Dead Canaries Don't Sing (7 page)

“Jesus H. Christmas. Will you look at all these people?” Officer Nolan—Jimmy—commented.

I raised my eyebrows, surprised by such an odd phrase—especially coming from a cop. “I guess Frack was a pretty important guy.”

“What about you? What are you doing here?”

I shrugged. “I guess it’s kind of weird, but I feel a sort of kinship with Tommee Frack, even though I never met the guy. I guess I’m hoping that coming to his wake will give me a sense of closure.”

“I hear you.”

“And you?”

“I’ve gotten involved in the investigation a little bit, so I figured it wouldn’t hurt to come to his wake.”

Before I had a chance to ask any more questions, the minister tapped on the microphone. I wouldn’t have expected such a high-tech touch to be appropriate at a wake, but in this case, it was a good idea: there were so many people packed into the room that it would have been impossible to hear without a speaker system.

“Family, friends, business associates of Tommee Frack,” he began when the noise died down. “While all of us in this room knew Tommee for many different reasons, today we are all united by a common bond: mourning the loss of this committed, involved, caring man . . .”

I was already growing bored. I looked around the room, not knowing what I expected to see. Somebody grinning diabolically, maybe, or giggling to himself in a corner.

Instead, I saw a bunch of business-types, men and women in suits. Nothing too interesting there. Sitting in front, I noticed an older couple clinging desperately to one another. Tommee’s parents, no doubt.

The minister droned on and on. I was beginning to wonder if I was wasting my time when a shrill voice from the hallway cut through the minister’s sugary words.

“You mean they started without me? They couldn’t wait five minutes?”

I glanced toward the doorway. So did everybody else in the room.

We weren’t disappointed. A pretty young woman— more young than pretty—flounced inside, looking annoyed.

But the expression on her face was the least of her inappropriateness. She was dressed in black, all right, but her dress was cut so low on top and so high on the bottom that she could have been wearing a dish towel. The result was enough leg and enough boob to stun even the minister, who halted mid-sentence.

Something else separated her from all the other mourners. Strutting alongside her was a black-and-white Tibetan Terrier, a twenty-pound version of an Old English Sheepdog. The breed is a bit of a rarity, even in my circles. The black-and-whites are particularly high maintenance, requiring two different shampoos, one for the black fur and one for the white. These days, most busy families prefer the wash-and-wear varieties of house pets.

The minister remained silent as everyone in the room watched the woman with the living, breathing fashion accessory prance toward the front of the room on heels so high and so spiky that I feared for the carpet. When she reached the first row, the one reserved for family, she wiggled her way into a seat, displacing several coats in the process. Someone—possibly, but not definitely the Tibetan Terrier—let out a little yelp.

“Goodness, who’s that?” I whispered to Officer Nolan.

“Barbara Delmonico,” he whispered back. “Tommee’s fiancée.”

So, I thought with satisfaction, good old Tommee wasn’t such a stuffy businessman, after all. There was another side to him, a side that, from the looks of things, was still rooted in his adolescence. In fact, I’d be willing to bet he had a poster of Pamela Anderson hanging in his bedroom.

As my attention turned back to the ceremony, one mover and shaker after another stood up to extoll Tommee Frack’s virtues. I was tempted to yell out, “If Tommee was such a great guy, how come somebody wanted him dead?” Instead, I continued studying the crowd, not knowing what I was looking for but naively certain I’d know it when I saw it.

And then I noticed the sobbing woman.

She stood hunched over in the opposite corner of the room, next to the doorway, her shoulders heaving violently. Unlike most of the other mourners, who looked like they had charge accounts at Bloomingdale’s and Today’s Man, she was more of a Wal-Mart type. Her dress, dark blue with more ruffles than anyone over the age of six has a right to wear, had a tired look. She was barely five feet tall, yet round enough that she could have benefited from a bigger size. Her nondescript brown hair was worn straight down, as if it had never been introduced to the concept of a stylish cut. And yet, I could see that she was fairly pretty, even though her face was half-hidden by the clump of tissues she kept pressing against her eyes.

Something else struck me. Whoever she was, she was the only person at Tommee Frack’s funeral who was crying. Even his fiancée seemed more irritated than grief-stricken.

I tensed up like a retriever about to dive into a lake as I watched her head out of the room. “I’ll be right back,” I told Officer Nolan, figuring he’d assume I was going to the bathroom.

Actually, it turned out to be precisely where I was going. As I turned the corner, I saw the crying woman pushing the door labeled “ladies.”

Inside, I found a pleasant sitting room with flowered wallpaper, mirrors, and upholstered benches. The perfect place for collecting oneself.

The woman had sunk onto one of the benches and appeared to be trying to do just that. She wasn’t having much luck.

Impulsively, I sat down beside her and slipped my arm around her shoulders.

“It’s so sad, isn’t it?” I asked gently. “He was so young, and so involved. There were so many people who cared about him.”

“None of them cared about him the way I did.” She spat out the words.

“Are you related?”

“I used to be. As a matter of fact, I used to be his wife. I’m Merrilee Frack.”

I patted her shoulder. While my attempts at comforting her until this point had been sincere, I now realized I’d stumbled upon a gold mine.

“It must make you feel great that so many people turned out for Tommee’s funeral,” I soothed her. “He was such a vital part of the community—”

“I hate those people!” She swiped at her eyes with her ball of wet tissues. What was still left of her eye makeup became even more smeared, the blues and greens swirling together like the colors of Monet’s water lilies. “They’re responsible.” She spat out the words venomously.

“Responsible . . . for his death?”

“Everything! His death, the stupid way he led his life . . . I wish they would all just go home. Especially her. How dare she show up here? That . . . that
whore
!”

Not knowing what to say to that, I indulged in a little more patting. Then I stood and reached for Merrilee’s hand.

“Come on,” I said briskly, using the same tone I use with puppies who aren’t grasping the basics of good behavior. “Let’s get your face washed. A little cold water will make you feel much better.”

“I bet I look a mess,” she wailed, trailing after me obediently.

When we reached the sink, she gasped. “Oh, my God! I actually appeared in public looking like this? Tommee would have
died
!”

And then, to my astonishment, she started laughing. At first, I was afraid she’d lapsed into hysteria. But then I realized her laughter was sincere. This was precisely the relief she needed.

Splashing water on a paper towel, I said, “First of all, let’s get some of that makeup off.”

“I can do it.” Merrilee focused on her reflection, scrubbing at the streaks of color. “You’re right. This cold water does feel good. And maybe it’ll stop my eyes from looking so red.”

I pulled a comb out of my purse for Step B. She took it from me gratefully.

“I especially don’t want
her
to see me looking like this,” she mumbled.

I knew exactly who she meant.

Within just a few minutes, she looked composed enough to face the world.

“Okay, now take a few deep breaths,” I instructed. “Come on, I’ll breathe with you.”

“I took a yoga class once.” She sounded childlike. “It didn’t really do anything for me. And whenever we had to stand on one leg, I was the only one in the class who kept falling over.”

“I’ve never had much luck with it, either,” I admitted. “I guess I’m always in too much of a hurry to be a yoga-type.”

Merrilee smiled gratefully. “It was really nice of you to do this. I’m not used to having anybody take care of me.”

“We all need taking care of sometimes.”

“Were you and Tommee friends? Or business associates?”

The moment I’d been dreading. “Well . . . neither. I—”

“You’re not in public relations?”

“Actually, I’m a vet—”

Her face lit up. “Oh, I’m so glad to meet you! And thank you for taking such good care of Dobie and Maynard!”

I didn’t bother to correct her. My mind was clicking as I said carefully, “Dobie and Maynard. I just love those names. From the old
Dobie Gillis
TV show, right?”

“What else would you name a Doberman but Dobie?” Merrilee giggled. “That was my idea. Naming the other one after Maynard G. Krebs was Tommee’s. Imagine, a Doberman pinscher named after a beatnik!” She hesitated, then added, “That was back when Tommee still had a sense of humor. Before he started taking himself so seriously. Before he decided our life together wasn’t good enough. That
I
wasn’t good enough.”

Merrilee’s face crumpled again as she relived the pain of rejection. Anxious to distract her, I asked, “So—how are Dobie and Maynard doing?”

“Not too well, actually. They’re with me now, you know. Of course, I’m thrilled to have them back. I mean, they were Tommee’s dogs, but I got real attached to them. And then I lost them in the settlement. At the time, giving them up seemed like a good deal. I got a bunch of money and Tommee got the dogs. But for the past three years, not a day has passed that I haven’t missed them so much I could hardly stand it.”

I wondered if she meant only the Dobermans, or if Tommee was included in there, too.

“But they’re not doing so good. They haven’t eaten a bite since I got them back. They just lie by the door, resting their noses on their paws. They’re waiting for Tommee to come home.” Her eyes filled with tears. “The poor guys. They don’t know
what
happened. They were completely devoted to him. Tommee was the center of their lives for as long as they can remember, and they just don’t know what to do with themselves without him.”

She brightened. “Hey, maybe you could check them out. Make sure they’re okay.”

“I’d be happy to.”

“That’s great! When can I bring them in?”

“You don’t have to. I have a mobile unit. I’ll come right to your house.”

“Oh, could you? That would make things so much easier! I just have a little Hyundai, and believe me, driving around with those two monsters in the backseat is no picnic.”

One hundred and sixty canine pounds would definitely test the limits of a Hyundai. “How about later today?” I asked. “Around eleven?”

She looked over my shoulder as I jotted down her name, address, and phone number in the small address book I retrieved from my purse.

“You spelled my name wrong,” she pointed out. “That’s okay. Everybody does. It’s M-E-R-R-I-L-E-E.”

“Interesting,” I observed. “Just like Tommee.”

“That’s where he got the idea. Of changing the spelling of his name, I mean. He was just ‘Tommy’ before that. But he wanted his name to be different. Something people would remember.”

The cloudy look came over her face again. “You see, him and me, we really were good together. I inspired him. We had a terrific future together. It’s just that, well, in the end, he didn’t see it that way.”

“Something like that must be awfully hard to forgive.”

Merrilee cast me a steely look. “It’s something I’ve never gotten over.”

The contrast between her ruffled dress and the naked vehemence of her tone left me feeling chilled.

As I made my way back to my original vantage point, the eulogies were coming to a close. People were getting restless, shifting in their seats and sneaking glances at their watches. These were busy people, I thought, and now that they’d paid their respects, it was time to move on with the rest of their day.

Before taking off myself, I turned to Officer Nolan.

“It was nice to see you again, Officer—”

“Jimmy,” he corrected me with a grin.

“Jimmy.” Flirtatiously, I added, “And who knows? Maybe I’ll take you up on your offer one of these days.”

He looked confused.

“Hearing all your war stories? Over a couple of beers?”

Before he could respond, I felt someone grab my arm.

“Jessie, I know what you’re doing,” that same somebody hissed in my ear, “and I’m warning you that you’re playing with fire.”

“Will you excuse me?” I asked Jimmy sweetly.

“Sure,” he replied cheerfully. “I’ve got to get going anyway. See you around, Jess.”

The second he was out of earshot, I turned back to Nick.

“This is
such
a sad occasion,” I told him calmly. “A terrible loss to Long Island’s business community, not to mention those who truly loved Tommee—”

“I saw you flirting with that cop. And I know exactly what you’re doing. You’re kissing up to him so you can horn in on the investigation. I’m telling you, it’s not a smart idea.”

Nick was beginning to remind me of my parrot Prometheus, the way he kept saying the same thing over and over again until you just itched to throw a sheet over his cage.

“You’ve made your point,” I told him.

He glared at me. Then he sighed. “Look, Jess, why don’t you just stick to what you know? You’ll be much safer setting bones and removing hair balls than playing detective.”

I smiled at him sweetly. Then, with the same lady-like grace and dignity, I stuck out my tongue.

Chapter 4

“An empty house is like a stray dog or a body from which life has departed.”

-Samuel Butler

Fifty-four Heather Court was one of five identical houses dotting the edge of a perfectly round cul-de-sac, like the numbers on a clock. Yet despite their architectural similarities, each of the modest ranch houses had been customized by the residents who owned and loved them.