“For her winery.” He reached into one of the cartons next to him and pulled out a roll of what looked like stickers. “Look. These are the labels I had printed up for her. They were supposed to be a surprise. A birthday present. You probably didn’t know she was about to turn thirty, in just a few more weeks.” He held out the roll, which I could now see contained both front and back labels, alternating on a strip of waxy white paper. “See? I had an artist design labels with the name of what was going to be her winery. She chose the name back when she first started talking about doing it.”
As soon as I took the thick roll from him, I felt all the blood rush out of my body, down toward my toes. I opened my mouth to breathe more deeply, vaguely aware that I was feeling light-headed.
“That was so much like Cassie,” Gordon went on, too wrapped up in his own world to notice that I was having difficulty catching my breath. “Planning to name her winery after some book she’d loved when she was a kid. She never let go of that little-girl innocence, you know? It’s like part of her was still a kid, filled with awe and wonder about the world.”
I blinked, still trying to take in what I had just learned from the labels Gordon Thorndike had had designed for his daughter’s brand-new winery.
Each was comprised of bright red letters against a black background. Centered on the front label was the silhouette of a rabbit, also printed in red. Above it was the name she had chosen.
Looking at it sent a chill down my spine as palpable as if someone had tossed an ice cube down my shirt.
Red Rabbit Run.
The name perfectly matched the three objects she’d left behind as she was dying.
Red, as in The Scarlet Letter.
Rabbit, as in the stuffed bunny.
Run, as in the running shoe.
She had been murdered because of her vineyard, and she wanted us to know it.
“Where was Cassandra going to start her winery?” I asked in a strained voice. “Here on Long Island?”
“Of course. Right on my property, in fact. I was going to give her some of my land. Twenty acres bordering Theo Simcox’s property. That was going to be part of her birthday present too.” He let out a long, deep sigh. “But now I’ll go back to my original plan, since I can’t even bear to look at it anymore.”
“What was your original plan?”
“Selling it.”
“To whom?” I asked. My mouth had become strangely dry.
“Theo,” Gordon replied with a little shrug.
The significance of what he’d just said hit me like a magnum of champagne.
“I suppose he plans to expand his winery,” he continued, seemingly oblivious to my reaction. “I can’t imagine what else he’d do with that extra piece of land. In fact, Joan was just looking over the legal papers earlier this afternoon. She has a much better head for that kind of thing than I do. We’ve been trying to keep the sale of the land quiet, since we both feel kind of bad about moving on so quickly when it was supposed to be Cassandra’s.” His voice thickened as he added, “But that’s the whole point. Now it will never be hers.”
I was only half-listening, since my head was spinning too quickly for me to concentrate.
Gordon had planned to sell those twenty acres to Theo, then decided to give them to Cassandra instead so she could create her own vineyard, Red Rabbit Run. Now that she’s gone, he’ll get them after all.
My head throbbed with the realization that Theo Simcox was the one person who had something to lose by the establishment of Red Rabbit Run Vineyards— something he could only get back through her death.
That was what Cassandra was trying to tell us with the clues she left behind.
But would Theo really consider the chance to acquire more land a reason to kill? I asked myself, wanting to be sure I wasn’t jumping to conclusions. After all, he’d told me himself that when it came to the wine business, he’d never had what he called “Gordon’s magic touch.”
Then I remembered something else he had said. “There’s treasure out here, all right,” he had insisted. “The land.”
And then an image flashed into my mind of Theo gazing at his computer monitor, shopping for cars on the Internet. When I’d caught him at it, I’d been heartened by the thought that he was finally going to get himself a reliable car.
Now, replaying that moment in my head, I realized there had been something on the screen that caught my eye but hadn’t registered at the time: a small silver circle with an inverted Y inside.
The symbol for Mercedes-Benz. The car that the seemingly mild-mannered, nearly doddering old man in the torn flannel shirts was shopping for wasn’t exactly a reasonably priced day-to-day errand car that most people would consider a replacement for an ancient Dodge. It just didn’t jibe with a man who referred to dining regularly at a restaurant that charged eight bucks for a three-course dinner as his “one indulgence.”
Unless he saw getting that land from the Thorndikes as a means of getting rich.
All of a sudden, the pieces of the puzzle fit together so perfectly I could practically hear a snap. And I could almost see Cassandra nodding her head approvingly. Theo Simcox had killed her because it was the only way he could get those twenty acres. It was greed that had brought about the young woman’s death. Not her dalliance with the dark side of her sexuality, not her involvement in the cutthroat restaurant business, not her petulant fiancé or her frustrated stepmother—and not her unbalanced brother. Greed. Pure, simple greed.
But I was also filled with dread. While I’d been thinking all along that the really hard part was figuring it all out, I knew I still had something even more difficult ahead of me. And that was convincing Lieutenant Falcone that it was Theo Simcox, not Suzanne, who had murdered Cassandra Thorndike.
As I sat in my van less than five minutes later, my head was still spinning like a merry-go-round gone berserk. But despite feeling both excited and sickened by having finally solved the puzzle of Cassandra’s murder, I had to act—and to act fast.
I grabbed my cell phone and dialed Falcone.
“Homicide,” a male voice at the other end answered.
“I need to speak to Lieutenant Falcone,” I said, forcing myself to talk slowly enough to be understood.
“He’s not here,” the man replied, sounding as if he didn’t care in the slightest. “I can give you his voice mail.”
“No, thanks. Wait—yes, give me his voice mail.”
“You have reached the desk of Lieutenant Anthony Falcone...”
“Come on, come on,” I muttered. When I finally heard the beep, I began to babble.
“Lieutenant Falcone, this is Jessica Popper. It’s vital that you call me as soon as you get this message. I know who killed Cassandra Thorndike. If you’ll just give me two minutes to explain everything—please call me back!” I recited my cell-phone number, then clicked off.
When my cell phone warbled just a few seconds later, I grabbed it on the first ring, grateful that he’d returned my call so quickly.
“Lieutenant Falcone? I’m so glad you called! I figured out what—”
“Dr. Popper?” The squeaky, uncertain voice I heard wasn’t even close to matching Anthony Falcone’s.
It only took me a few seconds to place it. “Mrs. Krupinski?”
“Dr. Popper! I’m so glad I got you. Something’s wrong with Beau.”
“I’m afraid I—”
“Cassie’s cat? The one Maggie Rose has been taking care of?”
“Yes, of course I remember Beau.”
“He’s really sick all of a sudden. He keeps throwing up, and he’s starting to look really weak. I wouldn’t bother you, but Maggie Rose is beside herself. I offered to bring Beau to a vet around here, but she insisted you were the only animal doctor she wanted around her precious pussycat.”
My mind raced. Until Falcone called me back, there wasn’t much I could do. Besides, I was only a couple of miles away from Virginia Krupinski’s house, so stopping in to take a l
ook at Beau wouldn’t take me very far out of my way.
“I guess I could stop off at your house. I’m nearby, in fact.”
“Oh, good! It will mean so much to Maggie Rose. She’s really grown attached to her little kitty cat.”
“I’ll be there as fast as I can.”
I made it to Virginia Krupinski’s house in record time, then dashed up the wooden stairs. Which made it all the more frustrating that, once again, I stood on the front porch for what seemed like a very long time, knocking and yelling and ringing the bell.
“Mrs. Krupinski?” I called over the blaring television. “Virginia? Anybody home? Maggie Rose, are you in there?”
Finally, I simply opened the unlocked door and walked in. Even over the shopping-channel hostess’s claim that only four of these unique Halloween vests were still available at the unbelievable price of $39.99, I could hear banging and clanking from the kitchen. I walked to the back of the house and found Virginia standing at the counter with her back to me.
“Mrs. Krupinski?” I tried one more time.
She finally turned. “Dr. Popper! Thanks for coming by. Beau’s out back with Maggie Rose. Her mom is due to pick her up any minute, but in the meantime she’s playing nursemaid to her kitty.”
Sure enough, as soon as I stepped outside, I spotted Maggie Rose in the backyard, crouching on the grass beside Beau. He did look weak—too weak, in fact, to put the energy that would be required into running away from his concerned owner.
“Hey, Maggie Rose. What’s up with Beau?”
She looked up at me with her large brown eyes. “Beau’s sick,” she said forlornly. “He keeps throwing up.”
“That’s what your great-grandma told me—and that’s why I’m here,” I told her gently. “Tell you what: Let me take him into my van over there, and I’ll try to figure out what’s going on. Okay?”
She just nodded, then watched as I carried away her beloved pet.
Inside the van, I checked Beau’s throat for some kind of obstruction and palpated his abdomen to see if he was in pain or had an inflamed intestine. So far, so good. Then I took his temperature. It was 101.5 degrees Fahrenheit, normal for a cat. Checking his gums, I saw that he wasn’t dehydrated. In fact, aside from the vomiting, I couldn’t find anything wrong with him.
When I carried him out again, I found Virginia hovering in the driveway, holding Maggie Rose’s hand. They both looked at me expectantly.
“He doesn’t seem to be seriously ill, but we’ll need to keep an eye on him,” I told them. “Beau could be vomiting because of something he ate—or even from having eaten too much. It could be from anxiety or it could be a sign of something more serious, although it doesn’t look that way. I’m going to recommend that you keep him off food and on nothing but clear fluids for the next forty-eight hours. At that point, we’ll see how he’s doing.”
“See that, Maggie Rose?” Virginia told her tiny charge. “Just like I said. It’s probably just something poor little Beau ate. The doc here says he should be fine.”
“The vomiting can actually be a good thing if it’s helping Beau get rid of something bad he ate,” I added, handing the cat back to Virginia. “But let’s be cautious. Don’t hesitate to call me if the vomiting doesn’t stop in a few hours or if you see him developing any other symptoms.”
“Thanks, Dr. Popper,” Virginia told me, looking sincerely grateful. “As for you, Maggie Rose, you’ve had enough excitement for one day. It’s time for you to pack up your toys— Oh, look. Your mommy’s here. Hurry out to the car, now. Don’t make her wait.” Glancing at me wearily, she added, “It’s been a long, trying day for me.”
For me too, I thought.
I stopped in the bathroom to wash my hands, then warded off Virginia’s effusive thanks. Even I noticed how much quieter the house seemed with Maggie Rose gone—even though, as usual, the TV was turned way up.
As I stepped out onto the front porch, I welcomed the blast of crisp autumn air that assaulted me, even though I saw it was turning out to be one of those oddly dark nights with only a pale moon and not a star in the sky. It was at that point that I realized just how tired I was. But the fact that my day had been at least as long and trying as Virginia Krupinski’s didn’t matter at all, given the fact that I’d finally solved the mystery of who had killed Cassandra Thorndike.
Now I’d found myself back at the scene of the crime. This time, just glancing over at Cassandra’s house sent a chill running through me. I could picture the entire incident exactly as it must have happened, right inside that building. And her murderer finally had a face.
Still feeling shaken, I went down the steps and along the walkway outside Virginia Krupinski’s house. But I froze when I noticed an odd shadow through the windshield of my van, feeling as if my heart had just been clamped in a vise.
Something—or someone—was sitting in the front seat.
But this time, it was no dummy. It was Cassandra’s killer.
Chapter 18
“A cat is a puzzle for which there is no solution.”
—Hazel Nicholson
I whipped my head around, desperately searching for a place to run. But it was too late. Theo had spotted me. In fact, he’d already opened the door of the van, slid out, and was heading toward me with a spring in his step I’d never seen before—with or without his supposed arthritis.
As he got closer, I saw that underneath his blue plaid flannel shirt, the same threadbare one he’d been wearing the day I met him, was a gun.
“I’ve been expecting you,” Theo said in a low, calm voice. “I knew the dedicated Dr. Popper would never be able to resist helping a sick animal. Even if she’d just escaped from a locked wine cellar.”
“How—how did you know Beau was sick?” I asked. My mind suddenly felt horribly muddled.
He let out an odd little laugh. “Because I’m the one who made him that way. Oh, don’t worry. It was nothing but a healthy dose of syrup of ipecac, delivered with an eyedropper. Cassandra’s cat will be fine.”
This Theo Simcox appeared to be the younger brother of the Theo Simcox I’d gotten to know. Not only did he move with more assurance; his posture was no longer stooped and his eyes had a brightness I’d never seen before.
“W-what are you doing with that gun?” I asked.
He laughed coldly. “You’re about to find out. And we can begin by walking around the house so you can smash the glass window on the back door.”
“Why would I do that?” I asked, partly stalling for time and partly genuinely confused.
“Because I want there to be signs that you broke into Cassandra’s house,” he replied matter-of-factly. “A forced entry through the back door, your fingerprints on the knobs throughout the house...may be a muddy footprint would be a nice touch. Not that anything that dramatic will really be necessary. Even without it, the police should have no trouble piecing together what happened.”
“Why do you want the police to think I broke into Cassandra’s house?” I asked, even though I suspected I already knew the answer.
“I’ll explain once we’re inside,” he insisted. And just for good measure, he jabbed me with the barrel of his gun.
I swiveled my head toward Virginia Krupinski’s house, hoping that, somehow, she’d hear what was going on. I knew immediately that that wasn’t about to happen.
So I shuffled around to the back of Cassandra’s house with Theo right behind me.
“Now break the glass in the door, then reach inside and unlock the door from the inside,” he instructed, keeping the gun pointed at my head in case I lacked motivation.
“Someone might hear us,” I tried hopefully.
He just laughed. “With the TV blaring next door? I don’t think so.”
I did exactly as I was told. Sure enough, not a creature stirred at the sound of a glass window being smashed. Once we were inside, he stabbed me in the back with the barrel of his gun again. “Go on,” he urged. “Walk around. Touch things. Knock thi
ngs over.”
“Can I at least turn on a light? I can hardly see in here!” I cried, hoping I still might manage to pique some neighbor’s interest.
“I’m sure you can manage,” Theo snapped. “Now start making it look like you broke in and were looking for something of value to steal.”
I made a halfhearted attempt at doing what he told me to do. Frankly, it wasn’t in my nature to break things or make a mess, so I settled for throwing a dish towel onto the floor, then following up with a couple of spoons.
“You’re not very good at this, are you?” he complained.
“I’m doing my best!” I assured him, not bothering to explain that on the few occasions I’d sneaked into a place I didn’t belong, my goal had been leaving as few signs that I’d been there as I could.
“All right, all right, I can take care of this later,” he growled. “At least the window is broken and your prints are on the knob.”
“Mr. Simcox—Theo—there has to be a better way out of this,” I said, boldly turning to face him. I ran my tongue around the inside of my mouth, not wanting to let on how dry it had gotten. My mind, however, was becoming increasingly clear, thanks to all the adrenaline rushing around inside my body. Keep him talking, I thought. “I— I only wanted to find out who killed Cassandra.”
Even in the darkness of the shadowy kitchen, I saw him give a little shrug. “And now you have. Despite my efforts at discouraging you, I might add. I could see from the start that my e-mails weren’t enough to frighten you away. My phone call to the television station either, or ransacking your house. Even pushing you down the stairs at the Thorndikes’ and locking you in the wine cellar didn’t do it.
“You really are a stubborn woman, aren’t you? Stubborn enough that you weren’t about to give up investigating Cassandra’s murder, no matter what. I knew it was only a question of time before you found out who really killed her. So you can see why I had no choice but to force you to give up. For me, it’s the only way out.”
“At least let me make sure I understand what happened,” I pleaded. “After all, I helped Shiraz with her allergies. You owe me that much.”
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