Hare Today, Dead Tomorrow (20 page)

“Oh, really? And what makes you so sure you even passed the audition?”

He just smiled. Gesturing toward the kitchen with his chin, he asked, “So where is he? Or should I check that broom closet you mentioned?”

“He’s at school.”

“Kindergarten or first grade?”

“Actually, he’s at the library, studying.” Standing up a little straighter, I added, “Nick is a first-year student at the Brookside University School of Law.”

“Well, I can’t say I’m sorry. That I missed him, I mean.”

“You did meet him once,” I reminded him. “Last week, after I had my stomach pumped at North Country Hospital. He was arriving as you were leaving.”

“Gee, I don’t remember. That’s strange,” he added dryly. “I usually have such a good memory for faces.”

“
Awk!
Shake your booty!” Prometheus squawked.

“What’s with the X-rated parrot?” Forrester asked, sounding amused.

I shrugged. “I keep begging him to hang with a more wholesome crowd, but do you think he listens?”

Grinning, he plopped down on the couch and draped one arm along the back. Even though he’d left me plenty of room to sit down beside him, I perched on the upholstered chair facing him.

“By the way, Forrester,” I said, “I wanted to thank you.”

“You’re welcome. But what are you thanking me for?”

“For keeping Suzanne’s name out of the newspaper.”

“I don’t deserve your thanks for that one. She’s just one of several people the police are looking at. It’s not as if she’s been charged with anything.”

I sighed. “I’m still hoping it never comes to that. That I can find out who really killed Cassandra before...” I let my voice trail off, not wanting to say the horrible words out loud. The image of Lieutenant Falcone loomed before me ominously. I could see him exactly the way he’d looked on the air, his face drawn into an intense expression as he promised the people of Norfolk County he was hot on the trail of Cassandra’s killer.

Forrester picked up the ball. “On a lighter note,” he said, “I have an ulterior motive for coming over here today, as you may have already guessed. There’s something I want to talk to you about.”

“I’m listening.”

“At the risk of sounding clichéd, you ought to be on television.”

I screwed up my face. “Not that Channel Fourteen business again.”

“Hear me out, Popper. This all started because a friend of mine over there, a producer, told me she’s hot to start a TV show about pet care. The station wants to expand its programming to include more local people. Local professionals who viewers would find—how did she put it?—‘interesting and informative.’ So I told her all about you.”

I narrowed my eyes suspiciously. “What did you say, exactly?”

“That I knew an attractive, intelligent, articulate veterinarian who’d be perfect.”

“But, Forrester, I have no interest in being on television. I can barely keep up with all the calls I have to make as part of my regular veterinary business, not to mention—”

“You’d be doing all of Long Island a favor by telling Channel Fourteen’s viewers how they can be better pet owners. Think of all the doggies and kitties you’ll help by reminding their masters how important it is for them to get regular checkups and shots and...and whatever else they need. Besides, it’s a great way to help build your practice.”

My head was buzzing with a hundred reasons to say no. “But...but...I’ve never been on TV! What would I say? How would I act? What would I wear?”

“Look, Popper. Just go over there and talk to them. Find out what they’re looking for. You might not even be the type they’re looking for.”

“ ‘Type’?” I repeated, confused. Even though I wasn’t even sure I wanted this gig—and in fact was pretty convinced I didn’t—the fact that they might turn me down was already making me defensive. “I’m a real live veterinarian. What else do they need?”

Forrester laughed. “Poor Popper. You have so much to learn.”

I
hated
it when he acted that way. In fact, it made my blood boil so fast I felt like somebody had just popped me in the microwave.

“Wait a minute,” I insisted. “First of all, stop talking to me like I just rolled out of the cabbage patch. Second of all, if you’re such an expert on the way the mysterious world of television works, why don’t you take twenty seconds to explain it to me?”

He looked at me with amusement in his eyes. “You’re so cute when you’re angry.”

“And you’re so dumb when you’re arrogant.” Okay, so it wasn’t my greatest line, but it was all I could come up with.

“Point taken.” Grinning, he added, “Sorry. I can’t resist teasing you. Somehow, you bring that out in me. It’s probably sublimation. You know, taking sexual desire and turning it into something socially acceptable—”

“Frankly, I don’t think being a condescending smart-ass is any more socially acceptable than what you call ‘sexual desire’ for someone who’s living with another man—”

“And so very comfortable doing so,” he interjected sarcastically.

Got me there, I thought. But I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of knowing he’d hit a raw nerve.

“Look, Forrester. I don’t know who you think you are to—”

“Knock, knock!” a high-pitched female voice called gaily. “Anybody home?”

My landlady and close friend Betty had just poked her head inside the front door.

Betty
never
opened the door without knocking.

“Hello, Jessica.” Feigning surprise—and not doing a particularly good job of it—she added, “Oh, heavens! I had no idea you had someone over!”

Right, I thought. That SUV the size of a UPS truck sure is hard to miss.

“Come on in, Betty,” I told her.

She floated into the living room, the image helped by her long, flowing sundress made of batik fabric splashed with bright oranges, yellows, and greens. To ward off the coolness of the early October afternoon, she had wrapped a shiny green silk shawl around her shoulders. It was covered with tiny mirrors the size of dimes and edged with gold metallic fringe. Her delicate silk slippers were elaborately decorated with colorful beads that matched the beaded earrings dangling below her smooth, white hair, worn in a neat pageboy.

As was often the case, her outfit looked like something a costume designer had dreamed up. Betty Vandervoort had moved to New York City from Altoona, Pennsylvania, decades earlier to pursue her dream of conquering Broadway. Dancing in the chorus of hits like
South Pacific
and
Oklahoma!
had been only the beginning of what I considered a fairy-tale life, even though it had been marred early on by the death of her husband, Charles. I was pleased that she’d recently returned to the theater, even though this time around she’d set her sights on community productions rather than the Great White Way. Getting back into show biz had made her already sparkly sapphire-blue eyes shine even more brightly. Of course, the recent appearance of a new beau on the scene had catapulted the sparkle to even more dazzling heights.

Lighting on the edge of the couch like a butterfly, she asked sweetly, “And who, may I ask, is this?”

“Forrester Sloan,” I replied. “He writes for
Newsday.
”

Betty stiffened. “Oh, yes,” she said with a touch of haughtiness. “I’ve heard all about you.”

“Only good things, I hope,” Forrester returned, flashing her a grin.

“Hmm” was all she said, making no bones about the fact that she was looking him over. She also made it clear that she had no intention of going anywhere.

“Forrester is helping me find out everything I can about Cassandra Thorndike’s murder.”

“Oh, yes,” Betty said, her eyes clouding with concern. “Jessica told me all about the predicament her poor friend is in.” Her look of concern quickly turned back to coldness as she pointedly said, “I suppose that’s the reason you’re here, then.”

Forrester cast Betty a wary glance, then stood up. “And our business is just about done, so I guess I’ll get going.” He reached into his pocket and handed me a business card. “Here’s the person I told you about. Call her. She’s expecting to hear from you.”

“I’ll think about it,” I replied, taking the card.

After he’d left, Betty twisted around to face me. Crossing her arms, she demanded, “And what, may I ask, was all that about?”

“All what?” I asked innocently.

She drew her lips into a straight line. “Attractive young men dropping by to visit you during the day.”

“Do you think he’s attractive?” I asked coolly. “Actually, I always thought Forrester was kind of—”

“Jessica, you know perfectly well what I’m talking about. I wasn’t born yesterday, you know. And I recognize chemistry when I see it.”

“Speaking of chemistry,” I said, pointedly changing the subject, “what’s up with you and Winston? I’ve noticed he’s been spending a lot of time at your place. In fact, it looks as if he’s practically moved in.”

Betty hesitated, as if wondering if she should go along with my obvious ploy to shift the focus from my love life to hers. “Actually, it looks as if he’s going to do exactly that. Tomorrow, as a matter of fact.”

My eyebrows shot up so high they practically grazed the ceiling.

“Someone is interested in buying his house,” Betty went on. “It’s such a lovely estate, and Old Brookbury is an extremely desirable area. The buyer is anxious for the deal to go through quickly, which would leave Winston without a place to live. He and I have been talking about making a deeper commitment to each other—”

“That was fast,” I said, thinking aloud.

“People our age experience time differently, Jessica. At any rate, with him having no place to go and me rattling around that huge house all by myself...Well, we’re going to try living together.”

“I wish you the best,” I told her sincerely. “I’m sure you’ll both be extremely happy.”

“Seems to me you and Nick have been considering a similar arrangement,” Betty noted.

“Yes, and we’ve decided to give it a try,” I said, noticing that my mouth was suddenly dry. “But it’s mainly because his landlord is making it very clear that he can’t wait for him to vacate the apartment so his daughter can move in. Besides, it’s just an experiment. We’ve agreed on a time frame of a few months. Then, if it isn’t working out...”

“Well, I couldn’t be more pleased that you’re finally making a commitment to Nick. You know how much I adore him, and I love the idea of the two of you going hand in hand into the sunset.” Betty glanced at the front door, as if wanting to make sure Forrester had really made his way onto the other side of it. “Without anything—or anyone—getting in the way.”

“Betty, Forrester and I are just friends, I assure you.”

“Well, you might think that,” she said. “But I can assure you that
he
doesn’t.”

I shrugged. “Can I help it if the guy has an overly active imagination?”

“As a matter of fact, you can.” She paused to take a deep breath. “Jessica, I’ll be blunt.”

That’s a change, I thought crossly.

“I can’t help feeling that you’re sending that young man signals.”

“Betty,” I replied, trying not to sound too exasperated, “I’ve reminded him that I have a boyfriend so many times that even
I’m
sick of hearing it.”

“There are the things we say—and then there are the things we don’t say.”

I was about to point out that she sounded like a badly written fortune cookie when she added, “Just be careful, Jessica. This one isn’t just flirting. This one is serious.”

Chapter 8

“I’ve never understood why women love cats. Cats are independent, they don’t listen, they don’t come in when you call, they like to stay out all night, and when they’re home they like to be left alone and sleep. In other words, every quality that women hate in a man, they love in a cat.”

—Jay Leno

Screech. Crunch. Bang! Even before I flung open the door on Tuesday morning, I knew I wasn’t going to like what I found on the other side. Sure enough: There in the driveway right outside my cottage was an orange and white U-Haul truck that was only slightly smaller than my van. Harder to maneuver too, at least if the fact that it had just smashed into the low brick wall on one side of the driveway was any indication.

“Nick?”
I cried as Max and Lou rushed past me, both of them barking wildly. “What are you
doing
?”

He hopped out of the passenger’s side of the cab, wearing a sheepish grin. Tucked under one arm was a shoe box. “Sorry. I guess Ollie’s not that great a driver.”

Just then, the other door of the cab opened. A chubby man with a complexion that would make a dead man look rosy-cheeked climbed down awkwardly. “I hope I don’t have whiplash!” he whined. “I can already feel shooting pains in my neck!”

I strode over to Nick. “You let
him
drive?” I whispered hoarsely.

“It’s okay. His father owns the franchise.”

“That’s a relief. Hopefully, Daddy will pay for damage.”

Oliver J. Sturges III—Ollie, as his friends called him, assuming he had any—was a member of Nick’s study group. First-year law students apparently found it helpful to get together once a week to pool their notes and share their insights—although having met the other four members, I found it hard to believe they had much of anything to offer Nick, aside from convincing him he was one of the few normal people at the Brookside University School of Law.

“Hello, Ollie,” I greeted the man wearing jeans pulled up nearly to his armpits and a plaid flannel shirt that his mother had no doubt ordered for him from the L.L. Bean catalog. The shirt was still creased from being folded in the package. I just hoped the pins had been removed. “Thanks for helping.”

“I forgot that you have all those...those animals in your house!” he rasped. “Dogs and cats and...and... Oh, my God, I forgot my inhaler. There’s no
way
I’m going inside that death trap, Nick!”

“That’s cool, Ollie,” Nick replied patiently. “I can handle unpacking the truck. You’ve already done enough.”