Hare Today, Dead Tomorrow

by Cynthia Baxter

  “However, anyone who’s thinking about getting a parrot should be aware that they require a great deal of care—in many ways even more than a dog or a cat. It’s important to provide them with social interaction, as well as some time outdoors whenever possible.”

  “Awk!” Prometheus screeched. “I’m gonna give you my love!”

  I cringed. My lovely, graceful parrot had chosen this moment to treat the viewing audience to his rendition of a well-known Led Zeppelin song. One that wasn’t particularly suited to daytime television.

  “Uh, as you can see,” I continued in a much less confident voice, “one of the fun aspects of parrots is their ability to repeat anything they hear. Prometheus probably heard this song on the radio—”

  “Every inch of my love!” Prometheus shrieked.

  “The problem, of course,” I said through gritted teeth, “is monitoring what they hear in order to limit the words and phrases they learn.” I made a point of avoiding eye contact with Patti.

  “Every inch!” he squawked. “Awk!”

  “Uh, I think this may be a good time to move on to Jackson’s chameleons,” I said, desperately eyeing Mel. Mainly because they’re blessedly silent.

  Fortunately, Mel took the hint. He slunk across the studio and, ducking down out of the camera’s range, reached for Prometheus with his ham-hock-size hands.

  Unfortunately, Mel didn’t know the first thing about handling birds.

  “Ow!” he yelped. While his face might have been out of the camera range, the microphone picked up his gravelly voice loud and clear. “The little bastard bit me! I’m bleedin’!”

  “Hey, don’t call Prometheus names!” I shot back without thinking. “He wouldn’t have bitten you if you’d handled him correctly! He’s only trying to protect himself!”

  “Listen, dealing with birds ain’t in my job description!” Mel returned gruffly. “Who’s cockamamy idea was it to put a stupid talking bird on the air in the first place?”

  I finally dared to look over at Patti. From the agonized expression on her face, anyone would have assumed that she was the one who had just had her skin pierced by a bird’s sharp beak.

  But she had the presence of mind to start making the “move it along” rolling motion with her hands. Always the professional.

  “Maybe we’ll bring Prometheus back another time,” I said. Then I caught sight of the latest expression on Patti’s face. “Or...maybe not. Anyway, let’s talk chameleons. While Jackson’s chameleons are native to East Africa, in the early 1970s a pet-store owner in Hawaii began importing them. The first of them arrived so sickly and so dehydrated that he let them loose in his backyard for what was supposed to be a short time. However, they escaped and started reproducing...”

  I kept that segment short and sweet, then breezed through my presentation on Keeping Halloween Safe for Your Pet. Patti nodded enthusiastically all the way through, letting me know how relieved she was that we were back to putting on a G-rated show.

  I finished with a warning about feeding dogs chocolate, since one of its ingredients, theobromine, is toxic and may be fatal. By that point, I felt relaxed and confident and pretty much ready for anything.

  Even quirky phone calls.

  “Thank you for calling Pet People!” I told my first caller. “This is Dr. Popper. How can I help you and your pet?”

  “Dr. Popper? My name is Maria. I live in, uh, Brompton Bay?”

  “Good morning, Maria. What’s on your mind?”

  “I just got a cat, and even though I’ve had cats my whole life, I’ve never seen one act like this. When he walks, it’s almost like he’s marching? And I don’t know if this is related, but whenever he tries to jump up on the couch or go upstairs, he falls. My husband keeps telling me he’s just a klutz, but I’m wondering if there’s something wrong with him.”

  Oh, good, I thought. An easy question.

  “I suspect you’re right, Maria,” I said. “It sounds as if your cat has a neurological problem. There are several ways this could have happened. He might have gotten a head injury, or he might have even gotten an infection while he was still a kitten. But if he’s doing all right otherwise, he’s probably fine. Still, you might feel better if you have your vet check him out, just to be sure.”

  “Thanks! I told my husband he was wrong. See, he always acts like he’s the only person in the world who—”

  “And thank you for calling, Maria. I see we have another caller.” Pressing the glowing red button, I breezily answered, “Thanks for calling Pet People. How can I help you and your pet?”

  “I know what you’re doing,” the caller said in a hoarse whisper.

  He spoke so softly, in fact, that I wasn’t sure I’d heard him correctly. I blinked, not knowing how to respond to something I didn’t really understand.

  “This is Dr. Popper at Pet People,” I said, nervously glancing at Patti. She just looked confused. “How can I help?”

  “I know what you’re doing,” the caller said again, speaking in the same peculiar voice. “I’m watching you. And I’m warning you.”

  My mind raced and I suddenly felt nauseated. At least I had the presence of mind to push another button. But there was no need to cut off the call. He’d already hung up.

  “Uh, it’s, uh, always nice to hear from a fan,” I stuttered, looking into the camera and trying to smile. “And now, uh, let’s take another call...”

  As soon as the show was over and the studio lights went out, I stormed over to Marlene.

  “I thought you were screening all the calls that came in!” I cried.

  “We are,” she insisted, looking stricken. “Honestly, I asked him all the usual questions: his name, where he lives, what his question was about—”

  “And what were his answers?” I demanded.

  Anxiously she scanned her clipboard. “He said his name was Jesse and that he lived in Joshua’s Hollow. He has two dogs, a Westie named Max and a Dalmatian named Lou, and two cats named Tinkerbell and Cat— wait, did I get that right?”

  “Oh, you got it right,” I assured her, my stomach tightening into a painful knot.

  I did too. At first, the mysterious person who called himself AGoodFriend had wanted to tell me he knew what I was doing.

  Now he was making it clear he wanted me to stop.

  I had to admit, I was frightened. My secret pal had no qualms about intruding into my life, whether it was by sending me creepy e-mails or breaking into my house and messing up my possessions.

  But there was something that frightened me even more: the possibility of him getting away with killing Cassandra while my real pal, Suzanne, paid for the crime. And so rather than scaring me off the case, the idea that the murderer thought he had even a chance of getting away with what he’d done only fueled my determination.

  As I headed out of the studio and into the parking lot, I found myself ruminating about something Ethan had said when I saw him two days before. His reminiscence about his sister reading to him when he was a kid had struck me as familiar at the time, but it wasn’t until now that I made the connection.

  Maggie Rose had also told me that Cassandra read to her. In my head, I could hear her high-pitched voice. “I know a story about a bunny,” Maggie Rose had told me. “Cassie used to read it to me.”

  Books were obviously important to Cassandra. And the one she repeatedly read to her next-door neighbor featured a bunny—which might possibly have something to do with the stuffed rabbit she had struggled so hard to leave behind.

  It was a real long shot, I knew. But without much else to cling to, it suddenly seemed like my last chance.

  Chapter 16

  “Do not attempt to teach your cats tricks— They already know every trick there is.”

  —Sidra Malik

  Late Friday afternoon, as soon as I’d finished my last call, I trekked out to the North Fork once again. I was determined to follow up on the one path I had yet to follow, even though the trail marker was nothing mor
e than a sweet voice that continued to echo through my head.

  I knew that the possibility that Maggie Rose, of all people, might be able to provide me with some information that would turn out to be helpful was a long shot. Yet her persistent attempts at telling me about the book Cassandra used to read to her echoed through my head. I kept berating myself for not having paid more attention to them sooner. It wasn’t until Ethan mentioned his sister reading to him that I’d taken them seriously.

  Calm down, I scolded myself as I trundled along Route 35, barely glancing at the flat, green fields stretching out on both sides of the road. You’re acting on a hunch. Nevertheless, I couldn’t stop thinking about the stuffed bunny Cassandra had put so much effort into leaving behind the day she was killed.

  As I turned onto Cliffside Lane, my heart was pounding so hard I was practically dizzy. By that point, I’d become so focused on learning exactly what Maggie Rose’s bunny story was all about that I half-expected the little girl to be standing on the front lawn, waiting for me. But as I pulled up in front of Virginia Krupinski’s house, neither she nor her great-granddaughter were in sight.

  Still, Virginia had told me herself she rarely went anywhere while the little girl was in her care. I climbed the steps to the front porch and knocked on the screen door.

  “Mrs. Krupinski? Are you home?”

  I knew she had to be, since from inside I could hear the blaring television. I noticed she kept the volume turned way up. Between the loud TV and her aging ears, it was no wonder she hadn’t heard anything the day Cassie was murdered. Since knocking wasn’t getting me anywhere, I tried pounding.

  “Mrs. Krupinski?” I yelled, peering through the screen. “It’s Jessica Popper. Hello? Anybody home?”

  “Grammy,” I finally heard Maggie Rose say, “somebody’s at the door.”

  The volume of the TV immediately went way down and I heard footsteps.

  “Goodness, girl, you got to make a little more noise if you expect me to hear you,” Virginia scolded as she scurried toward the door, pulling her bulky sweater more closely around her.

  “I’m sorry to bother you,” I told her. “I just wanted to ask Maggie Rose a question. She mentioned something about Cassie that I think might be important.”

  Virginia glanced down at Maggie Rose protectively. “Now, I don’t want you getting her upset that her friend Cassie’s moved away and all.”

  “I won’t, I promise.”

  Virginia eyed me warily before finally opening the door and gesturing for me to come in. Then, standing in the same spot—as if making it clear she fully intended to sit in on any interrogation her young charge was subjected to—she said, “Maggie Rose, Dr. Popper here has a question for you. You answer it as best you can, okay?”

  The little girl nodded uncertainly.

  “Maggie Rose,” I said in a gentle voice, “you told me Cassie used to read you a story about bunnies. Do you remember that?”

  She nodded again, this time with complete certainty. My heart resumed its frenetic pounding, even though I kept telling myself it was unlikely that a four-year-old girl would provide me with the critical information I needed to figure out what Cassandra had been trying to tell us during her last few minutes of life.

  “Could I see the book, please?” I asked.

  This time, she shook her head.

  “Why not?” I asked, fighting a feeling of defeat.

  “Don’t have it. It was Cassie’s. She said it was her favorite book when she was a little girl, so it must have been really old.”

  Old enough to be out of print? I wondered.

  “Do you remember what the story was about?” By this point, keeping my tone of voice matter-of-fact was a struggle.

  “Sure. It was all about a bunny named Red Rabbit, who got lost and couldn’t find his way home. So he asked all his animal friends for help....”

  I stopped listening. I was too busy listening to the sirens that were going off in my head. Red Rabbit. The wheels were turning. Was it possible that red matched up with scarlet—as in The Scarlet Letter—and rabbit with the stuffed bunny? Or was my increasing desperation causing me to get carried away?

  While it was tempting to go with the second possibility, it seemed worth exploring the idea that whatever Cassandra had been trying to tell us had something to do with the children’s book she’d loved so much that she shared it with the little girl next door. I couldn’t let go of the notion that some element of the story, or perhaps one of the characters, could have been related to her murder—or her murderer.

  “Thank you, Maggie Rose,” I told the little girl sincerely. “It sounds like a wonderful story. And I’ll tell you what: Even though it’s probably a very old book, if I find a copy, I’ll give it to you, okay?”

  Staring up at me with her huge brown eyes, she asked, “Will you read it to me?”

  “Of course.” Suddenly, another thought occurred to me. Turning back, I glanced at Virginia, then asked, “Maggie Rose, do you remember the last days Cassie was still living in the house next door?”

  She nodded.

  “Did you ever hear loud voices coming from her house? People laughing or playing a game...or arguing?”

  I held my breath, watching her screw up her face as she pondered my question.

  Virginia answered for her. “Maggie Rose takes a nap in the afternoon. And she’s a deep sleeper. She probably wouldn’t have heard anything. That is, if there was anything to hear in the first place.”

  “Thank you both,” I said. “You’ve been really helpful. Especially you, Maggie Rose.”

  She grinned shyly. “Don’t forget to bring me that book,” she said. “I really liked the pictures. Especially the ones of Red Rabbit.”

  “You got it.”

  I got back into my van and headed toward town, energized by the likelihood that the story about Red Rabbit contained the answer to why Cassandra had been murdered—and by whom. I couldn’t believe it was nothing more than a coincidence that its main character had a name that was comprised of two of the three clues she’d left behind. For all I knew, the character routinely wore sneakers, tying in the third clue.

  Somehow, I had to get ahold of that book.

  Bonnie’s Bookery was an old-fashioned bookstore, the kind that was becoming more and more of a rarity these days. It occupied a small storefront nestled between an antiques shop and a real-estate office. As I walked inside, a little bell tinkled. I paused to inhale the friendly, slightly musty smell of paper and paste, then glanced around.

  I was instantly charmed. One entire wall was red brick, which gave the intimate space a relaxed, homey feeling. The other walls were lined with wooden shelves that ran from floor to ceiling and were covered with books. Even though the single room was compact, I spotted comfortable places to sit, including a deep-blue velvet couch in the Romance section and a leather-covered chair in the Business section. A recording of a string quartet played classical music in the background.

  The requisite cat lay curled up at one end of the velvet couch. The smoky-gray feline glanced up and blinked lazily, as if saying, “I suppose you can come in...but you don’t mind if I don’t get up to greet you, do you?” A second cat, this one black, peeked out at me from behind a stack of books, then meowed “Hello.”

  But Bonnie’s Bookery was an equal-opportunity employer. A large golden retriever lay next to the counter, wagging her tail but also remaining in place. I figured she’d been taught that not all customers would welcome the enthusiastic greeting the breed was famous for.

  “Hello,” the smiling woman with short, dark-red hair behind the counter greeted me. The name Bonnie was printed on the plastic tag she wore on her blouse. “Is there anything I can help you with?”

  “Actually, I’m looking for a children’s book.”

  “We have an excellent children’s section, right over here.” She pointed to the back corner, where the walls were painted bright yellow and large stuffed animals sprawled across tiny chai
rs or sat on shelves. Most of them held books in their paws.

  “There’s a particular book I’m trying to find,” I began. I noticed a little flutter of anxiety in my stomach now that I was confronted with the possibility that the book didn’t really exist—or that even if it did, I wouldn’t be able to find it. “It’s a book about a red rabbit,” I went on, studying her face and bracing myself for a blank look. “He makes friends with all kinds of animals—”

  “That sounds like Red Rabbit Comes Home,” she said. “Is that the one?”

  “I don’t know. I mean, it could be. All I know is that it’s about a red rabbit.”

  “This is a classic,” Bonnie told me, going over to a shelf and pulling off a single slim volume. Sure enough, as she handed it to me, I saw that its cover featured a whimsical drawing of a cute bunny rabbit with bright red fur. “I can never keep it in stock for more than a few days, yet it must have come out at least twenty-five or thirty years ago.”

  Around the same time Cassandra Thorndike was a little girl, I thought.

  I opened the book greedily, as if the answer to the riddle of her murder would leap out of the pages. Instead, I saw only illustrations of the rabbit hopping around a farm and talking to other animals like a horse and a cow and a chicken, all of them a most unlikely color.

  “What age group is this for?” I asked.

  “Preschool,” Bonnie replied. “It’s a very sweet story about a bunny who gets lost, so he asks all his animal friends how to find the way home. Dotted Dog tells him to follow the smell of cookies baking, Green Goose says he should look for the place with flowers in the window box...in other words, everybody has their own idea of what makes a home. Children love it. In fact, preschool teachers often use it as a way to get a discussion going of what home means to each of us.”