Dead Canaries Don't Sing (20 page)

“Okay, Max,” I instructed. “Be
cute
.”

Belle spotted me right away, her attention undoubtedly drawn by the incongruity of a woman walking two frisky dogs in an office building’s parking lot.

“Dr. Popper?”

I glanced up, feigning surprise.

“Hey! Hi!” I called as she strode toward me. Her black leather jacket was covered with silver studs that were the perfect complement to her eyebrow ring. She also wore a colorful knitted cap, a strange design with oversized ear flaps that could only have been considered fashionable in the Himalayas. “It’s Belle, isn’t it?”

“Belinda, actually. But everybody calls me Belle.”

Just as I’d anticipated, she crouched down right in front of Max. The little con man never let on that he was my shill. Instead, he jumped up and rested his paws on her knees, then proceeded to nuzzle her face in that irresistible way West Highland Whites have mastered.

“O-o-oh, you are so cute!” she told him, as if he didn’t already know. “He’s a Westie, right?”

“Yup. Don’t tell me you’re a terrier fan.”

“Are you kidding? My boyfriend has a wirehair! I
love
terriers. They’re just the sweetest little doggies . . .”

As she gave Max an expert head-and-neck scratching that showed she did, indeed, know her way around a terrier, Lou nosed his way in. He wasn’t about to miss out on any attention, especially now that he knew he’d found a pushover.

“What are their names?” she asked me eagerly.

“The Westie is Max. And this guy’s Lou.”

“What happened to Max’s tail? And what’s the matter with the Dalmatian’s eye?”

“Let’s just say that their previous owners weren’t dog lovers the way you and I are.”

“Oh, you poor little doggies,” she crooned, then proceeded to lavish enough love and affection on both of them to make up for at least some of the trials of their puppy days.

“Are you here to see George?” Belle asked, glancing up at me.

“Actually, I have a gynecologist’s appointment.” Grimacing, I gestured vaguely toward the building. Belle nodded sympathetically. As I hoped, the mere mention of gynecology resulted in instant female bonding. “I had to bring my dogs because they have haircut appointments this afternoon. Max’s fur gets so matted when I let it go too long.”

“Aren’t terriers the worst?” Belle rolled her eyes. “Last summer, Pete and I had Dudley
completely
shaved.”

“What about you?” I asked casually. “Going to lunch?”

“Yeah. By the time noon comes around, I’m desperate to get out of there. So even if I bring a yogurt or something, I go sit in a park for an hour. Sometimes, if the weather’s bad, I sit in my car. Anything to get away from that office.”

“Mr. Babcock does seem a little intense,” I ventured. “I got the feeling he’s probably not the easiest person in the world to work for.”

“Are you kidding? George is a madman! Have you ever seen anybody that hyper in your life? I’m just working for him until January, when Pete finishes school. Then him and me and Dudley are packing up and moving to Montana.”

“Montana! What’s there?”

Belle shrugged. “It’s just someplace different. We want to get away from our parents and everything that’s familiar and start experiencing life.” Looking at me shyly, she asked, “Is it okay if I pick Max up?”

“He’ll love it.”

She scooped him up and hugged him like a teddy bear. Max was more than happy to cooperate, especially since belly scratching was now involved.

“I guess you won’t miss working at The Babcock Group when you go to Montana,” I commented.

“That place is
so
not me. I mean, everything about it is phony. Even the name is a joke. ‘The Babcock Group’? Give me a break! A ‘group’ has to have more than one person in it. But George is it. He’s the group!”

“He must have had a larger organization at some point. I know of at least one person who worked for him.”

“Tommee Frack, right?”

“How did you know?”

“I heard you and George talking the other day. But I already know all about him.” She shook her head. “George sure hated his guts.”

“So I gathered. But it sounds as if he had good reason.”

Belle shrugged. “I guess. I didn’t work for George then—I’ve only been here about five months—but I know there’s a whole file cabinet full of paperwork for ex-clients. And most of them left at the same time as this Frack guy. He swiped them when he stopped working for George and started his own company.”

And here I’d thought that wasn’t supposed to be common knowledge.

Belle continued, “George gave me the job of going through all his old files, supposedly to clean them out. But it was pretty much just busy work. I’ve had a lot of time on my hands since I started working here. There hasn’t been much going on.

“But the last straw was just a couple of weeks ago. I swear, I’ve never seen George so bent out of shape. I was afraid he was going to have a heart attack or something.”

“How awful! What happened?”

“He found out Frack had stolen one of his oldest clients.”

My heartbeat accelerated. “Do you remember the name?”

“Sure. Pomonok Properties.”

A lightbulb went on in my head. Of course!
That
was why Joey DeFeo’s name had sounded so familiar when Babcock mentioned him. DeFeo, the president of the land development company, had been one of the people quoted in Tommee’s
Newsday
obituary. I mentally kicked myself for taking so long to make the connection.

“Anyway, George went on and on, ranting about loyalty and ethics and how Tommee was ruining him with his unscrup—unsoup—”

“Unscrupulousness?”

Belle grinned. “I can never say that word. But George sure can. Anyway, he was in this total rage. I’d never seen him like that before. It was kind of scary.”

“I’m surprised you’re still working for him.”

She nuzzled Max, who rewarded her with doggie kisses. “I keep telling myself it doesn’t matter, since Pete and I are leaving soon. To tell you the truth, I’ve been worried about getting fired, since George’s business is falling apart. I just need to hold on to this job until January so we can save up some money. If I lost it, it’d be really hard to find something else, with the holidays coming and all.” She shrugged. “George keeps telling me things are going to get better. And I guess he really believes it. For the last few days, he’s been acting weird. Kind of . . . I don’t know,
happy
. I mean, George is always wired. But lately he’s been acting positively . . . like he’s high or something. And he keeps going on and on about all these new clients he’s gonna get.”

“Has he mentioned any names?” I inquired innocently.

“No. I don’t even know if he’s telling the truth or just fooling himself. He keeps telling me that things are really going to go crazy, that his whole business is on the verge of exploding. That’s why he’s moving to a bigger office.”

“How long has he been planning this move?”

“Since, like, last week.”

Interesting timing, I thought.

I tried a different tack. “You know, this is turning out to be a bigger decision than I thought. I want to hire a public relations professional to help my career, and it’s a huge investment for me. I mean, I’m not some mega company with a big budget. I’m just one person. And I’m not convinced that George is the guy to go with. Given all his ups and downs, I’m beginning to wonder if he’s any good at what he does. . . .”

“He used to be good,” Belle said thoughtfully. “Maybe even the best in the business, at least here on the island. But that was all before that Frack guy came along. At least, that’s the impression I’ve gotten from working here. But if what George is saying is true, maybe he really is about to get back on his feet again. I don’t know why, but he sounds like he expects a huge turnaround.”

I’d gotten what I wanted from Belle. There would be extra treats for Max and Lou, pages of notes and questions recorded in my trusty notebook, and lots to think about.

“I guess I should go in,” I told her. “Even though my gynecologist always keeps me waiting for hours, I always make a point of getting there on time.”

Her eyes widened. “Yeah, they always do that, don’t they? What’s that about?”

“Beats me. But it was nice talking to you, Belle.”

“Nice talking to you, too.”

She placed the ball of wriggling white fur gently on the ground. She started to turn away, then reconsidered.

“You won’t say anything to George, will you?” she asked anxiously. “About me planning to leave soon?”

“Of course not. Your secret is safe with me. And I hope you won’t say anything to him about me having doubts about his abilities.”

“Yeah, right. Like me and George have ever had a heart-to-heart talk.”

It was true that George Babcock hadn’t impressed me as someone who put a lot of effort into establishing close personal relationships with the people around him. From what I’d seen, the man was utterly driven. His entire life was his business.

The question was, was his business something he’d been willing to kill for?

I pretended to fuss with the dogs, waiting until Belle drove off and disappeared from view. Once it was safe to leave, I corralled Max and Lou back into the van, thanked them profusely for not blowing my cover, passed around a few Milk Bones and headed home.

Every time I talk to someone who was involved with the late Tommee Frack, I’m convinced he or she had sufficient reason to murder him, I mused as I drove. For a guy who was such a well-loved pillar of the community, Tommee sure created a lot of ill will.

My head was spinning with all the information I still had to sort out: the things I’d been told, the things I hadn’t been told, the subtle and the not-too-subtle nuances I’d picked up everywhere I went. The canaries in Merrilee Frack’s kitchen, the malapropisms in Barbara Delmonico’s vocabulary, the sudden optimism in George Babcock’s business future. . . .

I definitely needed help.

From Nick.

Nonsense. I could do this on my own.

“Are you busy?” I demanded a half hour later, after dialing his number the instant I got home. I balanced the phone in the crook of my shoulder as I took a squawking Prometheus out of his cage, perched on my finger.

“Hello, Jessie,” Nick replied. “I’m fine. Thanks for asking. And how are you today?”

“Nick, I am so overloaded—”

“
Awk!
Damn you, Nick Burby!” Prometheus interrupted, cued by hearing Nick’s name.

“Same to you, Prometheus!” Nick shot back, chuckling.

“Sorry about that. Anyway, I’m so overloaded with everything I’ve learned about Frack, not to mention all the questions that are still unanswered, that I feel like I’m going to burst. Which brings me back to my original question. . . .”

“Who’s the pretty boy?” my parrot squawked.

“I know the answer to that one,” Nick replied. “
Prometheus
is the pretty boy.”

This was turning out to be a lot more difficult than I’d anticipated. “Thanks for answering my bird’s question. Now, maybe you’ll answer mine: Are you completely swamped? Or do you have an hour to spare—soon? Like tonight? I’ve got so much I want to tell you.”

He sighed in my ear. “Yes, I’m busy. The LSATs are on Saturday, and I’ve been obsessing over this review book. And in about ten minutes, I have to stake out an office building so I can follow a married father of three. His wife suspects that after work, instead of going to the gym, he goes to a gay bar. But I guess I can spare an hour. A change of focus would probably be good for me. Want to come over around seven, seven-thirty?”

“Your office, right?”

“No. Come to my apartment.”

Seeing Nick at his office had been one thing. Going to his apartment was a much bigger challenge. For three years, I’d spent nearly as much time in his four spacious rooms on the second floor of a sprawling Victorian house in Port Townsend as I’d spent at my own cottage. His place was the scene of too many memories—dinners cooked for ourselves and for our friends, Christmas Eves spent sipping mulled cider and singing along to the schmaltziest carols we could find, laughing and arguing and making love—that I didn’t know if I was ready to go back there. Or if I’d ever be.

But Nick was doing me a favor, so I was hardly in a position to argue. “Your place at seven,” I repeated.

“I’ll be there.”

“Oh, boy,” I said to Prometheus after I’d hung up. “I hope I know what I’m doing.”

“Awk!”
he squawked. “Damn you, Nick Burby!”

“My sentiments exactly,” I muttered.

As I walked around to the back of Nick’s house that evening, taking the route I’d followed hundreds of times before, I held my notebook tightly against my chest, reminding myself I was here on a mission. While he had played many different roles in my life, including lover, best friend, and confidante, tonight I was merely calling upon his expertise as a private investigator. Nothing more. Nothing.

I rang the doorbell. Without waiting, I went inside and headed up the stairs. “Nick?” I called as I neared the top. “Anybody home?”

He opened the door, filling the stairwell with Led Zeppelin. Hardly surprising: he was the ultimate classic-rock freak. The throbbing bass and eerie vocals of “Stairway to Heaven” may belong to the world, but I always thought of them as Nick Burby’s personal possessions.

I could feel that damn ache starting in my heart.

“I guess I should turn this down,” he said as I came inside.

“Or off.” In response to his look of surprise, I said, “I’m here to work, remember?”

“Right.” He lowered the stereo, then turned back to me. “Where do you want to sit? You know the options.”

“Here in the living room is fine.” I hoped my cheeks were only pink, not bright red. I was beginning to believe this whole visit was a mistake.

But it was too late for second thoughts. I plopped down in a chair and opened my notebook. I allowed myself only a quick glance around, taking in the Aerosmith poster and the Van Gogh calendar. Nick’s books were still piled up on a makeshift bookshelf made from cinder blocks and wood, Shakespeare mixed in with Beckett, Faulkner next to Vonnegut.