Dead Canaries Don't Sing (31 page)

“You know what I think?” Jimmy said. “Based on what you’ve told me, I mean?”

“What?”

“That the fiancée did it. What’s her name? Barbara?”

“Right. Barbara Delmonico. Why do you think she did it?”

“Because she’s the one who had the most to hide. Maybe she didn’t get any money as a result of Frack being dead. But what if she got something else? Like maybe they’d had a big fight—you know, right before this mega-wedding she’s been counting on—and he threatened to tell everybody about her past. Maybe she’d been struggling to move on to something better for years, and here’s this rich guy telling her he’s going to trash it all. He knew a lot of people, right? What if he started spreading the word that this woman who pretends she’s all hoity-toity really started out as a stripper?”

“Exotic dancer,” I mumbled.

But Jimmy’s speculation got me thinking. It was true that I’d been so focused on the obvious aspects of Barbara’s engagement to Tommee that I hadn’t bothered to think very far beyond. Now that Jimmy had opened their entire relationship up to question, there were a lot of possible scenarios.

Could she have learned that Tommee was into something bizarre or illegal or otherwise questionable? Was it possible that, like his fiancée, Tommee wasn’t what he seemed? Or maybe once they were almost married, he’d let on that he was into some kinky sexual behavior. Maybe he suggested a threesome, and in a fit of rage and jealousy she bludgeoned him to death, then called on someone like Paul, the owner of the Silk ’N’ Satin, to help her get rid of the body . . .

Somehow, I found it difficult to imagine Barbara getting upset about unusual sexual behavior. If anything, I could picture her being the one who suggested it in the first place.

But maybe there was something else going on between them. It was such an obvious possibility that I was amazed I hadn’t thought of it before.

“I mean, all these business wheelings and dealings are pretty standard stuff,” Jimmy was saying. “Everybody knows everybody, the corporate guys and the political guys, and they’re all working together to grease each other’s palms. That’s just the way things work. There’s nothing sleazy about it. It’s just the old boy network—if you’ll excuse the expression. People do business with their friends. They do favors for friends. That’s the real world, Jess.”

“You’re probably right . . .”

“I know I’m right. If I were you, I’d keep looking into this Barbara. Maybe I don’t know all the ins and outs of this case, but I’ve been a cop long enough to have developed kind of a sixth sense about what’s going on. And I’d put my money on the fiancée.”

This time, when the evening ended, I was careful not to leave Jimmy with any uncertainty about whether or not I intended to go out with him again. After dinner we made out in the car like teenagers.

When I told him I wasn’t ready to invite him in for the night, he took it well.

“I need more time,” I said when the question of what was next, coming inside or driving home, came up. “I’m just coming out of a very intense relationship. And, well, I’m just not ready.”

“Okay.” He sounded disappointed enough for me to feel flattered. “But when you
are
ready, you’ll let me know, right?”

I grinned. “You’ll be the first. Promise.”

As I watched him drive away, I realized I meant it.

This one could be a keeper, I thought.

Despite the cars.

I lay awake in bed for a long time, listening to Max wheeze and Lou snore and running my hand along Cat’s silky fur . . . and thinking about Jimmy. Unfortunately, it wasn’t his boyish grin, his gentle teasing, or even the impressive way he used his hands and his mouth that kept the adrenaline racing through my bloodstream.

It was his suggestion that there could have been much more going on between Barbara and Tommee than I’d assumed.

I agonized over who might be able to tell me more about their relationship. I needed someone who’d known them both. Maybe even someone who’d been involved in their wedding plans.

The answer came to me at two A.M.

The next morning, I dragged myself out of bed, wishing that somewhere along the line I’d mastered the art of forcing myself to go to sleep. But once I was on the road with Max and Lou, I forgot all about my fatigue. I was too busy treating patients and reassuring their owners. I doled out hairball removers to cat owners and antiulcer medications to horse owners. I discussed the effectiveness of various whitening shampoos with a breeder in Woodhull who felt it was time his French poodles entered the show ring. I trimmed the claws of a rabbit whose owner was afraid of cutting them too close and watching her beloved Thumper bleed to death.

The last appointment of the day, a diabetic cat in nearby Seaponak, was over by three-thirty. I rushed home to shower and slap on lipstick before venturing into uncharted waters.

While I’d dealt with my share of nerves since I began playing sleuth, I wrestled with a different type of demon as I drove along an endless driveway to Hallsworth Hall.

The building itself was spectacular. At the turn of the century, a multimillionaire named James Cullen Hallsworth had commissioned it with the goal of creating the most distinctive mansion on Long Island. He was determined to outshine the ostentatious Gold Coast mansion estates to the west, owned by his contemporaries like Frank Winfield Woolworth and J. P. Morgan.

Hallsworth had been born into poverty, the son of a London chimney sweep. He emigrated to the United States when he was fourteen, began shining shoes on Wall Street and charmed his way into a job at a big investment firm. By the time he was thirty, he was a millionaire, regularly playing croquet with fellow Long Island residents Teddy Roosevelt and John Philip Sousa.

But when it came to building his house, he wanted to play his own game. So he designed an eccentric fantasy that to many was an architectural nightmare. It combined the best of a variety of architectural styles: Greek columns, Tudor trim, Victorian turrets, even a widow’s walk. One more notable element was the bizarre number of chimneys—Hallsworth’s personal tribute to his chimney sweep father.

At the time, the mansion had been considered garish. But what was once the epitome of bad taste was now seen as wonderfully idiosyncratic. While I’d heard of it for years, I’d never actually been there. Now that I was up close, I fell in love instantly with its quirkiness.

It was what I found inside that was the problem.

Everywhere I looked, I saw pictures of brides. They smiled into the camera. They smiled at the tuxedoed grooms standing beside them in silent adoration. They smiled at the precious flower girls who clung to their baskets of flowers.

To be sure, events other than weddings also took place at Hallsworth Hall. I noticed a few shots of corporate events, bar mitzvahs, even what looked like an anniversary party for two people who, in my book, deserved a lot more than a couple of platters of shrimp and a champagne fountain for still looking so happy together after what had obviously been decades.

But those events were clearly the exception. While Hallsworth Hall had once stood as a testimony to the American Dream, these days it served as a monument to Marriage.

I was wondering if I should just hightail it out of there before a full-scale anxiety attack set in when an attractive young woman asked pleasantly, “How can I help you?”

“Uh, I’m thinking of getting married,” I croaked.

She smiled. “Thinking?”

“Well, no. More than thinking. What I mean is, I’m trying to think of the best way to do it. Have the reception.”

“Of course. And it’s a very big decision.” Another smile. “Almost as big a decision as choosing the right man.”

“You probably don’t accept walk-ins. Maybe I should go home and call for an appointment . . .” I glanced longingly at the door.

“That’s not necessary. In fact, I believe our wedding planner is free right now. Let me see if I can get you in.”

She didn’t give me a chance to protest. Before you could say, “Here comes the bride,” she was on the phone.

“Good news,” she informed me as she hung up. “Ms. White can see you now.”

I forced a smile. “That
is
good news.”

It’s for the cause, I reminded myself as I allowed her to shepherd me into a waiting area. You’re here to investigate a murder, not choose the color of the table-cloths and matching napkins for the Happiest Day of Your Life.

I wondered if the wedding planner was really named Ms. White or if that was simply a way of fitting her into the bridal theme. The color white was really big here. In addition to the white gowns that were the focus of every photograph, bouquets of fragrant white flowers were enthroned everywhere. A glass case displayed white veils, white satin pillows for the wedding rings, and white garters. Even the china cups next to the complimentary cappuccino machine were a pristine white.

All resemblance to things innocent ended in the person of Ms. White, however. Even though she was barely out of her twenties, Ms. White reminded me of those tough career women in the films of the 1940s, combining the ruthless efficiency of Joan Crawford with the formidable shoulder pads of Rosalind Russell.

It was clearly an image she cultivated. Her tailored navy blue suit was as crisp as her manner. Her hair, an oversized, platinum blond puff that made her look like she was walking—literally—with her head in the clouds, looked solid enough to withstand a tornado.

She stuck out her hand. “I’m Caroline White. And you are . . . ?”

“Jessica Popper.” As I shook her hand, I was careful to avoid her bright red fingernails, filed so sharply I was sure they had to be registered with the police.

“Have a seat, Jessica. First of all, congratulations.”

It took me a few awkward seconds to figure out what she could possibly be referring to. “Oh. Of course. Yes. Thank you.”

“You’re about to start planning the most important, most meaningful, most romantic day of your life. It’s one that will live on in your heart like nothing else, a reminder of the most important thing we have as human beings here on this earth: Love.” Ms. White clasped her hands in front of her and sighed. “Now, what kind of budget are we talking?”

“Uh, I don’t know. Modest, I suppose.”

“You don’t have even a ballpark figure?”

“I’m sorry. I’ve never done this before.”

“No problem. Let’s start planning the details and we’ll see how it plays out. Have you picked a date yet?”

For the next twenty minutes, I answered relentless questions about my taste in flowers, pasta, music, wine, and ice sculpture. We even tackled the critical flowers-versus-balloons centerpiece issue. I must admit, I put together a pretty nice affair, even though it was all a pipe dream. Just picturing Jimmy Nolan in a tuxedo, leading a conga line with Betty right behind him and me next in line, all decked out in white, burst the bubble so quickly I could practically feel a thin film of soap on my face.

I was wondering how I was ever going to slip Tommee Frack into the conversation when Ms. White said, “I almost forgot to ask. How did you happen to choose Hallsworth Hall?”

“A friend recommended it. In fact, she couldn’t say enough about it.” I paused for effect. “Barbara Delmonico?”

I had difficulty reading the look that crossed her face.

“Maybe you don’t remember her,” I persisted. “You must deal with so many brides.”

“Oh, I definitely remember her. The Delmonico-Frack wedding.”

“So you do remember!”

“Of course. It’s so tragic. I’m truly sorry for your friend’s loss.”

“Thank you. Barbara’s devastated, of course. Has she contacted you about canceling? She’s been so grief-stricken, I wouldn’t be surprised if—”

“The wedding was already canceled.”

“I see. So someone did contact you after Mr. Frack was killed.”

“No, before that. The nuptials were canceled before that. Before Mr. Frack’s untimely passing.”

I blinked. “Excuse me?”

Caroline White looked puzzled. “Barbara didn’t tell you? I thought you said you two were friends.”

“We
are
friends. Close friends. But no, she didn’t say anything. Of course, I haven’t seen much of her these last few weeks. I’ve, uh, been doing quite a bit of traveling.”

I was struggling to digest what I was hearing. It wasn’t easy acting normal when I felt as if someone had just thrown a bucket of icy water over me. The wedding had been canceled
before
Tommee Frack’s murder. Which meant Barbara Delmonico hadn’t been his fiancée when he died.

“But now that you’ve told me,” I floundered, “it does explain a lot. Poor Barbara! She has seemed awfully depressed lately. Even before Tommee—several of our mutual friends commented on it to me. Do you happen to know exactly when the wedding was canceled?”

“I can look it up for you.”

She pulled the oversized date book that sat at the edge of her tremendous desk toward her. Even though her scarlet fingernails were as long as a mandarin’s, she deftly flipped through it, running a single talon down each page before moving on to the next.

“Here we are. November first.”

Two days before Tommee’s murder.

“They lost the whole deposit. It was a considerable amount of money. But with the wedding scheduled just a few weeks off . . . Well, of course it was too late for me to book another event in that slot. No way, not on such short notice. I’m running a business here, not a club for bleeding hearts.”

I doubted anyone would ever think that.

“Still, I felt bad for Ms. Delmonico. When she called to tell me the wedding was off, I mean. Personally, I didn’t understand what she saw in Mr. Frack, but if I had a nickel for every time that was true . . .

“Anyway, she wanted everything to be perfect. Every bride does, but I could see how much even the tiniest details mattered to her. She insisted that everything be
classy
. That was exactly the word she kept using.”

“I don’t suppose she gave a reason? For the cancellation, I mean?”