Hare Today, Dead Tomorrow (7 page)

“I already know the basics,” I replied. “Cassandra was alone in her house on Tuesday when somebody came to visit. Somebody she knew. Or maybe that person sneaked inside without her realizing it. At some point things got ugly, and the visitor grabbed something sharp and stabbed her with it. Somewhere in there— probably after she’d been stabbed at least once—there was a struggle that left the entire room in disarray. Lots of blood everywhere, stuff knocked over... Cassandra tried to fight off her attacker but her attacker prevailed, and she fell to the floor, dead.” As I outlined the scene, it played through my head with disturbing clarity.

“Give the girl a gold star!” Forrester replied. I was ready to slug him—with words, since they’re much more stinging than fists—when he added, “It’s probably worth mentioning that the police didn’t find any signs of a forced entry—through the windows, for example—so they figure the killer came through the front door. Either it was open or Cassandra let the person in. There’s a back door, too, but the only fingerprints and footprints that were found in the kitchen were Cassandra’s, so that pretty much lets that out as a point of entry. Anyway, the police think the person who killed her was somebody she knew.”

“Not surprising,” I commented. “Especially since the North Fork isn’t exactly a hot spot for random killings.”

“There’s one more really intriguing aspect to this case,” Forrester went on. “Something that wasn’t in the paper.”

“ ‘Intriguing’?” I repeated. Usually, that was one of my favorite words. But given the situation, just hearing it made me feel like someone had grabbed hold of my heart and was clenching it in his fist.

“That’s the word I’d use,” he said. “Apparently our murderer left behind a few clues.”

I hope none of them have Suzanne’s fingerprints on them, I thought.

Aloud, I asked, “What are you talking about?”

“Now, listen up, Popper.” Forrester glanced from side to side, as if wanting to make sure no one was listening. “I’m sworn to secrecy on this. I’m about to tell you information the police aren’t releasing to the public. I’ve got a friend in the department who told me this in the strictest confidence, and he made me swear on my BlackBerry that I wouldn’t print anything about it.”

My heart had begun to pound. Maybe, just maybe, whatever Forrester was about to reveal would get me closer to proving Suzanne innocent by finding the real murderer. “I promise I won’t breathe a word to anyone.”

“Aha!” He folded his arms across his chest triumphantly. “So I’ve finally got something that Popper wants. Maybe this would be a good time for me to do a little negotiating. I give you what you want, you give me what I want...”

“Just tell me,” I insisted. “Look, we’re talking about murder—and the fact that one of my closest friends is the primary suspect. If I wanted to flirt, I’d go home to my boyfriend. So let’s hear it.”

“Whoa.” Forrester actually looked impressed. Which was fine, if it would get me what I wanted. “Okay, then. Here it is. The cops found three objects next to Cassandra’s body. They think it might be the killer’s signature. Or that maybe he or she was leaving some kind of message.”

“What were they?” I demanded.

“A paperback novel, a small stuffed bunny rabbit, and a running shoe.”

I just stared at him, too startled to speak.

“You’re kidding, right?” I finally managed to say.

“As a matter of fact, I’m not. Neither the investigators nor the members of Cassandra’s family have been able to figure out what it means either—that is, assuming it means anything at all. There could be several explanations for why those things ended up lying on the floor.”

“Like...?”

“Like maybe Cassandra was cleaning up when she was attacked and she was about to put those particular items away. Another theory is that her cat dragged them over.”

“Yes, I heard she had a cat.”

“His name is Beau,” Forrester noted. “As in Beaujolais.”

“Cute. Naming him after a type of wine, I mean.” Frowning, I added, “I suppose the cat could have brought over the stuffed animal, if it was small enough. Especially if it was one of his toys. But a running shoe would be too heavy for most cats. Besides, why would he drag over a sneaker? The same goes for the paperback book. It doesn’t make sense that a cat would be interested in something like that.”

“One theory is that the cat knocked them off a shelf. You know, with his paw. Or maybe his tail.” He shrugged. “Hey, you’re the animal expert.”

“Maybe he knocked off the book,” I mused. “But who keeps sneakers on a shelf?”

“I’m just telling you what I heard. Doesn’t make sense to me either.”

“What was the title of the book?”

“The Scarlet Letter.”

“The Nathaniel Hawthorne classic?” I asked, confused. “That’s not exactly beach reading. I can’t imagine why someone like Cassandra would even have a book like that in her house—unless it was one she’d saved from her college days. Or maybe the murderer brought it along...?”

“Nope. Her copy. The cops found her name inside. Her handwriting.”

“Which makes it even more likely it was a book she’d gotten for a class. Not many people take the trouble to write their name in their books once they’re out of school.”

Forrester shrugged. “Like I said, the whole thing is a complete mystery. But why don’t you wrap that pretty little head of yours around this puzzle, and maybe you can come up with the answer.”

I opened my mouth to lambaste him for using a phrase that I hadn’t heard since the last time TNT ran a Dean Martin movie. Then I noticed the twinkle in his eyes and realized that, once again, the man was playing with me.

“Maybe I’ll do just that,” I returned loftily. “Especially since the cops haven’t managed to wrap their ugly little heads around it and come up with anything at all.”

He laughed. “You’re fast, Popper; I’ll give you that. And you know, I’ve always liked fast women—”

“What else did the police find at the crime scene?” I interrupted. “Were there any hairs, fibers, fingerprints, footprints...anything at all?”

“All of the above, actually. Over the next few days they’ll be analyzing the forensic evidence and putting together a list of all the people who were recently in that room.”

I nodded. “Have the police determined what the murder weapon was yet? Was it a knife or some other sharp object—a letter opener, maybe? Have the cops found it? Does it have fingerprints—”

“The police still haven’t located the weapon.”

My mind raced as I tried to consider every possible angle and every possible detail. I could picture driving away from Cassandra’s house and slapping myself on the head for forgetting to ask Forrester for some key piece of information. “Was the phone in her home office off the hook?” I asked. “A sign that she’d tried to call for help?”

“There was no phone in the room. In fact, the only land line in the house is in the kitchen. A leftover from the old days, before cell phones.”

“Speaking of cell phones...”

“The police found Cassandra’s cell in her purse, in the living room.”

“So the murderer didn’t take her purse.”

“Or anything else, apparently. At least, not that the cops have noticed. The TV, the DVD player, jewelry, some cash that was in a drawer—all untouched.”

“So robbery was not the motive, just like it said in your article.” My head buzzed with all the bits and pieces of information Forrester was handing me. “Are there any theories about whether Cassandra’s attacker was someone she knew or if he—”

“Wait a sec. You referred to the murderer as a ‘he.’ How do you know it wasn’t a ‘she’? In fact,” he went on, a strange look crossing his face, “how do you know it wasn’t your pal who killed Cassandra? Just because you and this Suzanne used to play field hockey together at Bryn Mawr—or whatever you two did—doesn’t mean she didn’t off her ex’s new flame.”

Once again, I could feel a wave of fury rising up inside me. “Look, Forrester. I’ve known Suzanne Fox for a very long time. And I would bet my life on the fact that there’s absolutely no way she had anything to do with this!”

“I hear you,” Forrester returned, holding up his hands. “I’m just raising the question, that’s all. I mean, when you come right down to it, how well do any of us really know each other?”

I had no interest in pursuing
that
line of discussion. Pointedly, I changed the subject, saying, “Falcone made a rather snotty remark about the possibility of me being of some use because there was an animal involved in the case. I just assumed he meant Beau, Cassandra’s cat. But now I’m wondering if he meant the stuffed bunny.” I couldn’t resist muttering, “That idiot.” Actually, I was thinking of some much more colorful comments I could make about Lieutenant Falcone, including some that used variations on the word
stuffed.

“If I were you,” Forrester said mildly, “I wouldn’t go out of my way to aggravate Falcone.”

I stared at him in disbelief. “Since when are you the diplomat?”

“Since always. I’m a reporter, Popper. And one of the first lessons I ever learned is that you don’t get people to help you by pushing their buttons.”

“But—”

“I suggest that you stop and ask yourself a very simple question: What matters more, your ego or your friend Suzanne?”

I had to admit that he had a point.

“Look, Popper,” he said. “If you want to help your friend, you don’t need Falcone, okay? In the end, it won’t matter whether or not he has witnesses and forensic evidence that put her at the scene of the crime. This is one of those cases that’s not going to be solved with physical evidence. The answer’s going to come from the people who knew Cassandra. If you want my advice on how to clear your friend’s name and find the real murderer, I’d say go ahead and ask as many questions as you want—and meanwhile stay out of Falcone’s way.”

I jammed my clenched fists deep into the pockets of my polyester fleece jacket, biting my lip and thinking hard. I could tell from how hot my cheeks were that they had turned beet red.

“Hey, think about it, okay?” Forrester finally said. “That’s all I’m asking. You’ve got a good head on your shoulders. Use it to insinuate your way into Cassandra’s world. Get to know the people she knew. Find out which ones were her true friends—and which ones just pretended to be her friend. And try to re-create, in your mind, exactly what happened on Tuesday. That’s where the answer lies, not in the hairs on her carpets and the fingerprints on her front door.

“Besides,” he added in a voice that was only half-teasing, “maybe you can help me scoop the other news mongers by finding the real murderer and giving me an exclusive. I’m telling you, this looks like a case you can crack.”

He turned and began walking back to his own car.

“Forrester?” I called.

He glanced back over his shoulder, raising his eyebrows.

“Thanks.”

His face melted into a grin. “That’s the spirit, Popper. Later.”

I stood in front of my car, watching him drive away. The anger that always seemed to arise simply from being in Forrester’s presence was already dissipating—largely because I realized he was right.

Of course, the fact that the answer to the riddle of who had killed Cassandra Thorndike probably didn’t lie in fingerprints and fibers wouldn’t make it any easier to solve—especially since Suzanne’s were guaranteed to be among them. But at least it didn’t put me at a major disadvantage by not having Lieutenant Anthony Falcone and his staff of forensics experts on my team.

I glanced up Cliffside Lane one last time, making doubly sure that Forrester was gone. Then I wandered up the front walk, back toward Cassandra’s house. Even with the yellow crime-scene tape, it looked tempting. But at the moment, it wasn’t number 254 I was interested in. It was the charming if somewhat dilapidated house next door, the home of the woman who’d found Cassandra’s body.

The good news was that someone had painted it a cheery yellow. The bad news was that it looked as if that had happened about thirty years ago—without a single touch-up since. The front porch sagged, the grass badly needed cutting, and the black paint on the wooden shutters was peeling. The old car parked in the driveway fit right in. Its fenders and doors were bumped and bruised, and it was in dire need of a day of beauty at a local car wash.

Still, the little house looked like it was loved. Pots of chrysanthemums, bright yellow and deep purple, stood on each wooden step, and a wreath made of dried flowers hung on the open front door. White lace curtains covered the large living-room window, and a row of ceramic figurines lined the windowsill.

The afternoon had warmed up enough that whoever lived there had left the front door open. A television blared through the screen door. It sounded like it was tuned to one of those home-shopping channels, since an unusually seductive woman’s voice was insisting there were only three left and that $49.99 was the deal of a lifetime.

I studied the porch, noticing that a wooden swing, one of those old-fashioned ones that hold two people, was hung at one end. I also spotted a tricycle, and a red plastic bowl was placed on the porch’s top step so a pet could easily drink from it.

I peered through the screen, but all I could see was a small living room. Along the back wall was a large sagging couch decorated with four needlepoint throw pillows. Two matching upholstered chairs, covered with dark green chenille slipcovers, were draped with crocheted armrest covers the color of limes. A beige pole lamp was topped with a fringed lampshade that was still encased in clear plastic. Yet aside from the noise from the TV, there were no signs of life.

At least, none that I could see. I raised my arm to knock on the screen door, then froze. Even though I was the one who was sneaking around, I couldn’t shake the sudden feeling that I was being watched. I turned and scanned the yard but didn’t see a soul.

As I started walking toward Cassandra’s front door, trying to act as if I actually had a reason to be there, I heard a twig snap. This time I whirled around quickly, trying to catch whoever was spying on me. Yet I still didn’t see anyone.