”

  “Listen to me, Marcus!” I wagged a finger at him, hoping I looked like I meant what I was saying. “If you let her down, I will never forgive you. You have a job to do here. Even you have to recognize that! I don’t care what happens after this is all over. But for now, if you possess even a single strand of moral fiber, you will be there for Suzanne!”

  He looked startled. But slowly a look of comprehension came over his face. “You’re right, Popper,” Marcus replied. “You’re absolutely one hundred percent on the money. And I’ll do it. Like you say, I’ll keep whatever doubts I may have to myself. I’ll be a—a rock.”

  “Good,” I said with a nod. “I’m glad you get it.”

  I only wished that, deep down, I believed he was capable of following through.

  “Hey, I know her!” Nick exclaimed over breakfast the next morning, his face hidden behind the pages of Newsday. “Jessica Popper, DVM, Long Island’s favorite veterinarian.”

  “What on earth are you talking about?” I mumbled, my mouth still half full of the English muffin that, along with a mug of coffee the size of a small bucket, constituted my own personal breakfast of champions. I was only three quarters awake, meaning one quarter of the cobwebs that had formed in my brain during the night still clouded my thought process. Besides, Nick wasn’t making himself particularly easy to understand, the way he was acting as if he’d just seen something about me in the newspaper—