Dead Canaries Don't Sing (3 page)

I was determined to ignore my pounding heart and the adrenaline surging through every cell of my body. In the grand scheme of things, the fact that I had discovered a dead body less than thirty minutes earlier was surely much more important than my lurid past.

I decided to act like a mature adult, focusing on the sticky situation at hand without letting my emotions get in the way, when Nick demanded, “Okay, Jess. What have you gotten yourself involved in now?”

Within a nanosecond, my hackles were up. Here I had swallowed my pride by calling Nick in my time of need, breaking my long silence to humble myself before his years of expertise with crime. And what was his response? He was talking to me the way Ricky used to talk to Lucy.

“I haven’t gotten involved in anything,” I shot back. “Is it my fault that some . . . some
dead
guy just happened to plant himself directly in my path?”

“Where is he? The dead guy, I mean.”

“Over there.” I pointed.

“Not exactly in your path, is he?” Nick observed.

“Okay, then. My
dogs’
path.”

Nick shook his head, then sighed. “That’s what happens when you go looking for trouble.”

“I was hardly looking for trouble! I happened to be here for a perfectly legitimate reason. The Athertons called me in a panic, upset because one of their stallions has a dangerously swollen throat and can’t stop coughing—”

“Then again, maybe some people are just good at having trouble find them.”

I flung my hands in the air. “There’s
no
trouble.
Forget
trouble. I’m perfectly fine.” At that moment, I regretted having called Nick Burby more than I’d regretted anything I’d ever done in my entire life.

As if he’d read my mind, he asked, “In that case, Jess, why did you call me? It looks like the cops have everything under control.”

“My van is stuck in a ditch, and, you know, I guess I thought it might be helpful to have someone here who knows his way around a crime scene. Perhaps in my deranged state I actually imagined that a little moral support might even be forthcoming. Then there’s the fact that while I’m finding this whole thing absolutely horrifying, it’s also incredibly fascinating, and so I just assumed that you’d be interested, too . . .”

“Actually, to me it’s just sad. That poor guy lying over there, whoever he is, just saw his life come to a close. He was probably a good person who just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. But no matter what the circumstances, it’s pretty nasty to end up buried in a field.”

“He was buried in the woods, not a field. And there was a canary that looked as if its neck had been broken buried right next to him,” I announced. I tossed my head arrogantly, wondering if doing so emphasized the golden glints in my hair.

And hating myself for caring.

“A canary—get it?” I went on. “The symbol of ‘singing.’ Spilling the beans. Telling secrets that aren’t meant to be told. That leads me to believe he wasn’t exactly a stellar member of the community.”

“Jess—”

“And I don’t know about you, but the fact that I’m the one who found him, combined with the fact that there was no doubt something fishy going on that led to his untimely and undignified demise, makes me extremely anxious to know who did him in—and why.”

Nick cast me a wary look. “Jess, if I were you, I’d answer the questions the nice homicide cops asked me, take a look at the sick horse that brought me here in the first place and then do everything I possibly could to forget all about this.”

Before I had a chance to think up a snappy comeback, the cop who was tall, blond, and, I suddenly decided, quite good-looking sauntered over to join us.

“I want to apologize again for Pascucci’s rudeness before,” Officer Nolan said. “That’s just the way some cops are. It probably has something to do with the bad coffee we’re always drinking.”

A sense of humor. I liked that.

“Pascucci’s here?” Nick glanced at the short, uniformed figure now standing at the mound of dirt and leaves.

“You know him?” I demanded.

“When you’re in the private investigation biz, you get to know the local cops. Vince is a pretty good guy.”

I glared at Nick, making a statement about the fact that we couldn’t seem to agree on anything anymore.
Vince
was most definitely not a pretty good guy.
Vince
was a chauvinistic, obnoxious bore. Then I smiled at Officer Nolan.

“It looks pretty impressive, the way you guys are handling this.” I had to stop myself from batting my eyelashes. “I guess you know what you’re doing.”

“Well, Harned certainly thinks he does.”

I laughed loudly, as if Officer Nolan were the funniest, most charming member of the male gender on earth. As I did, I stole a glance at Nick.

Even though I felt unspeakably childish, I was pleased to see he was scowling.

Chapter 2

“Of all the animals, the boy is the most unmanageable.”

-Plato

My stomach was still in knots as I drove back home to Joshua’s Hollow later that morning after digging out my van and then treating Stormy Weather, the Athertons’ stallion, with penicillin for what turned out to be mild Streptococcus
equi
and instructing Skip to continue with three injections a day. The worst part about being in such a state was that I didn’t know what was to blame for it: finding an actual murder victim decomposing in the woods or seeing Nick Burby again.

There was one thing I did know. I needed a good strong dose of Betty Vandervoort.

For at least the millionth time, I thanked fate—or my real estate agent—for finding me my cottage. There are three things about it that are unique. Number three on the list is its history. Number two is its beauty. And number one is my landlady, the only person who shares the sprawling property with me.

I dropped Max and Lou at my cottage, knowing they would be welcome at Betty’s but not wanting the hassle of keeping them from shattering any valuable antiques. As I trekked toward the Big House, otherwise known as the Tallmadge mansion, I could hear the opening bars of “Everythin’s up to date in Kansas City” blaring from inside. I knocked on the front door so hard that my knuckles hurt.

“Jessica! You’re just in time!” Betty’s sapphire blue eyes twinkled like Christmas tree lights as she threw open the door. “I’m about to give my old audition routine a try. You know, the one that got me into the chorus of
South Pacific.
”

I stepped inside a foyer that was as big as my entire cottage. “Don’t tell me they’re reviving it on Broadway?”

“If they’re not, they should. All those ridiculous Andrew Lloyd Whoever monstrosities they’re putting on these days! It’s a disgrace. There’s nothing like the classics when it comes to musical comedy.”

With that, Betty shrugged off her pale pink silk kimono. I was about to avert my eyes when I realized that underneath it she was wearing a tap-dancing outfit. At least, that was what I surmised it was. The clingy black scoop-necked top looked like a leotard. Over it, she wore a short crimson skirt. At the end of her long, graceful legs were two old-fashioned tap shoes, tied with fat black bows.

I let out a wolf whistle.

“Surprised it fits?” She struck a pose, meanwhile fluffing her smooth, white hair, carefully styled into a flattering pageboy. “The old legs still look pretty good, don’t they?”

I had to admit that they did. Even at her age, Betty Vandervoort didn’t have legs; she had
gams
.

As for her age, I estimated it to be seventy-five plus. Although I’d known her for nearly three years, I never could get a straight answer about the year Betty was born. I’d tried to trick her into an admission by casually asking how old she’d been that time she took the gamble of a lifetime, investing an entire summer’s earnings as a waitress at the Paper Plate Diner in Altoona, Pennsylvania, in a one-way ticket to New York City.

She hadn’t fallen for my ploy. Betty was hard to fool. And today was no exception.

The twinkle in her eyes faded as she studied me more closely.

“Something’s wrong.” It was a statement, not a question. “You don’t need a performance. What you need is a cup of tea. A strong one.”

She scooped up her silk robe and headed out of the room, with me trailing after her. It was a long walk, one that took us through an elegant front parlor decorated with gilt-framed mirrors and Victorian couches covered in silk brocade. Next came a dining room featuring a table that could sit fourteen, with a huge crystal vase of long-stemmed white roses at its center. Then a butler’s pantry so big a butler could actually live in it.

Finally, we reached the kitchen. As I sat meekly at the table, Betty put the kettle on. She had a firm conviction that water boiled in a microwave didn’t taste as good as water from a kettle. She placed an empty Limoges teacup in front of me with a bit of a flourish, no doubt an unconscious move from the old days at the Paper Plate.

“Now tell me.” She sat down and fixed her perfectly made-up eyes on me.

I took a shaky breath. “This morning, I was on my way to see a sick horse at Atherton Farm when Max and Lou found a body in the woods.”

“A body?” Betty frowned. “What kind of body? You mean a deer or an opossum—?”

“I mean a human body. A murder victim.”

“Murder? In Brewster’s Neck?” Betty shook her head, which sent her long gold earrings swaying. “That’s the most horrible thing I’ve ever heard. Who was the victim?”

“I don’t know. The cops made me leave before I had a chance to find out.”

“You must be in shock!” She pushed back her chair. “I think you need something stronger than tea.”

Reaching into one of the upper cabinets, she pulled out a bottle of whiskey. She plunked it on the table, right next to the sugar bowl, and sat back down again. “I want to hear everything.”

I told Betty the entire story, all about getting up late and having to rush to get my cup of morning coffee and ending up taking the back road through the horse farm. She listened intently, reacting with subtle facial movements but not saying a word.

When I got to the part about calling the police, I faltered. She raised her eyebrows.

Reluctantly, I said, “I, uh, also called someone else to the scene.”

“Who?”

“Just a friend. Somebody with some experience in the area of crime investigation. But he couldn’t get any more information out of the police than I could.”

She perked up instantly. “ ‘He’?”

“Betty, it was totally innocent, I assure you. All I wanted was a little professional advice. I figured that, you know, it might be helpful to have him around . . .”

She shook her head disapprovingly and pursed her red lips. “Jessica, when are you going to realize that it would be helpful for you to
always
have Nick Burby around?”

“I didn’t come here to talk about Nick.” I hoped I sounded more certain about that than I felt. “I came for the comfort of a good friend. For goodness’ sake, Betty, I found a dead man in the woods this morning!”

Betty cast me a skeptical look, but said nothing. Instead, she jumped up to retrieve the kettle.

We both remained silent as she made two strong cups of Earl Grey, laced with something a lot more powerful than anything the good Earl had to offer. We each took a few sips before I declared, “I’m going to find out everything I can about this case.”

“But you don’t even know who the dead man was!”

“I know I’m the one who discovered his body. That links us in some way, doesn’t it?”

“If you ask me, you’d be better off putting your time and energy into that Nick of yours. Now
he’s
something worth investigating.”

I couldn’t help but smile at her perseverance. “I’ve told you that’s all over. Nick and I are just—”

“I know, I know. Just good friends.” Betty grimaced. “If that’s the case, then how come every time you talk about him, your eyes get all sparkly?”

“My eyes do not get all sparkly! I’m just tired. I—I got up much too early this morning.”

Betty cocked her head to one side. “At this point, Jessica, I’m old enough to read people pretty well. I’m also old enough to tell them the truth without worrying about them decking me.”

“But—”

“What’s even more important,” she interrupted ruthlessly, “is that when you get to be as old as I am, you see things, things that other people, even younger people with better eyesight, don’t see. They’re too busy, maybe, or too busy thinking about themselves. But I see what there is between you and Nick.”

“I’m not saying that Nick and I weren’t . . .
close
at one time.”

“Close?” Betty picked up the whiskey bottle and poured another generous dollop into my teacup. “I know I’ve told you this story at least a hundred times, Jessica, but the first time I laid eyes on my Charles, I knew he was the one for me. I was moonlighting at the Copa, wearing this headdress-thing made out of bananas and pineapple that must have weighed thirty pounds. I was thinking, ‘How am I ever going to make it through tonight?’ when I looked out at the audience. And there he was, sitting right in front, looking at me and wearing that smile . . .”

Actually, I’d heard this story more like a thousand times. But I never tired of hearing it. Just as I never tired of seeing the look that came over Betty’s face as she told it.

This time, however, her expression tightened. “If he hadn’t been taken away from me so quickly, back when we were still newlyweds and so crazy in love that we couldn’t stand to be away from each other . . .”

She fixed her gaze on me. “The point is that I know what real love is, Jessica. I also know that most people never find it. If you’re one of the lucky ones who has, you’ve got to grab it and appreciate it and do everything you possibly can to hold onto it.”

I squirmed, wishing we could go back to talking about something easier, like dead people. It appeared that that wasn’t about to happen.

“Jessica, I’m as firm a believer in women being strong and independent as you are,” Betty continued. “That whole image of a simpering gal who can’t survive without her man never did sit well with me, even back in the days when it was pretty much all we had.