Dead Canaries Don't Sing (10 page)

I realized something else, too. Although I was making some progress and already starting to develop a few theories of my own, I needed help.

From a professional.

Chapter 5

“Romance, like the rabbit at the dog track, is the elusive, fake, and never attained reward which, for the benefit and amusement of our masters, keeps us running and thinking in safe circles.”

—Beverly Jones

As I drove away from Merrilee’s house, a black Jeep that had been parked halfway down the street during my visit began to move. I slowed, waiting for it to go ahead. Instead, it stopped to let me leave the cul-de-sac first.

I waved a thank you, surprised by what struck me as an unusually considerate act. Long Island drivers aren’t exactly known for their politeness. But as I drove by, I saw that the driver had turned his face away.

I headed toward Port Townsend, my mind clicking away, plotting a strategy. Merrilee had suggested talking to people who knew Tommee from his public relations business. I agreed with her off-handed comment: chatting with them
was
an excellent way of getting to know the dead man better. As for coming up with a
reason
for them to talk to me, that was a trifle more complicated. But I had some ideas about that, too.

I’d forgotten about the Jeep until I came to a busy corner, one at which I needed to make a turn. Glancing into my rearview mirror, I saw that it was right behind me. It struck me as an odd coincidence that one of Merrilee’s neighbors happened to follow the same convoluted route I’d just taken.

But it wasn’t until I made a risky left turn, rushing in front of the oncoming traffic with a little less leeway than I liked, that the “coincidence” began to seem like something more. The black Jeep stuck to my tail, causing the driver of the car we both raced in front of to punch his horn furiously.

“Is this guy following me?” I murmured. I was squinting at the rearview mirror, trying to get a better look at him. But he’d dropped back and was far enough away that I couldn’t see him well. The fact that the driver—definitely male—wore a baseball hat and sunglasses made it even harder.

“This is a busy road,” I told myself after driving another half mile or so. “A lot of people drive on it.”

Just for the heck of it, I pulled into a Dairy Barn. I figured I could always use an extra dozen eggs, and this seemed as good a time as any to stock up. Besides, a straightforward confrontation with reality might help cure my paranoia.

Ten minutes later, when I pulled back onto the highway, the Jeep was behind me again. Yet I remained unwilling to accept the ridiculous notion that I was actually being followed. I decided I had simply seen too many James Bond movies. “It’s probably not even the same car,” I muttered to myself.

By the time I turned into the parking lot of Nick’s Olde English office complex and watched the Jeep drive on, I was convinced I’d imagined the whole thing—even if the vehicle in question did have tinted windows.

“No more caffeine for you today, young lady,” I told myself firmly. “Not when you’re already starting to see things that aren’t there.”

I decided to focus on something really cloak-and-dagger: solving the mystery of how to convince Nick Burby that it really did make sense for me to try to identify Tommee Frack’s killer.

His greeting was less than encouraging.

“You again.” As I stepped into his office, he glanced up from a thick paperback the size of the Norfolk County phone book. His expression instantly shifted from engrossed to exasperated.

“Like a bad penny,” I assured him. “Mind if I sit down?”

Instead of waiting for an answer, I sat.

“So what have you been up to?” I asked casually.

“Not much. Studying for the LSAT.” He held up the paperback. It was a review book for the Law School Admission Test, crammed with advice on how to read pie diagrams and figure out the best title for a story.

I nobly resisted the temptation to launch into another speech about the evils of the law profession. Instead, I offered, “Let me know if you need any help. I’m really good with flash cards.”

Before he could make a snappy comeback that would take us in a direction I didn’t want to go, I said, “By the way, I’ve been meaning to ask how Leilani is doing.”

“She’s doing fine.”

“Does she miss me?”

“It’s kind of hard to tell.”

“Tell her I said hello.”

“I’ll give her your regards. But somehow I get the feeling you didn’t come here to talk about Leilani.”

“Ah. Very perceptive. No wonder you’re in the P.I. business.”

“Now you’re flattering me. I’m starting to get nervous.”

“Actually, I wanted your opinion on a couple of things. I also have a business proposition.”

He narrowed his eyes. “I liked it better when we were talking about the weather.”

“We haven’t talked about the weather.”

“I meant that metaphorically. You know, the LSAT, Leilani, the easy stuff.”

“Forget easy. I have something much more interesting to tell you.”

“Now I’m really getting nervous.”

I leaned forward in my chair. “I think Merrilee Frack may have murdered her ex-husband.”

I expected silence. I expected a cynical look. I didn’t expect him to laugh out loud.

“You’re joking, right? I don’t really know the woman, of course, but from what I saw at the wake, she didn’t look as if she could hurt a fly—if you’ll excuse the cliché.”

“Maybe not a fly. But what about a man she’s madly in love with—a man she’s been absolutely crazy about almost her entire life—that she’s just learned is about to marry somebody else?”

“The jealous lover.” Nick thought for about a tenth of a second, then shook his head. “Somehow, it doesn’t fit.”

“Why not?” I asked indignantly. “I found out she’s still waiting for Tommee to come back to her. Even though they’ve been divorced for three years, and even though he cheated on her constantly when they were married, she still loves him. She’s convinced—or at least she was up until recently—that it was only a question of time until he saw the light and realized she was the love of his life. It’s totally conceivable that learning that Tommee was about to marry Barbara Delmonico was enough to push Merrilee over the edge.”

His look of silent skepticism spurred me on. “You should see her house, Nick! It’s filled with pictures of Tommee. She even has this, this altar, practically, in her spare bedroom. And as if
that
wasn’t freaky enough, she has a cageful of canaries in her kitchen—”

“Wait a minute. You were in her
house
?”

I nodded.

He exploded. “Are you insane? What the hell do you think you’re doing, Jess? You actually went
into
Merrilee Frack’s house?”

I sat back in my chair. The force of his reaction had practically catapulted me backward.

“What’s wrong with that?” I countered.

“You can’t just ring people’s doorbells and start prying into their lives!”

“Why not?”

“Because one of them might be a murderer!”

“Well, it’s not as if I just walked up to her front door out of the blue. She invited me over.”

Coldly, he said, “Do you mind if I ask why?”

“To check on her dogs. They’re named Dobie and Maynard. Which sounds weird, unless you know that they’re Dobermans. Get it? Dobie the Doberman? And Maynard, well—”

“I get it, Jess. Go on.”

“Anyway, apparently Tommee bought the dogs when they were still married, and when he and Merrilee divorced, he kept them. But now that he’s dead, they’re back with Merrilee. She was worried because they weren’t eating. It’s not uncommon, actually. A lot of times, even when a dog’s owner just goes away on vacation, he—”

“So you just volunteered to play doctor with her dogs.”

“No.” I was getting impatient. “She asked me to.”

“Because you happened to mention to her that you were a vet?”

“It’s a little more complicated than that.”

Nick raised his eyebrows.

“She kind of assumed I was
already
their vet. She thought that was why I was at the wake in the first place. You know, that Tommee and I had a professional relationship.”

“So she made that faulty assumption, and you didn’t bother to correct her.”

“Are you kidding? It was like a gift!”

Nick was scowling. “What if she really is the murderer, Jess?”

“But isn’t that the whole point of a murder investigation? Talking to suspects, one of whom is likely to be the actual murderer?”

“Yes, of course it is. But this is not a game of Clue, for heaven’s sake. Whoever killed Tommee Frack is dangerous, remember? Which is why I keep telling you the investigation should be left to the professionals.”

“As a matter of fact, I’ve come to realize you’re absolutely right.” I reached into my purse and took out my checkbook. “How much?”

“How much for what?”

“For your retainer. How much is required to hire you?”

He sighed. “I’m not for hire, Jessie.”

“You’re a private investigator, aren’t you? Isn’t that the whole idea? People pay you to investigate whatever they want investigated?”

“If I choose to accept the assignment.”

“How often do you turn something down? I mean, don’t you pretty much take anything that comes along?”

“No-o-o,” he replied, looking offended. “Just last month, for example, this gorilla of a guy came into my office, offering to pay me whatever it took to find his wife. But I had this uneasy feeling that his wife really didn’t want him to find her. So I told him I was booked.”

“Can’t say I blame you, in that instance. But this isn’t exactly the same situation.”

“No, Jessie. You’re right. This is a bad idea for an entirely different reason. Put your checkbook away.”

I did exactly that. Then I stood up.

“Well, then, I guess I’ll have to go somewhere else for help.”

“You’re going to pay somebody else, somebody you don’t even know, to investigate the murder of somebody else you don’t know?”

“Let’s just say I have other options. And I’m about to take advantage of them.”

“Oh, no. You’re not planning on doing what I think you’re doing. Not that cop, for heaven’s sake, the one you were falling over at the wake—”

“’Bye, Nick.” Sarcastically, I added, “Have a nice day.”

Tossing my head in what I hoped was a haughty manner, I stalked out of the office.

“Jess, come back. Hey, let’s talk about this!” Ignoring Nick Burby gave me the biggest rush I’d experienced all week.

“Damn you, Nick Burby!” I cried once I was safe inside my own four walls. “Damn you, damn you, damn you!”

The good feeling I’d derived from my little Bette Davis act in Nick’s office was already long gone. Instead, I found myself angry and frustrated.

I flopped into the soft, upholstered chair next to the couch, pulling Cat into my lap and nuzzling her fur. Lou immediately came over and rested his head on my thigh. He gazed up at me mournfully as if to say, “Isn’t there
anything
I can do?”

Max tried a different tack. He pushed Lou’s favorite tennis ball around with his nose, glancing at me every few seconds to see if I found it as irresistible as he did.

I fondled Lou’s ears distractedly, anxious to let him know him how much I appreciated his concern. As for Max’s suggestion that play therapy was the answer, I gave the tennis ball a half-hearted toss, then sank back into my ruminations.

Was I in such a black mood because of Nick Burby’s refusal to take me seriously? Or was it just Nick Burby,
period
?

“Thanks, you guys,” I told my sidekicks as I jumped up and headed for the phone, “but this calls for
human
intervention.”

I dialed the Eighth Precinct.

“Officer Nolan, please.” I hoped my voice could be heard over the jackhammer pounding of my heart.

I told myself he was probably out on the streets of Norfolk County, arresting bad guys. So I was shocked when he picked up.

“Oh,
hi
!” I said, immediately embarrassed that I sounded like I was sixteen. “I didn’t think you’d actually be there—”

“Who is this?” he asked crisply.

“Jessie Popper. Tommee Frack, remember?”

“Oh, sure, Jessie.” Now
his
voice had a teenaged twinge. I could feel my cheeks getting warmer. “How y’doing? Keeping out of trouble?”

“I’m trying. Actually, I was calling for kind of a different reason. I, uh, was wondering if you’d like to come over for dinner Saturday night. At my house, I mean. Well, it’s really only a cottage—”

“Dinner sounds great.”

This was turning out to be easier than I’d expected. I felt strangely giddy even as I plummeted into a state of acute anxiety. “Okay, then let me give you my address.”

“I already know where you live.”

“You do?”

“You gave it to me the day you went hiking into the woods and tripped over more than you bargained for. Remember? For the police report?”

“That’s right.” Just Say No to Paranoia, Jessica. “Okay, so I guess I’ll see you Saturday night.”

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” Jimmy asked.

“Uh—”

“What time?”

Okay, I wasn’t as good at this as I wanted to be, I thought, after Jimmy and I had worked out the details and said goodbye. Still, it had been a while since I’d invited a man to dinner. In fact, it had been a while since I’d called one on the phone, too, unless you counted worried pet owners, male relatives, and Nick.

I suddenly longed for a little female companionship.

This time, as I neared the Big House, I didn’t hear any Broadway show tunes. But when Betty flung open the door, her eyes glittered and her cheeks were flushed. A stretchy one-piece jumpsuit in a leopard skin print clung to her svelte frame, showing off her dancer’s body. Her earrings were also
faux
leopard skin, two fluffy clumps the size of ping pong balls that dangled at least three inches below each ear. As for her thick
faux
eyelashes, I assumed they were an antidote to the gray November day. The same went for the red high heels.