Dead Canaries Don't Sing (30 page)

I glanced nervously from side to side as I scurried from my car to the cottage. From what I could tell, the only thing out there was the stillness of the dark November night.

But once I made it safely inside, my fear turned to anger. I resented the fact that George Babcock or whoever was behind these cheap scare tactics thought he could control me. The person who was going to the trouble of tailgating me and leaving nasty surprises on my windshield clearly wanted me to mind my own business. But the more he tried to frighten me away, the more determined I became to uncover the truth about the murder.

I did my best to discourage my canine entourage’s usual welcome home party and ignored the socks Max had dragged out of my laundry pile and strewn across the furniture and throw rugs. Instead, I barreled past Max and Lou and made a beeline for my bedroom. I put the envelope containing the canary feather in the top dresser drawer. I’d just closed it when I heard Max’s sharp bark. I stiffened, instantly on alert for the sound of an intruder.

When I stuck my head out the doorway, I saw both dogs hovering near the refrigerator. And realized my Westie was just reminding me it was dinnertime.

“Good going,” I chided myself. “See how cool, calm, and collected you are?”

I picked up Max and cradled him in my arms, sorry I’d blown him off. Even more, I was suddenly in desperate need of a terrier hug. Of course, the usual shower of dog kisses was part of the deal. I didn’t mind. They were more soothing than aloe. Naturally Lou joined in, slurping my hand as if it was a popsicle.

Then Cat slunk over, announcing her presence with a loud meow. I picked her up, too, relishing the feel of her soft fur against my skin. She and Max eyed each other warily, but at least for a little while, my household enjoyed a rare state of peace and togetherness reminiscent of the Age of Aquarius. Even Prometheus chimed in, squawking, “
Awk!
I don’t talk to telemarketers. Please don’t call again.
Awk!
”

For a few moments, I actually felt better. It was just my animals and me, the rest of the world be damned.

On my way into the kitchen, I noticed the blinking light on my phone machine and pressed “Play.”

“Hey, Jess. It’s me, Jimmy. Thought I’d stop over
tonight about eight to see if you’re around. I can’t
wait to show you the two loves of my life.”
He chuckled.
“My cars, that is. You won’t be disappointed. I
promise.”

A welcome distraction, albeit the human variety. I decided not to mention the feather to Jimmy when he dropped by that night. Even though I had no intention of letting cheap scare tactics stand in my way, I wasn’t up for another lecture.

After serving up three bowls of dinner and replenishing the birdseed in my parrot’s dish, I recognized that this rare moment of relative silence while the animals ate afforded me the perfect opportunity to concentrate. Plopping down on the couch, I opened my notebook and jotted down everything I remembered from the conversations I’d had that day: Violet Atherton, Joey DeFeo at Pomonok Properties, Jonathan Havemeyer, CPA . . . and of course my telephone call to Lieutenant Harned, not that there had been much to it.

At that point, I’d had enough of the nasty business of murder, at least for the moment. The time had come to put my efforts into something more pleasant. By the time eight o’clock rolled around, I’d showered, put on my favorite sweater and my best pair of pants, and pulled my hair back with a plastic geegaw I’d bought months earlier but never had the confidence to wear in public. I’d promised myself that I was going to forget all about Frack and his friends, lovers, and enemies for the next few hours. I was going to have some pure, unadulterated fun.

Jimmy was right on time. As soon as his car pulled into the driveway, Lou began barking his head off. Max tried to burrow through the front door with his powerful paws, as determined as if he were attacking a badger’s hideaway. Cat simply looked at me and blinked. If I hadn’t known any better, I would have thought I saw her shaking her head disapprovingly at their antics.

“Who needs a doorbell?” I asked them. I kissed Cat’s silky head and gave each of my puppies a quick hug. Then I dashed out, calling, “Wish me luck, guys!” before slamming the door.

“I’m really glad you decided to go out with me tonight.” Jimmy grinned at me across the front seat as we drove south along Governor’s Road toward Westfield, a town in the middle of Long Island. “Kind of surprised, too.”

“Surprised? Why?”

He glanced at me. “Last time, by the end of the night, you acted like you couldn’t get away from me fast enough.”

“That’s not true! I mean, maybe that’s what you thought, but that’s not how I felt.”

“Don’t tell me you
really
had a headache.”

“As a matter of fact, I did.”

And a Nick Burby-ache.

I was debating whether or not to tell Jimmy the real reason for my hot-and-cold behavior that night at Wellington’s when he said, “Anyway, I was kind of nervous about calling you again. I didn’t know what kind of reaction I’d get.”

“Well, I’m here.” I smiled at him. “And very happy to be here, I might add.”

“I guess you must
really
like classic cars.”

I laughed. “I guess that must be it.”

When we turned onto a street lined with dilapidated warehouses and used-car part yards, with not a streetlight anywhere as far as the eye could see, however, I felt a flutter of anxiety. Something about being alone at night in dark alleys, I guess. Even if I was driving with a cop.

“Are we going the right way?” I asked nervously.

“Sorry. Guess I should have explained. I keep my cars locked up safe. The place where I live doesn’t have a two-car garage, and besides, I park this car there. So I rent space from a guy.”

We turned onto an even smaller street. On one side was a plumbing supply shop, its huge sign boasting about its exceptional selection of valves. On the other stood another nondescript building. Only a few windows were cut into the gray cinder block. In addition to being high up enough to keep anyone from seeing in or out, they were crusted with what looked like decades of grime. Jimmy pulled into the tiny lot.

“Not exactly picturesque,” I commented.

“It’s just a place to store my cars. Wait ’til you see what’s inside. You’re gonna love this.”

I followed him across the lot to a door, tucked away at the back. Jimmy took a ring of keys out of his pocket and fiddled with the lock, muttering. It wasn’t surprising that he was having such a hard time. He wasn’t getting much help from the single bulb right above the door, which couldn’t have been more than 15 watts.

I was wishing I’d opted for a movie instead when he finally got the door open. Even in the semidarkness, I saw his face brighten like it was Christmas morning.

“You won’t regret this. I promise.”

He flicked on a light. The way he was carrying on, I expected something magical.

Instead, I saw two cars, blanketed in the beige pads movers use.

“Here they are. The two loves of my life.”

“Oh. Very nice.”

“No, wait,” he said passionately. “You haven’t had a chance to see these beauties yet. Here, I’ll show you.”

He pulled off the blankets, exposing what, to me, still looked like . . . two cars. Two funky, oddly shaped cars, at least compared to what I saw on the Long Island Expressway every day, but two cars nonetheless. The pink one looked like something out of
Grease
. And the black one, the sports car, looked like, well, a sports car.

“Aren’t they great? One of the things I like best about them is that they’re so different. I mean, the Thunderbird is a fifties classic. And did I tell you that this one, the Porsche, is the exact same model that—?”

“James Dean died in. Right.”

I was about to try explaining politely that I’m not really a vehicle person when Jimmy folded his arms across his chest and looked at me expectantly. “So what do you think?”

“I think they’re fabulous. They’re just . . . incredible.”

I’d said the right thing. He beamed.

“Yeah. I never thought I’d be lucky enough to have anything like these two beauties. But I’m afraid I can’t take you out for a drive in either of them tonight. I’m still waiting for a part for the T-bird. And the Spyder—see that crumpled back fender? I want to bang it out before I take it out on the road. Guess I’m kind of a perfectionist.”

“That’s too bad.” Actually, now that I was here, it might actually be fun to go for a spin. The pink one was definitely a car in which someone would “take a spin.” As for the other one, I was getting attached to the James Dean idea. Maybe it would be interesting, putting myself in the actor’s place, imagining what it was like as he drove down that lonely California road that turned out not to be so lonely when another car unexpectedly appeared from out of nowhere.

“I’m working on both of them at once. I mean, I knew they needed work when I got them. That’s the fun part. I spend whatever free time I get playing around with them.” He pointed to the back area of the garage. “See? This is where I keep all my tools. Whenever I can, I try to get original tools from those two eras. It’s neat, working on fifties car with fifties tools.”

I politely admired Jimmy’s collection of wrenches and crowbars, some hanging on the wall, some stored in cardboard boxes.

“I’m a lucky man.” Jimmy stood, his hands on his hips, radiant as he admired his fleet. “I’m thrilled that I’m about to get another car, but I haven’t figured out yet where I’m gonna keep it. I haven’t decided what to get, either. I’m looking at a few different ones that I found on the Web . . .”

I was starting to get really bored with this. I didn’t want to look like a poor sport, but now that I’d seen them, I’d had my weekly dose of automobile appreciation. I was also getting hungry. And it was cold.

“Well, thanks for bringing me here,” I said. “So where should we go for dinner?”

A look of surprise crossed his face, as if he were astonished I wasn’t enjoying basking in the glory of a dirty garage filled with old cars just as much as he was. Then he grinned.

“Sorry. I know; I get carried away. Sometimes I forget that everybody doesn’t love cars as much as I do.”

“It’s nice that you have something you care about so much,” I commented once we were driving away from the seedier side of Westfield. “Classic cars are a real passion with you, aren’t they?”

His hobby was easier to romanticize now that I was no longer standing in an unheated building, pretending to admire hubcaps. Still, I really was impressed by the fact that there was something in Jimmy’s life he was so enthusiastic about. It made him seem so much more alive than a lot of the people I knew.

“Yeah, I guess so. How about you? What gets you excited?”

By now, I knew enough to recognize a simple sentence for what it was. At least, where Jimmy Nolan was concerned. For some reason, his question made me think of Marcus Scruggs. That, in turn, made me think about Barbara Delmonico, Claudia Martin, and Tommee Frack.

“For now, it’s this murder investigation.”

The pleasant, easygoing mood that had been buoying us both up suddenly took a nosedive.

“Jesus H. Christmas, you’re not still messing around with that, are you?” Jimmy stared straight ahead at the road, his expression stony. “Jess, you gotta listen to me. I’m a cop. I know what’s out there. You have no idea of the risk you’re taking by getting involved in something like this. Just keep out, okay? Read my lips.”

I tried telling myself he was concerned only for my safety. But I was irritated by the tone of his voice and his air of superiority. Even more, I was furious over his implication that I couldn’t take care of myself.

Most of all, I was glad I hadn’t told him about the canary feather on my windshield, not to mention Betty’s threatening phone call or the games of Follow the Leader a black Jeep had been playing with me.

We rode in silence for a minute or two. And then, in a voice that sounded much more like the one I was used to, he said, “Listen, I’m sorry.” He grinned sheepishly. “I didn’t mean to sound so much like my father.”

“It’s okay,” I mumbled.

“In fact, why don’t you tell me what you’ve found out? Got any suspects?”

It was hard to stay angry at Jimmy. “I think I figured out who killed Tommee Frack.”

“Yeah?” He glanced over. “Who?”

“George Babcock.”

“Who’s that?”

“The PR guy who gave Tommee his start. I just found out Tommee left his entire business to him. Then again, Tommee had a pretty complicated personal life. At first, I thought his ex-wife killed him. But then I talked to his fiancée, and I started to suspect her, too.”

“Yeah? Why her? Wasn’t she madly in love with the guy?”

“That’s what you’d expect, except that one of her closest friends told me she was really only after his money. But what’s even more intriguing is the fact that Barbara Delmonico told me she was the daughter of two doctors and that she went to all these fancy schools and that she was a stockbroker on Wall Street. It turns out not one word is true. When she met Tommee, she was working as an exotic dancer at a sleazy club called the Silk ’N’ Satin Lounge.”

“Oh, yeah? Never heard of it. You think maybe you could tell me where it is?”

I punched him playfully in the arm.

“The only problem is, I couldn’t come up with any reason for her to want him dead. Even if she was after his money—
especially
if she was after his money— she’d have nothing to gain, since they weren’t married yet.

“Which brings me back to Babcock. Whether George knew what was in the will or not, he still had good reason to want Tommee dead. If he knew about the will, he had a fortune to gain. If he didn’t know, he could still have killed him for revenge. Tommee had very nearly ruined him.”

“Wow. Sounds like you got the whole thing figured out.”

“Maybe. I’m not completely sure. I’m filling my notebook with all the information I’ve gathered. I keep thinking that, like you said, if I go through it enough, sooner or later the true story of what happened is going to hit me.”