Hare Today, Dead Tomorrow (5 page)

“I was afraid of that.” Smirking, he added, “Actually, maybe you can be of some assistance, since this is one of those rare cases where there’s an animal involved.”

Ha-ha, I thought, not the least bit amused by what I assumed was a reference to Cassandra’s pet cat, who’d had the misfortune to witness his mistress’s horrible death.

But I let it pass.

“What about her neighbors?” I asked. “Did anyone hear anything during the actual murder?”

Falcone shook his head in disgust. “The neighbors aren’t much good. The only ones close enough to have heard anything are the ones next door. And that’s just an old lady who’s hard of hearing and a kid who’s barely out of diapers.”

“Still, either one of them might have noticed something out of the ordinary or heard something that—”

“Look, Dr. Popper,” Falcone said tiredly. “I got an important press conference to get to. So why don’t you hightail it out of here—no pun intended—and go back to that animal hospital on wheels of yours.”

From the twisted smile on his face, I could tell his bad pun was very much intended. But at the moment, that wasn’t what had me so ticked off. It was the fact that he’d already determined that Suzanne was guilty—and that he wasn’t even willing to seriously listen to input from someone who’d once solved a case he’d insisted wasn’t even a murder! Besides, how could a photo op be more important than solving a murder?

“Lieutenant Falcone,” I said, giving it one last try, “please let me help you with this. Surely there’s something I can do to—”

His expression twisted into a sneer. “I mean it. You don’t belong around a murder investigation. You’re not a homicide detective. This isn’t your business, and I intend to do everything I can to keep you as far away as possible.”

“This isn’t my business?” I repeated, doing my best to sound as condescending as he did. “The police think one of my best friends may be connected to the worst possible crime, and it’s not my business?”

“I don’t care if the investigation involves your own mother,” he countered. “I don’t want you stickin’ your nose where it doesn’t belong. And I meant what I said about telling your friend to come clean. She might think she’s smart, but she’s playing with fire.”

I opened my mouth to reply, but I knew he was right. Falcone had been right about something else, too: that it was only a question of time before the cops gathered enough evidence to implicate Suzanne. In fact, if there was one thing I’d learned this afternoon, it was that her situation didn’t look good.

Yet something positive had come out of this meeting. And that was that having the opportunity to once again experience Falcone’s arrogance firsthand increased my resolve to wrench Suzanne out of his slimy grasp—even if it meant figuring out who killed Cassandra Thorndike myself.

I’d barely gotten back into my car when my cell phone trilled again. I was so busy muttering to myself about Falcone’s obnoxiousness that I answered without bothering to check the caller ID.

“Dr. Popper,” I barked. It was more of a Rottweiler bark than a poodle bark.

“Dr. Popper, it’s Marlene Fitzgerald again. From Sunshine Media?”

I tensed, wondering how I’d let myself fall into this trap twice. I was about to growl that,
no,
I wasn’t interested in adding the Arena Football Network to my cable service, but decided to go for a more direct approach.

“Please don’t call me again. I really don’t have time for—”

“This isn’t a sales call,” the young woman at the other end of the line insisted, sounding even more like Minnie Mouse than she had the last time she’d called. “Channel Fourteen is starting a new television show, and we’re looking for someone like you to be on it.”

I was still trying to digest the image of me on some ridiculous game show when she added, “We got your name and number from Forrester Sloan. He said he thought you’d be interested.”

Forrester?
Just hearing his name gave me pause. I’d met the
Newsday
reporter a few weeks earlier while treating a polo pony in the posh community of Old Brookbury. He’d been covering the murder of a handsome young polo player, and he’d enlisted my aid. I found the killer, all right, even though the investigation had landed me in the hospital.

But our relationship, at least from my perspective, would best be characterized as complicated. Okay, I had to admit he was mildly attractive. At least, if you like the preppy type. Still, there was something about him I found infinitely irritating. It was partly his self-assurednessbordering-on-arrogance and partly his constant flirtatiousness—which I was certain I did absolutely nothing to encourage.

“Forrester was mistaken,” I replied. “Thanks, but you’ve got the wrong person.”

I switched off the call, stared at the phone for a fraction of a second, and then punched in a number.

“Forrester Sloan,” a deep masculine voice announced.

“Forrester, what on earth is wrong with you?” I demanded.

“Hey, Popper!” he replied without hesitation. “But shouldn’t I be asking you that question? After all, you’re the one who’s been in the hospital. Speaking of which, have they sprung you yet?”

He sounded genuinely happy to hear from me. Which only fueled my irritation.

“I didn’t call to discuss my health,” I replied impatiently. “I called to ask you where you came up with the bright idea of telling Sunshine Media to harass me!”

“Sunshine Media . . . Oh, you mean Channel Fourteen!”

“Whatever they’re called, I don’t need them calling me on my cell phone when I’m in the middle of something important.”

“You mean the way I’m in the middle of something important right now?”

I instantly felt sheepish. It hadn’t even occurred to me that he might be sitting in a meeting or interviewing somebody. Forrester Sloan was one of
Newsday
’s top reporters, so it was more than likely that, in the middle of a workday, he would be embroiled in something pressing himself.

“I’m sorry,” I said begrudgingly. “I suppose I should have asked you if you were busy.”

“Ha. If I were busy, I’d have turned off my cell phone. In fact, I’m driving to a ribbon-cutting ceremony for a new homeless shelter. True, every politician in Norfolk County will be there, not to mention a few other hangers-on. Hardly front-page news.”

“You’re not supposed to drive and talk on a cell phone at the same time,” I grumbled.

“Headset,” he informed me. “Besides, I’ve got an in with most of the cops around here. The last thing they want is for me to make them look bad in print.

“Speaking of cops, Popper,” he went on breezily, “I’ve been thinking that you and I need to have a little talk, and this is probably as good a time as any. You had a close call the last time you got involved in a homicide investigation. From now on, it might not be a bad idea for you to leave the murder biz to the professionals.”

“You mean like newspaper reporters?” I shot back.

“Touché,” he returned. “Okay, so maybe I’m not a seasoned professional like our pal Falcone. But working for the press gives me certain protection. Maybe I’m naive, but I still believe the pen is mightier than the sword. And when you start thinking about the power of the word processor...But I’m sure you didn’t call me so I could lecture you about how to conduct your life.”

“No, I called to read you the riot act for giving my number to those annoying TV people. Who else are you giving it out to—or have you written it on a men’s room wall somewhere?”

“Honest, Popper, the TV folks are looking for somebody like you who has star quality. You should talk to them. Who knows where it will lead?” He muttered something about a tailgater, then added, “So what’s this important thing you were in the middle of? Some high-level veterinary procedure on a ridiculously expensive polo pony? Or a life-and-death situation involving the beloved pet of one of the Bromptons’ rich and famous citizens?”

“It involves life and death, all right,” I replied archly. A lightning bolt suddenly flashed through my brain. While I’d called Forrester to complain about giving my name and number out to media moguls, it occurred to me that he might have his uses, after all. “Not to change the subject, but I don’t suppose you’re covering Cassandra Thorndike’s murder, are you?”

“As a matter of fact, I am. I was just over at her house yesterday, and I’m planning to head back there again later today.” He paused, and I could practically hear the wheels turning in his head. “Wait a sec. I’m starting to put two and two together here. Does your interest in Cassandra Thorndike have anything to do with the fact that several witnesses reported seeing her fiancé’s ex-wife—who just happens to be a veterinarian—at the scene of the crime? This is a hot story, since her family has mega-bucks—not to mention a well-known name. I don’t suppose the vet is somebody you know, is she?”

“Actually,” I replied, trying to sound casual, “Suzanne Fox and I went to college together.”

“No
way
!”

“Would I lie?” As soon as I said the words, I gritted my teeth. All things considered, joking about telling lies probably wasn’t a very good idea.

“In that case, you’ll be interested in knowing the police aren’t buying her story about all their witnesses being wrong,” he went on. “Not for a minute. Sooner or later, they’ll prove she was at Cassandra’s house the day of the murder. And our buddy Falcone doesn’t like being lied to. Especially when the person in question has the motive, the means, and the opportunity to commit the crime.”

My stomach lurched in a most unpleasant way. “Forrester, if you’re trying to make me feel better, it’s not working.”

“Sorry.” He hesitated, then said, “Hey, the fact that you and this Suzanne character are friends could turn out to be very helpful. Maybe you could give me some insights into the insanely jealous ex, the redheaded vixen who lied about being at the scene of the crime—”

The temperature of my blood escalated so quickly it was as if somebody had sat me down on the power burner of a gas stove. “She’s nothing like that, Forrester! And if you even
think
about characterizing her that way—”

“Relax! It’s not like I write for the
Gossip Gazette
or one of those other supermarket tabloids. I’m a serious reporter. I try to be coldhearted and objective.”

Objective sounded good. Coldhearted sounded decidedly
not
good. After all, the way the press portrayed her—especially if she was actually charged—would be crucial.

“Tell you what: let’s make a deal,” Forrester went on. “I’ll tell you everything I learn about the investigation if you tell me everything you know about Suzanne. A background piece might make an interesting feature, you know?”

I hesitated. Forrester’s offer to help was tempting. But my feelings of loyalty to Suzanne made the idea of working with a reporter seem risky. After all, he was trying to get a story, not prove her innocence. The last thing I wanted was to inadvertently do or say something that would make her situation even worse.

“Thanks, but no thanks,” I replied.

He chuckled. “Think about it. In the meantime, I’m going to be in Cassandra Thorndike’s neighborhood mid-afternoon. I want to knock on some doors and see what else I can learn from her neighbors. But I should be done by around three. Why don’t you swing by her house and meet me there? The address is two-fifty-four Cliffside Lane.”

I had to admit, the idea of visiting the victim’s home sounded intriguing. Still, I’d only been out of the hospital for a few hours—and since then, I’d been on the go every minute. I’d planned to spend the rest of the day at home, curled up in bed with two dogs and two cats who were warm and fuzzy and ecstatic to have me back. That is, after I’d taken a steaming hot shower that would wash away the hospital smells that still lingered on my skin.

“I don’t need your help,” I told him crisply.

“I think you do. At any rate, I’ll be there, if you care to join me, Popper. ‘Later!”

I clicked off the call, wondering why I found him so darned irritating and wishing I wasn’t using a cell phone so I could have slammed the phone down in the receiver.

Yet I had to admit that the more I learned about Suzanne’s plight, the worse it seemed. Falcone clearly had it out for her. And her poor excuse for a lawyer certainly wasn’t going to be much help. On top of that, she wasn’t improving things by continuing to lie to the cops.

Her situation looked pretty bleak. I was slowly coming to the realization that the only way I was going to help my friend out of this mess was by finding out who the
real
murderer was. And given that fact, even I wasn’t too pigheaded to recognize that Forrester Sloan had just made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.

Chapter 3

“The way to get on with a cat is to treat it as an equal—or even better, as the superior it knows itself to be.”

—Elizabeth Peters

Since Forrester Sloan was going to be helping me out—a sign of just how desperate I was to get Suzanne out of this jam, given the fact that the man had an ego the size of North Dakota—I figured I’d better check out what he’d already had to say about the case. I made my next stop the public library, bypassing the shelves lined with New Mysteries and Best Sellers and making a beeline for the periodical room.

Just as I figured, Wednesday’s and Thursday’s editions of
Newsday
were underneath today’s edition on the circular wooden rack. I grabbed Wednesday’s, figuring that since being in the hospital had cut off communications from the outside world, I’d start at the beginning.

I found Forrester’s story on page 5. It was short and matter-of-fact. In fact, most of the full-page coverage was dedicated to photographs of Cassandra, her house, and her parents’ winery. Her picture looked like a typical high-school yearbook shot: a dewy-eyed young woman with straight, neatly combed dark hair, dreamily staring off into space. She was wearing the usual high-necked sweater with a string of pearls that you just knew she couldn’t wait to yank off.