Dead Canaries Don't Sing (16 page)

“My fiancé,” she said evenly.

“You two certainly make a lovely couple.”

She picked up the photograph, her expression hardening. “There isn’t going to be any wedding. He was murdered a little more than a week ago.”

“Oh, my!” My hand flew to my mouth. “I thought he looked familiar! That’s the man who was found in the woods.”

“Tommee Frack.”

“You poor thing! I’m so sorry.”

“Thank you.”

If there was any emotion behind her voice, I certainly couldn’t hear it. “He was a very successful businessman, wasn’t he?”

“Public relations. Tommee had his own firm, and he knew absolutely everybody. Anyone who matters on Long Island at all used him. To do their PR, I mean. And yes, he was wildly successful.”

“I seem to remember reading that.”

Interesting that she isn’t telling me what a wonderful man Tommee was, I thought. Instead, she’s talking about him as if he were as solid an investment as a United States Savings Bond.

“I understand he was also a very caring person,” I prompted. “Wasn’t he involved in a lot of community activities?”

“He represented a lot of charities, and he did tons of
pro bono
work. Not to mention the fact that he gave one hundred ten percent to every one of his clients.”

“You must be devastated. But I’m sure the police are doing everything in their power to find whoever is responsible. Do they have any leads?”

She looked startled. “How would I know?”

“Haven’t they talked to you?”

“Why would they? It’s not as if I’m a suspect or anything.”

I was tempted to point out what to me seemed obvious: that whether she was a suspect or not, as his fiancée, she was surely able to provide valuable information about other people who might be.

Instead, I simply said, “I offer you my deepest sympathies. What a terrible loss.”

“It’s something I’ll never get over.”

Barbara sighed deeply. So why didn’t she strike me as grief-stricken? I watched her study the photograph still in her hands, her face pulled into a frown. And then, using the hem of her jacket, she rubbed away a tiny smudge on the silver frame before carefully putting it back where it belonged.

As soon as I got into my van, I grabbed my phone.

“Lieutenant Harned, please,” I said crisply.

“He’s on another call.”

“I’ll hold. This is Jessica Popper. The person who found Tommee Frack’s body?”

It was only a few seconds before I heard, “Harned.” “Hi, Lieutenant. This is Dr. Popper. Remember me from the Frack case?”

“What can I do for you, Dr. Popper?”

“I was calling to check up on the investigation.”

“What about it?”

“I was wondering if anybody wanted to interview me further. I mean, I was the one who found the body.”

“We already have your statement. We appreciate your interest . . .”

“Is there anything new?”

“Not at this time. I can assure you that we’re following all leads . . .”

I was on the verge of saying that if that was the case, then why hadn’t Tommee’s fiancée and ex-wife made the interview A list? Instead, I decided to keep things friendly.

“Thanks for your time,” I said sweetly. “I know you must be
very
busy.”

But not knocking yourself out investigating Tommee Frack’s murder, I thought. I opened my notebook and jotted down as much as I could remember from the two revealing conversations I’d had so far that day.

Chapter 8

“You gotta have swine to show you where the truffles are.”

—Edward Albee

I didn’t bother to call before heading straight over to Marcus Scruggs’s office. Something about our past interactions told me that no matter how busy he was, he’d manage to squeeze me in.

His office was a trim white house at a busy intersection in Corchaug, a terrible location for a residence but an excellent spot for a medical office. As I got out of my car, I noted that the sign reading “Marcus Scruggs, Doctor of Veterinary Medicine,” was perched atop a tall metal pole that protruded high above the parking lot.

Very Marcus, I thought.

But when it came to phallic symbols, even that paled beside his car, a low-slung Corvette parked toward the back. I doubted his male canine patients could resist using it as a urinal.

I took a few steadying breaths before stepping inside the office.

I’d learned early on that Marcus Scruggs and I weren’t destined to become close pals. Back in the days when I was applying to Cornell University’s College of Veterinary Medicine, the Admissions Department had given me his name as an alumnus who lived locally and might be a good resource, even a mentor, to an aspiring animal doc like me.

I had hoped to visit his hospital and observe him as he treated patients, not to mention pick up a few pointers on practical issues like the odds of me getting accepted and ways of beefing up my application. Instead, he had insisted on meeting me in the lounge of the local Holiday Inn.

At first, I’d tried to keep an open mind. During our first five minutes together, I told myself that the knee pressing against mine under the table was simply the result of not enough space. But the more I asked him about letters of reference and possible essay topics, the more Marcus asked me about my marital status, my favorite mixed drinks, and—no joke—my preference in undergarments. It was like one of those blind dates you quickly figure out was a huge mistake.

I didn’t learn much about Cornell that day. But I did learn to keep as far away from Marcus Scruggs as possible. Since then, I’d only run into him occasionally. He zeroed in on me at every convention and seminar we attended. I always made a point of sprinkling the conversation with references to Nick.

Maybe he’s changed, I thought, as I gave my name to his receptionist. The fact that she was about eighteen, with masses of very blond hair and a Lycra top that looked as if it had been stretched to its limit, wasn’t encouraging.

I sat in the waiting room amidst the usual assortment of animals and the people they owned: two beagles, a Siamese cat, a macaw, and three mixed-breed dogs, what I like to think of as a canine mélange. As soon as he appeared in the doorway—as tall, as blond, and as gawky as ever—I knew he was still the same old Marcus. The instant he saw me, his expression changed from a look of professional friendliness to an unmistakable leer.

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t the inimitable Dr. Jessica Popper. I always knew that sooner or later you’d show up on my doorstep, begging for a job. Or maybe even something more . . . intriguing.”

I forced myself to smile, even though his eyes were glued to my chest. “Actually, Marcus, I’m here on your doorstep begging for information.”

“Hey, I’ll take what I can get. Why don’t you come into my office? That way, we can be alone.”

Oh, goody, I thought. I followed him anyway.

It wasn’t until we sat down, he at his desk and me in a chair facing him, that he finally made eye contact. The look in them was more leering than friendly. “So what can I do you for, Popper?”

“I’m trying to get some background information on someone I believe is a client of yours. Her name is Barbara Delmonico.”

He pressed his fingers together and stared off into infinity. “Ah, yes,” he said profoundly. “Good old Barbara. Interesting woman.”

I perked up. “You remember her?”

“Let’s just say she’s not somebody who’s easy to forget. Her friend, either.”

“Friend?”

I leaned forward, poised for an earful about Tommee Frack. So I felt a pang of disappointment when he replied, “The two of them were like bookends. Or, if you’ll excuse me for being more graphic, like two pages out of
Playboy
. And I’m talking centerfolds, here. High-quality stuff.”

“So Barbara’s friend was also a woman.”

I was trying not to let him rattle me, but his salacious smile turned my stomach. “That’s what I’d call an understatement.”

He went over to a large file cabinet and opened the top drawer. After rifling through folders, he pulled one out.

“Here you go. Delmonico. And her friend was— let’s see, I think her last name began with an
m
. . .
That’s
right, Martin.” He grabbed a second file. “Claudia Martin.”

He opened Barbara’s file on his desk. “I remember the first time they came in. It must have been July or August, because they both showed up in shorts that were so short it was like getting an instant anatomy lesson. They were wearing those tiny little halter-top thingies, too.”

His glittering eyes made it clear he wasn’t suffering as he relived the moment.

“If it was summer, they were probably dressed that way because it was hot,” I pointed out.

“But that was what was so weird. They said something about being on their way to work. And they kept looking at their watches, as if they had only minutes to spare. But they both looked like they were heading for the beach.”

“Do you remember what was wrong with Barbara’s dog?”

“Dog?” He snorted. “That was no dog.”

“But Barbara Delmonico owns a male Tibetan Terrier.”

“Right. She calls him Karma. Beautiful animal. She still brings him in now and then. But that first time, it wasn’t a dog she and her girlfriend brought in for treatment.”

“What was it?”

“A boa constrictor.”

“Ah,” I said noncommittally.

I’ve always believed that every career has its downside, that no matter how much you love your job, there’s bound to be at least one aspect you don’t like.

In my case, snakes.

The issue of professional responsibility aside, the mere thought of treating a boa constrictor gives me the creeps. Or, for that matter, even being in the same room with one. And having just spent an afternoon with Barbara, I didn’t see her as someone whose personal menagerie was likely to consist of the peculiar combination of cute cuddly animals like Karma and distasteful writhing reptiles like the one Marcus claimed she owned.

Not surprisingly, Marcus didn’t tune in to my discomfort. “It was a really nice snake, too,” he reminisced. “Close to six feet long. Surprisingly friendly, as if he was used to being around people.”

“Are you sure it wasn’t Claudia Martin’s snake? Is it possible that Barbara just came along to keep Claudia company?”

“Nope. My records are clear.” He poked around one file, then the other. “They each had their own snakes, even though they usually came in together. Lately, though, they’ve been coming in separately. And even though Claudia still brings her python in every now and then, Barbara’s just been coming in with Karma.”

“Do you know what happened to Barbara’s interest in, uh, reptiles?”

“Nope. Never asked, and she never volunteered anything.” The familiar glint was back in his eyes. “Besides, whenever she comes in, I always find myself a little . . . distracted, if you know what I mean.”

I knew precisely what he meant, and the thought gave me the willies.

“Claudia Martin sounds like someone who might have some information I need. I don’t suppose you’d be willing to give me her address.” I desperately hoped I wouldn’t have to call upon some of my own feminine charms in order to get what I needed from him.

“For you, Popper, anything.” I guess the thought of Barbara and Claudia in hot pants took me out of the running.

He jotted Claudia Martin’s name, address, and phone number on a pad printed with an ad for a prescription worming medication. I glanced at it as he handed it to me.

“Route 437?” I read. “In Southaven? Isn’t that an industrial area?”

“Got me. That’s the address she always used. Hey, as long as they pay their bills on time, I don’t ask questions.”

As I tucked the paper into my purse, Marcus leaned back in his chair and crossed his long legs. “So tell me, Popper. What are you doing with yourself these days?”

I cringed at the lecherous smile on his face. “Busy, busy, busy. Never a moment to spare.”

“You know what they say about all work and no play.”

“Whoever said that wasn’t still paying off student loans.” I shot to my feet, wanting to make it clear this interlude was definitely over. “Thanks for the information.”

“You’re not still going out with that investigator guy, are you? What was his name?”

“Nick.”

“That’s right. Are you still—”

“One more thing. Do you have any idea what was behind Barbara Delmonico’s interest in snakes? I’ve met her, and somehow she didn’t impress me as the snake type.”

“Well, I do remember thinking that neither of those two ladies seemed to have any real affection for them. You know how reptile lovers can be. It’s like a cult. They seem to take pride in being enthusiastic about animals that most people can’t even stand to look at. But it didn’t seem that Barbara and her pal were really into their snakes. They acted more like they were bringing in a pair of shoes for repair. Struck me as odd.”

He shrugged. “I don’t know if any of this has been helpful. Or even interesting.”

“It’s been both. Thanks, Marcus. I really appreciate your help.”

“Any time. And Popper? If you and that Nick character ever decide to call it quits, give me a ring, will ya?”

By the time my meeting with Marcus was over, I wanted nothing more than to go home and take a long scalding shower. The idea of ever being in the presence of a man again, much less going on an actual date, had all the appeal of a root canal.

The company of two devoted canines was infinitely preferable. As I walked into my cottage, Max and Lou charged into their usual routine, literally jumping up and down with glee and then trying to entice me into an invigorating game of Slimytoy. Prometheus was squawking, “Let’s go to the tape.
Awk!
Let’s go to the tape!” Even Cat deigned a glance in my direction.

“Hel-
lo,
doggies!” I greeted them, getting down on the floor to administer a royal belly-scratching. “How are the best little doggers in the whole wide world?”

Home sweet home, I thought. A home that feels complete, even without a man.