Hare Today, Dead Tomorrow

by Cynthia Baxter

  Pressing another button, I cried, “Thanks for calling Pet People. How can I help you and your pet?”

  By the time I got out of there, I was exhausted. Was it possible that only fifteen minutes had passed since I’d walked onto the set?

  “Dr. Popper, you were great!” Patti gushed. “They loved you. You’re so good at thinking on your feet! Even the thing with that white dog and whatever he was barking at—you handled it brilliantly.”

  “Really?” I still couldn’t quite believe I’d successfully made it through my first television appearance. But as the dogs and I headed out to the parking lot, I was already working on a topic for the following week.

  As I slid into my van, my cell phone trilled. I expected it would be Forrester, gloating over having “discovered” Long Island’s newest celebrity. Instead, the Caller ID screen read Suzanne Fox.

  “Hey, Suzanne,” I answered breezily. In my triumphant haze, I assumed the only reason she’d be calling would be to give me her critique of my television debut. “What’s up?”

  “Jessie! I’m so glad I got you.” She sounded breathless. “You have to come over right now. The police just arrived with a search warrant.”

  I stiffened. “Okay, stay calm. I mean, it’s not as if they’re going to find anything, right?”

  The only response I got was a long silence.

  “I’ll be there as soon as I can,” I said, turning the key in the ignition and speeding out of the parking lot even before I had a chance to hang up.

  Chapter 12

  “Cats conspire to keep us at arm’s length.”

  —Frank Perkins

  I’d barely hung up before my cell phone rang again. I grabbed it and answered on the first ring. “Nick?” “Sorry. It’s Nick’s rival,” Forrester replied cheerfully. “I just wanted to tell you how great you are. But I’ve always known that.”

  “Thanks, Forrester,” I said.

  “You sound a little distracted. Everything okay?”

  “Everything’s fine. I’m just in a hurry. Emergency house call.”

  “I won’t keep you, then. You’re a star, Popper!”

  I gritted my teeth as I careened around the entrance ramp and onto the Long Island Expressway. I told myself I hadn’t exactly lied to Forrester by not telling him that at that very moment, the cops were searching Suzanne’s house. It was just that having him swoop down would make things even more complicated.

  Besides, I reminded myself grimly, he’ll know, sooner or later. Not only that they were there, either. He’ll also know if they found anything.

  When my cell phone went off still one more time, I got ready to fend off Forrester again.

  “Hey, Jess. It’s me,” Nick said cheerfully. “I’ve only got a minute, but I saw you on TV just now. There’s one here in the student center. You were terrific!”

  “Thanks,” I replied. “Listen, Nick, something’s—”

  “Sorry, Jess. Just reached my classroom. Gotta run!”

  It’s just as well, I told myself. No need to involve him either. At least, not at this point. But I suddenly felt as if I were about to parachute into a disaster area with absolutely no backup.

  I reached Suzanne’s house in record time, making a slight detour to drop off Max and Lou at home. It cost me twenty minutes, but with no way to anticipate what I’d be dealing with, I didn’t want them getting in the way—or distracting me.

  It turned out to be a wise move. Even though I’d tried to prepare myself for whatever I’d find, the sight of a Norfolk County police car parked outside made my stomach wrench. Directly in front of it was a small white van. I pulled up across the street, taking deep breaths. Through the open front door, I could see two men in Suzanne’s living room, picking up pillows and peering under furniture. They both wore shirts printed with the words Crime Scene Unit on the back, as well as hairnets and latex gloves.

  Suzanne stood on the front lawn, her face puffy and her hair so limp and straggly it looked as if she hadn’t washed it for days. She was wearing the same dark sweatpants and gray Purdue sweatshirt I’d seen her in the last time I’d come to her house.

  “Thanks for coming, Jess,” she greeted me weakly. Up close, I could see that her eyes were swollen and red.

  I gave her a hug, then asked, “What are you doing out here?”

  “This is where the guy from the crime-scene unit told me to wait.” Using a gruff voice to mimic him, she said, “ ‘Would you mind stepping outside, Ms. Fox?’ ”

  I forced a smile. It faded quickly. “Did the police tell you what prompted them to get a search warrant?”

  She bit her lip and took a breath. “One of the cops told me they found my fingerprints on the doorknob at Cassandra’s house. A few other places too.”

  “I see,” I said simply.

  “And since I told them I hadn’t been there—” Her voice broke off and tears pooled in her mournful blue eyes. “What do you think they’re looking for?”

  “The murder weapon, most likely,” I said. “Or anything else incriminating. Letters, e-mails, photographs...” Quickly, I added, “So you have nothing to worry about.”

  She swallowed. “If they’d only let me explain—”

  “Excuse me, Ms. Fox,” one of the crime-scene-unit investigators interrupted. “Could I please have the keys to your car?”

  “My car?” she repeated, her voice going up an octave or two. “You’re going to search my car?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Standard procedure.”

  “Uh...sure.” She reached into the pocket of her sweatpants and pulled out a ring of keys with what I thought was surprising reluctance.

  “Suzanne?” I asked once he was out of earshot. “The police aren’t going to...find anything, are they?”

  “I—I just don’t trust this whole process, you know?” she stammered. “I mean, I’ve heard of situations where cops twist things...” Her voice trailed off uncertainly as she stared in the direction of the driveway.

  I followed her gaze. All four car doors were wide open, and the investigator who’d asked for her keys was bent over the backseat, methodically sorting through the clutter.

  “I can’t imagine what they expect to find in there,” I said, trying to keep my voice light. “Used coffee cups, a bunch of torn maps...”

  When I glanced back at Suzanne, I saw that her face had turned white.

  “Are you okay?” I asked, fearful that she might pass out.

  She never had a chance to answer. The crime-scene-unit investigator had returned, and this time he was holding something in his hands.

  “Ms. Fox?” he said with a distinct edge to his voice. “The police are going to ask you to go with them to the station. We just found this in your car.”

  He held up a pink cardigan sweater embroidered with a swirling letter S. It was spattered with what looked very much like dried blood.

  I stood and watched two uniformed officers escort Suzanne to the police car, too stunned to react.

  “Come with me,” she yelled over her shoulder. “Please, Jessie. And call Marcus!”

  As the police car drove off with Suzanne in the backseat, she pressed her face against the side window. From the desperate look in her eyes, her thoughts were unmistakable.

  Save me!

  I hopped in the car and sped after her, never losing sight of her through the rear window of the police car.

  This can’t be happening, I thought.

  But it was. And as I waited in the lobby of the police station, sitting on a hard wooden bench beneath harsh fluorescent lights, I was completely powerless to do a thing about it.

  Finally, after what seemed like a very long time, the door opened. Suzanne emerged, looking dazed.

  “Suzanne!” I cried, rising to my feet.

  “Where’s Marcus?” she asked anxiously as she hurried over.

  “I suppose he’s on his way. What happened in there?”

  “You called him?”

  “Yes, back at the house.
Did the police—”

  “And he said he’d come right over to the station?”

  I hesitated, wondering if honesty really was the best policy. Did she really need to know that he’d sounded more annoyed than concerned or that he’d insisted that he was “extremely busy” or that all he’d promised was that he’d “do his best” to get there?

  “As fast as he could,” I told her.

  “Oh, good. I knew I could count on him.” She looked so relieved—and so pleased—that I felt as if the two of us weren’t doing anything more demanding than planning a dinner party.

  As soon as we were outside the police station, Suzanne scanned the parking lot, searching for his car.

  “Tell me!” I demanded. “How did it go in there?”

  “I think it went well.” She sounded surprisingly calm. “I mean, it’s not like they arrested me or anything. All they did was ask me questions.”

  “Was your lawyer there?”

  “I couldn’t reach him. His secretary told me he’d taken the day off. And his cell phone’s broken.”

  Even worse than I thought.

  Frowning, she said, “Maybe Marcus misunderstood and he’s waiting for me at the house.”

  “Probably.” I glanced around, wanting to be sure we wouldn’t be overheard. “Suzanne, what’s the story with the sweater?”

  She hesitated. “I—I dropped it while I was at Cassandra’s house. It was right near where she was lying, so I guess some of her blood got on it.”

  “You guess?” I repeated.

  “Okay, I noticed some of her blood got on it. But it was an accident!”

  “Why was it in your car?”

  “I just threw it in the backseat as I drove away. I never thought anybody would find it. Especially the police.”

  “Suzanne,” I began, trying not to sound as exasperated—and as frightened—as I felt. “Did you finally tell them the truth about what happened that day Cassandra was...you know?”

  “Yes.” She cast me a woeful look. “You were right, Jessie. They weren’t at all happy that I hadn’t been straight with them about being at her house right around the time she was killed.”

  Surprise, surprise.

  “But you finally told them exactly what happened, right?”

  “Yes. And I explained that I had a perfectly good reason for holding back about the truth.”

  “Which was...?”

  She looked surprised by my question. “That I didn’t want them to think I had anything to do with what happened, of course!”

  Of course, I thought, wishing I shared her feelings about the cops being a bunch of nice, friendly guys who were as anxious to believe she was innocent as she was to convince them. I could only imagine the field day Falcone was going to have with a sweater emblazoned with an S-for-Suzanne and stained with blood that would prove to be Cassandra Thorndike’s.

  It was time for the $64,000 question. “Did they believe you?”

  “I’m not sure,” she replied, her voice wavering.

  I only hoped that, one day, I wouldn’t be asking her the same question about a jury.

  I didn’t know whether to feel relief or dread when I pulled up in front of Suzanne’s house and saw Marcus Scruggs’s Corvette parked out front. He stood on the lawn, looking peeved—probably because he’d arrived to find no one at home yet.

  Suzanne jumped out of her car and dashed over to him. “Marcus!” she cried.

  I waited for the love theme from Tchaikovsky’s Romeo and Juliet to start playing.

  “Hey,” he said, sounding less than enthusiastic. “What took you guys so long?”

  Those homicide detectives can be so darned inconsiderate, I thought, fuming but determined to make this one of those rare occasions when I kept my mouth shut.

  The focus of my emotions shifted as soon as I saw his expression. This didn’t look good. Not at all.

  “Oh, Marcus, thank God you’re here.” As Suzanne threw her arms around her soul mate, he stiffened. While he didn’t actually remove her bodily, his posture made it clear he wasn’t available for hugging.

  “Listen, Suzanne, I know this is a tough time for you and all...”

  Don’t say it, I thought. Please, Marcus. If you possess even an ounce of humanity...

  “...but I’m thinking maybe it would be a good idea for us to stop seeing each other for a while.”

  Damn you! I thought. Damn, damn, damn! I gave him my version of the evil eye, designed to bring on impotence, adult acne, and chronic indigestion. If I’d had a voodoo doll in my pocket, I would have whipped that baby out, too.

  “You’re joking, right?” Suzanne asked hopefully. She’d lowered her arms, but only halfway, as if she were waiting for her cue to resume her embrace.

  “And, uh, you probably shouldn’t refer your clients to me anymore,” he added without looking her in the eye. “I think we should make a clean break. Don’t you think it’s for the best?”

  “No,” Suzanne replied coldly. “I don’t think any of this is ‘for the best.’ In fact, I can’t believe you’d abandon me like this. Not when I’m going through the biggest mess of my entire life!”

  I felt like crying, largely because I was thinking the exact same thing. I felt as if some villain in a monster movie had reached inside my chest and pulled my heart out. And I wasn’t even the one who was being dumped— mere minutes after the police had made it clear I was definitely a murder suspect.

  “Look, we can talk about this later,” Marcus said, waving his hands in the air and striding toward the ridiculous phallic symbol that passed itself off as a car. “But frankly, Suzanne, this is more than I can handle. I’m sorry, but that’s the way it is. I’m outta here.”

  Suzanne stood on the front lawn, silent as she watched him drive away. I stood next to her, ready to catch her if she fell.

  But she didn’t.

  “Bastard,” she muttered. “What was I even thinking?”

  You go, girl, I thought. But I didn’t say that.

  I didn’t say the other thing I was thinking either: You’re better off without him.

  By Friday evening, I was more than ready for my romantic tryst with Nick. For one thing, my appreciation of him had increased about a millionfold after witnessing Marcus’s abominable behavior—especially when I related the events of the day and Nick was as outraged as I was. For another, I was at a loss as to how to proceed with trying to fix Suzanne’s situation, and I welcomed the break, not to mention the chance to recharge.

  I’d made some preparations for the weekend, thinking through the best way of taking advantage of this rare opportunity for a vacation—even though we’d only traveled a few hundred feet for our getaway. For one thing, I decided to leave my entire menagerie back at the cottage, stealing back a few times a day to tend to them. While I’d miss having the tykes around, I shuddered to think of Lou curled up against one of Betty’s beaded silk pillows or Max gnawing on the hand-carved legs of her Louis Something end tables. Even Cat, who had been her houseguest over the years, would require constant monitoring to make sure she didn’t damage any of the exquisite antiques that made the mansion feel more like a museum than a place to kick back with the remote and a bag of chips.

  Besides, Betty had had just the two of us in mind when she orchestrated this romantic little interlude. I was supposed to be concentrating on Nick.

  I decided to play the role to the hilt. I’d rummaged through my closet, letting out a squeal of joy when, way in back, I found a squished but still serviceable floorlength burgundy-colored velvet skirt. I’d grabbed it off a clearance rack one January, snatching it up at forty percent off its already heavily discounted price. At the time, I’d envisioned saving it for the following holiday season, harboring a vague vision of throwing a Christmas party like the one in The Nutcracker. My fantasy included a brass quartet softly playing carols, a big bowl of clove-and-cinnamon-scented punch, and a roaring fireplace.

  At least four years had passed since that unc
haracteristically romantic moment, and the tags still hung from the skirt’s waistband. But the time to wear it had finally come. I even had access to a fireplace.

  It turned out the skirt went a long way toward inspiring me. Martha Stewart’s not the only one who can pull off this kind of thing, I thought early Friday evening as I lit the last of the string of scented candles I’d lined up on the mantelpiece. Of course, they all had different scents, since I had to work with what I had. But I hoped the Nutmeg Vanilla would turn out to be subtle enough that it wouldn’t clash with the Frangipani or the white candle I’d found at the bottom of my “miscellaneous” drawer that was mysteriously labeled Winter Snow. I’d never noticed that snow even had a scent, so I wasn’t too worried.

  But the candles were just the beginning. I’d lit a fire in the tremendous marble fireplace that covered an entire wall of Betty’s side parlor, a room she rarely used. I’d also put on soft music, although it was classic rock, Nick’s favorite, rather than classical. I hoped James Taylor and Carole King wouldn’t mind being reduced to background music, just this once.

  And while brandy and caviar weren’t on the menu, they were about the only things that weren’t. I’d gone wild at the local gourmet market, a place I rarely set foot in. After all, this seemed like the perfect occasion to see how the other half lived—meaning those who planned far enough ahead to actually stock their refrigerators with takeout food, rather than ordering it by phone when hunger pangs made the thought of waiting for the oven to heat up unimaginable. I’d bought a little bit of everything: chicken stuffed with goat cheese and gouda, pasta salad with artichokes and sun-dried tomatoes, potato salad made with three kinds of potatoes, when I didn’t even know three different kinds of potatoes existed.

  I’d also picked up a couple of bottles of wine. One was from Thorndike Vineyards and one was from the Simcox Wineries. Now that I knew the owners, I was looking forward to drinking wine that came with a personal connection.

  As soon as Nick walked into Betty’s parlor, I knew by the look of astonishment that crossed his face that my plan to impress him had worked.