Hare Today, Dead Tomorrow (2 page)

I cringed at the metaphor. Somehow, the image of anything dead, even a relationship, hit a raw nerve.

“I do remember you telling me how painful it was for you,” I commented.

“ ‘Painful’ is an understatement,” she replied. “I felt worse than I did when my impacted wisdom tooth got infected. Anyway, I decided that meeting her might make me feel better. I figured that once I saw for myself that she was just another person, maybe even someone I could be friends with, the idea that Robert had chosen her over me wouldn’t hurt as much.”

Frankly, I thought that sounded like a really bad plan. But at this juncture, it seemed kinder to keep my opinions to myself.

“So I found out where she lived,” Suzanne continued. “On Tuesday afternoon, I went over to her house and rang her doorbell. I figured I’d introduce myself and that maybe she’d offer me coffee or something. I was hoping that by the time I got out of there, I’d have the closure I was looking for.” She shook her head sadly. “I mean, she couldn’t have been an ogre. She was probably a very nice person, someone I would have liked if we’d met under different circumstances.”

“Probably,” I replied unconvincingly.

“Anyway, when I got there, I was pretty sure she was home. But she wouldn’t come to the door.”

“Why did you think she was in the house?” I asked.

“Her car was parked in the driveway.”

“How did you know it was hers?”

Suzanne rolled her eyes. “Jess, it was a red Miata with the license plate CASSLASS. Who else could it belong to?”

“Good deduction,” I said, nodding.

“Besides, the front door was open. That wasn’t surprising, since it was one of those gorgeous October days. And the TV was on.”

“So you rang the bell?” I prompted.

“Two or three times. Then I knocked, really loudly.” Frowning, she noted, “My first thought was that she knew perfectly well who was on her doorstep. I figured she’d looked out the window and recognized me from Robert’s description, or photos he had.

“Anyway, the idea that she was holed up inside her house, hoping I’d just go away, got me mad.” Suzanne hesitated. “Finally, I opened the screen door and walked in.”

I guess a look of surprise crossed my face, because she quickly added, “It’s not like I barged in or anything. I just stepped inside and called her name. You know, like, ‘Cassandra? Are you here? Anybody home?’

“I could hear the television blaring from the back of the house. So I followed the sound. But I kept calling her name. I mean, I wasn’t trying to sneak up on her or anything.

“Then I reached a room that looked like a home office. It had a computer and a fax machine and a little TV, stuck up on a shelf. I got as far as the doorway. And then, and then—” Her voice broke off. “I saw her.”

“Exactly what did you see, Suzanne?” I asked gently.

She paused to take a couple of deep breaths. “She was . . . she was on the floor, facedown. But she was crumpled up, as if she’d fallen. There was blood everywhere. Most of it had soaked into the carpet, I guess. And there was plenty of blood on the desk. Everything on top was in chaos. Papers were lying all over the place, and the pencil mug was on its side with pens and pencils scattered.

“The whole scene was horrible, Jess! And what made it even more disturbing was the fact that, right in the middle of this grotesque scene, there was one single sign of life.”

I blinked. “What are you talking about?”

“Like I told you: Cassandra’s cat. He was lying on the floor next to her, acting as if he was just waiting for someone to come and help. He looked up at me and blinked, then let out a loud meow. It was really creepy. I almost got the feeling he was trying to tell me what had happened. Or that maybe he was asking me
why
it happened.”

The idea of someone’s poor pussycat witnessing such a horrendous event broke my heart. I immediately thought of my own two cats. Cat—Catherine the Great—was a longtime companion who had often picked up on my bad moods, everything from sadness to grumpiness. She seemed to have a sixth sense about what was going on with me, and she seemed to long to comfort me. Tinkerbell was still just a kitten, but I’d even caught her staring at me, wide-eyed, at times when I was upset, as if she had also noticed that something was amiss.

“Anyway, I panicked,” Suzanne continued. “I just turned and ran. I got in my car and drove off.” Her shoulders slumped. “That’s what happened. But somehow, I couldn’t bring myself to tell the police.”

The face of Lieutenant Anthony Falcone, Norfolk County’s chief of homicide, flashed before my eyes like one of the bursts of light that often precede a migraine. Even in my imagination, he didn’t look happy.

“Why not, Suzanne?” I demanded, trying not to sound exasperated. “Why didn’t you just tell them the truth?” I realized I was perched so far on the edge of the couch that I was close to toppling onto the floor. I also noticed that the brightly colored fabric, splashed with cheerful flowers, looked painfully out of place in the somber room.

“Jess, when they showed up at my house, I just freaked! All these thoughts started racing around in my head, like,
They’re going to think I killed Cassandra
Thorndike because I was jealous!
and
I can’t let them
know I was there!”
The tears that had pooled in her eyes began streaming down her cheeks. “I didn’t want to get involved. I was afraid they’d suspect me.”

In a choked voice, she added, “But I didn’t do it, Jessie! You believe me, don’t you?”

“Of course I do!” I cried.

In fact, I was one hundred percent convinced that she was innocent. Suzanne Fox and I had been friends since our freshman year of college, when the fact that we both wanted to become veterinarians had instantly bonded us. We’d memorized the periodic table together, filled out our vet-school applications together, and even opened our letters of acceptance together. Even though we lost touch for a few years after she went to vet school at Purdue University and I went to Cornell, the previous June we had reconnected when I discovered that she, too, was living on Long Island. She was someone I’d been friends with for more than a decade and a half. As far as I was concerned, that was more than enough time to be certain of her true character.

“What did the police say when you told them it wasn’t you their witnesses had spotted?” I asked.

Suzanne’s lip trembled. “I’m not sure they believed me. When they left, they told me not to leave the New York area. In fact, they said I’d be wise to stay on Long Island.”

“Suzanne, listen to me,” I said, doing my best to remain calm. “You’ve got to tell them the truth. Sooner or later, the cops are going to—”

“Don’t you see?” she cried. “I can’t change my story now. It’ll only make things look worse.”

“But don’t you think that sooner or later they’re going to figure out you really were at Cassandra’s house that day? That they’ll find your hair or your fingerprints or... or some other proof?”

She shook her head hard. “I’m not even going to think about that right now,” she insisted. “If that ever happens—and I don’t see any reason why it should—I’ll deal with it then.”

Her capacity for denial was truly remarkable. Then again, she’d already astounded me with it through her choice of boyfriend.

I decided to try a different tack. “Have you contacted an attorney?” I asked. “Someone who can give you advice?”

She nodded. “Marcus put me in touch with somebody. A guy he went to college with. I think they were in the same fraternity.”

Great, I thought as a wave of dismay swept over me. I hoped that, whoever he was, he’d turn out not to have gotten through school the same way as that boyfriend of hers, Marcus Scruggs: by majoring in Girls and Beer. “Who is he?”

“Jerry Keeler,” she replied. “He’s got an office right across from the Norfolk County Courthouse.”

I made a mental note of his name.

“Is there anything
you
can do, Jessie? Can you talk to that obnoxious guy in homicide? You know him, don’t you? What’s his name—Vulture or something?”

“Falcone,” I corrected her. “Lieutenant Falcone.”

“If he hurries up and finds the real murderer, I’ll be off the hook, right?” she asked anxiously. “Besides, aren’t you two friends?”

I hesitated before replying, “Actually, he and I are not exactly on the best of terms.”

That was an understatement. Not only was the man utterly convinced that I spent way too much time investigating murders; the fact that I occasionally turned out to be better at it than he was only furthered the damage. Given our history, I suspected that alerting him to my connection to this case would only aggravate what was already an appalling situation.

But I had to take action. Especially since Suzanne didn’t seem to realize that she’d made a bad situation a hundred times worse by lying to the police about having been at Cassandra Thorndike’s house the day she was murdered. Despite my feelings about Falcone, he was sharp enough that such a blatant lie was bound to raise red flags.

And when Falcone was seeing red, there was no telling what he might do.

Before I drove off, I took a long look at Suzanne’s house, a small West Brompton Beach bungalow that had clearly been built as a summer home. It looked ridiculously cheerful and full of hope for the future, despite the fact that whoever designed it had clearly been influenced by the Shoe Box Movement. Suzanne had done a valiant job of making the best of it. Its white shingles had been painted recently, probably around the time she and her then-husband, Robert Reese, moved in two years ago, when they’d relocated to Long Island so he could open his own restaurant. Back then, of course, Suzanne didn’t realize their marriage had already gotten to dessert.

Even though she’d been born and raised in the Midwest, she’d opted to keep the house, buying out Robert’s share as part of their divorce settlement. She’d already set down roots in the area, establishing a veterinary practice in nearby Poxabogue. Somehow, the house suited her. The simple, one-story structure reflected her Midwestern practicality. Yet she’d added a few flashier touches—painting the shutters turquoise and lime green, for example, and putting out one of those cynical door-mats that read
Go Away—
that I tend to think of as her ever-increasing New York–ness.

It was certainly true that Suzanne had changed a lot since our college days, when she’d arrived at Bryn Mawr literally right off the farm. But she was a long way from being tough enough to withstand something like this without completely crumbling beneath the stress.

When she’d first called me to tell me she was in trouble, I was lying in a hospital bed, recovering from having my stomach pumped. The entire thing was so surreal that I’d wondered if I was simply experiencing some bizarre side effect from the drugs the doctors had given me.

Unfortunately, the sick feeling that immediately lodged in my stomach told me it was all terribly real.

Of course, that feeling was probably also due to the fact that I’d been poisoned not long before. I still wasn’t feeling even close to perky.

I didn’t look particularly perky either, I realized as I climbed into my red VW and caught sight of myself in the rearview mirror. My face was pale and drawn, and my expression made me look like someone who had just received some of the worst news of her entire life. My dark-blond hair, badly in need of washing, was pulled back into an unflattering ponytail. And my green eyes had a dull look that I knew could only be cured with a cup of joe. I promised myself that I’d dash into the first Starbucks I spotted—whether my stomach agreed that it was a good idea or not.

At least locating some desperately needed caffeine wasn’t likely to prove too much of a struggle. West Brompton Beach was like most of the other communities on Long Island’s South Fork, the nickname for the bottom prong of the fish-shaped island’s tail: It was filled with establishments that catered to the needs of individuals with more money than they could spend in several lifetimes. During the summer, swarms of ridiculously wealthy actors, writers, artists, pop stars, and rappers, along with the behind-the-scenes business moguls who’d made them all household names in the first place, moved the glitz and glamour of their Manhattan lifestyles one hundred miles east to the area known as the Bromptons. My mobile veterinary practice, a 26-foot van that serves as my office, frequently took me there to treat the dogs, cats, and other pets that belonged to both locals and summer residents. So I knew only too well that between Memorial Day and Labor Day, you couldn’t find a parking space, buy a cup of coffee for under three dollars, or walk more than twenty feet without spotting someone you’d seen on the cover of
People
magazine.

But the seaside village had a split personality. September had just eased into October, and the summer playground of the rich and famous was already showing signs of rust. Many of the luxurious vacation homes were closed up for the winter season, along with some of the boutiques. As for the restaurants, maître d’s who would laugh at anyone calling for a reservation less than a month in advance during the high season were now desperately pushing three-course prix fixe dinners for under thirty bucks.

Actually, autumn and winter were my favorite times of year on the island’s East End. The beach towns took on a magical quality, thanks to the stark gray-white light of the luminescent sky. The endless white-sanded beaches, not a soul in sight other than the shrieking sea-gulls scavenging for food, always struck me as romantic. The same went for the beach communities’ Main Streets, as crowded as cities during July and August but as deserted as ghost towns in the fall. It was easy to see why the Tile Club, the group of artists who had first trekked out to the South Fork from New York City in the late 1800s, had instantly fallen in love with the area’s natural beauty. Famed architect Stanford White, painters Winslow Homer and William Merritt Chase, and the other members of their exclusive group published their drawings and paintings of the South Fork in a popular magazine, instantly creating a brand-new tourist destination.