Dead Canaries Don't Sing (4 page)

“And I can’t help but admire someone like you, who’s worked so hard and done so much. But there’s a fine line between being independent and being pigheaded. And I believe your determination to run away from Nick falls into the second category. As for this murder investigation business, it sounds to me like it’s nothing more than a distraction.”

“I think you’re reading more into this than there really is,” I protested.

“Nonsense. I’ve seen the two of you together. I’ve seen the way you look at Nick and the way he looks at you. For heaven’s sake, I’ve practically seen little hearts in your eyes.”

“I’m sure there have never been hearts,” I insisted. “Besides, even if there was something between Nick and me—and I’m not denying there was—the timing simply wasn’t right. I can’t help it if he’s ready to get married and have kids and walk hand in hand into the sunset, while I still feel that I’m discovering who I really am. Who knows? Maybe I’ll never be ready to—”

“Pshaw!” Betty waved her scarlet fingernails in the air as if I were trying to bamboozle her and she was not one to be bamboozled. “Love jitters, that’s all it is. We all get ’em.”

“Even you and Charles?”

She looked at me slyly, as if she realized she’d been caught. “As a matter of fact, yes. The day Charles and I decided to elope—you know, that day he came to my dressing room right before the show, with ten dozen white roses in his arms?”

I nodded, not reminding her that the last few times I’d heard this story, it had been eight dozen.

“Anyway, I still remember the first thought that flashed through my head when Charles popped the question.”

“What will I wear?” I teased her.

Betty whooped. “Are you kidding? That was the least of my worries. Back in those days, Charles and I spent more time out of our clothes than in them. No, I remember thinking, ‘Am I sure?’ ”

I waited, expecting more.

“Of course, I knew the answer instantly. But at least I asked myself the question.”

I shot her a look of disbelief. “That’s it? That’s your love jitters?”

“I didn’t say they had to last long. Just that they had to happen.”

“Well, Nick Burby is
not
my Charles. And eloping is most definitely not in our future.”

“You wouldn’t have to elope. You could have a beautiful wedding right here. We could have the ceremony in the backyard. How about at the edge of the rose garden? We could set up one of those big tents. I love those tents. We could have waiters in tuxedos, passing around trays of caviar. And champagne, in crystal glasses. Even your dogs could come. Can’t you picture Max and Lou in black bow ties, working the crowd?”

I had to laugh. The image was just too perfect. Betty was right; Max and Lou would love it. So would everyone else.

Everyone but me, that is. Sure, I could picture the scene she was describing. The only problem was, I couldn’t see myself as the bride. At least, not without experiencing a severe anxiety attack.

“Betty, Nick made himself perfectly clear. He gave me the old ‘now or never’ ultimatum. I couldn’t answer ‘now,’ so it’s a moot point. It’s time to move on with my life.”

“So you say.” She sighed and stood up. “Well, you go on resisting and I’ll go on hoping. But my advice is still to put your energy into your own life and forget about the dead guy. Now, are you ready to see the tap routine that got me on Broadway?”

My mood was much better by the time I returned to my cottage. My head was still spinning, but this time it was from Betty’s inspiring spirit and spiked tea.

The icing on the cake was coming home to my menagerie. When it came to soothing the spirit, nothing worked better than a little animal love. The rest of the world vanished, at least for a little while, as Max and Lou launched into their usual greeting, acting as if I’d been away for months instead of a measly half hour.

“Hey, you guys,” I greeted them, crouching down to their level. “Miss me, doggers? Maxie-Max? How about you, Louie-Lou? Miss me half as much as I missed you?”

In response to my question, Max wagged his stub of a tail so hard his shaggy little butt looked like it was vibrating. He practically climbed up my arm, desperate to slather dog kisses all over my face. A typical terrier, he stopped at nothing to get what he wanted.

My Dalmatian was more cautious. Lou pressed his wet nose against my hand tentatively as if to gently remind me that its primary function was scratching dog ears. He kept peeking at Max, as if wanting to make sure he had his permission to do so. Even though he weighed sixty-six pounds and Max only eighteen, Lou was in the habit of deferring to the smaller dog. His scars from his previous owners went far beyond his missing left eye.

“Oooh, I love you, too, you cute little fuzz balls!” I was glad no one was around to hear me speak in that funny goo-goo voice that was reserved for my animals. I hugged my two canines, scratching necks and ears and bellies. Then I lay down on the floor to make myself an even more convenient target for the inevitable onslaught of dog kisses.

Just then, Cat emerged from the bedroom, where she’d no doubt been curled up on one of my feather pillows. She sauntered over, still looking sleepy. I noticed she was moving particularly slowly today, the damp air no doubt aggravating her arthritis. Still, even aching joints didn’t prevent her from brushing against my leg and meowing her hello, pointedly ignoring the dogs. Both of them immediately moved aside to make room for her, having no doubt as to who the
real
head of the household was.

“Hey, Cat,” I said in a soothing voice, petting the soft fur of her head and gently running my hand along her back. “How are those old bones of yours, girl? You hanging in there?”

She purred her gratitude. “For what it’s worth,” I told her, nestling my cheek against her soft gray fur, “nobody likes getting old.”

“
Awk!
Who’s the pretty boy? Prometheus is the pretty boy!”

It was only fair that everybody get equal time. I brought Cat over to the couch, placing her on the softest pillow. She blinked at me and meowed, her way of protesting against being left on her own. Sometimes I wished I could clone myself. That way, all my pets could have an adoring master at their side every minute of the day.

I headed over to my parrot’s cage in the corner of the room, near the window.

“You
are
the pretty boy,” I assured Prometheus enthusiastically. He sidled over to me, clearly happy I was home. In typical parrot fashion, he’d assumed from the start that I was his mother. That made him as anxious for affection as the other animals in my menagerie.

I opened the door of his cage and reached in. “Come, Prometheus,” I commanded. The elegant bird dutifully stepped on to my finger, using it as a perch.

“There’s the pretty birdie,” I cooed, smoothing his feathers. He preened proudly, showing off the luminescent blue-green feathers of his body and tail and puffing out his golden chest.

“Welcome home, Jessie.
Awk!
Welcome home!” he said, perfectly imitating the voice and intonation of the person who’d taught him the phrase—me.

“It’s nice to see you, too,” I said, laughing. “And what’s this I’ve got here? A piece of apple?”

“Apple,
awk
! Prometheus loves apple!”

I watched with my usual delight as he daintily took the chunk of fruit from my hand, holding onto it with one foot while remaining perched on my finger with the other. As he began eating it, I put him back in his cage.

“There you go, boy. Enjoy!”

I felt a rush of delight over the warm greeting I’d received from my menagerie. It’s true, I thought. There really
is
no place like home.

“If only life could always be this simple,” I mused aloud.

Just then, the blinking red light on my answering machine caught my eye, as if to remind me that that wasn’t about to happen. Sighing, I pressed the “Play” button.

“You—have—one—message.”

The dogs, seeing a chance to reclaim my attention, came bounding over with their toys, careening into each other as they raced to reach me first. Between them, they’d amassed an impressive collection of playthings that they spent a large part of each day coating with saliva. Today, it was a tennis ball that Lou dropped at my feet, a damp, fuzz-less specimen that had all the bounce of a sponge. Max nudged my leg with his current favorite: a rubbery pink poodle he enjoyed thrashing from side to side as it squeaked for mercy. My two canines stood alert and ready, nearly bursting as they waited for me to fling these objects across the room—a game I lovingly referred to as “Slimytoy.” I was bending down to oblige them when I heard,
“Jessie, it’s Nick.”

I froze.

“I found out some information about what happened this morning. If you’re still interested, give me
a call.”

I immediately began plotting how I could squeeze a visit to Nick’s into the insanely busy day I had ahead of me. It wasn’t going to be easy.

But that didn’t mean I couldn’t manage a few rounds of Slimytoy.

It just so happened I had an eleven o’clock scheduled at a dog breeder’s in Cupsewogue, which was practically on the doorstep of Nick Burby’s office. Actually, it was about ten miles away, but at least it was in the same direction. Sort of.

At any rate, I figured that if I kept my shower to five minutes, I’d have enough time to stop in at Nick’s before inoculating a new litter of Jack Russells.

“Sorry, guys,” I told Max and Lou as I pulled on my chukka boots for the second time that morning. “I’m afraid you’ll have to sit this one out.”

I didn’t tell them about my hidden agenda: wanting to visit Nick unencumbered, without anyone else demanding my attention.

This is not a social call, I reminded myself. I’m taking time out of my busy workday for the good of my crime investigation. Still, I checked the mirror before walking out the door to make sure I didn’t look like a woman who’d been raised by wolves.

My stomach tightened as minutes later I drove into the parking lot of a small cluster of offices that looked like quaint little houses. Or they did if you had a vivid imagination. For the most part, Long Island’s architecture is far from what you’d call tasteful. The entire length of it had undoubtedly been spectacular from the time the Algonquins clammed along its shores up through the time some of the world’s richest individuals—including Vanderbilts, Morgans, Belmonts, and Guggenheims—constructed castlelike mansions on what became known as the Gold Coast. But the building boom that followed World War II crammed the island with cookie-cutter housing developments and strip malls that had less personality than a shoe box.

At least Nick’s complex in the charming community of Port Townsend tried. The facades of the brown wooden buildings were mock Tudor, and a few bushes had been planted here and there. The doctors, lawyers, and insurance brokers who shared the space did a pretty good job of keeping it tidy and clean.

Nick’s office was located around back. Like the other offices, it was identified by a tasteful sign that read, “Nicholas Burby, P.I.”

I didn’t bother to knock. I could see through the small window set into the door that the front office was empty. Nick wasn’t busy enough or rich enough for a receptionist. Nevertheless, he had made the wood-paneled back room into his office, at least giving the appearance that a secretary could well be part of his operation. He even kept papers and a small vase of dried flowers on the desk to give it a lived-in look.

Through the doorway, I saw his head jerk up when he heard me enter the outer office.

“I thought my message said to call,” he greeted me.

I shrugged. “I was in the neighborhood. Mind if I come in?”

His rueful smile said, “Could I stop you if I wanted to?” I ignored it, striding into the small space and plopping down into the chair facing his.

I scanned the big metal desk that separated us. I was immediately struck by two things. One was that he was as disorganized as ever, with papers strewn about in a way that made it hard to believe his claim that he always knew precisely where everything was. The other was that the framed picture of me he used to keep on his desk, right next to the Police Athletic League mug filled with pens, was gone.

“The place hasn’t changed much,” I commented.

“It’s only been a couple of months.”

I nodded, not wanting to admit that it felt much longer to me.

“I’ve only got a few minutes,” I said, hoping he wouldn’t remind me again that he’d been willing to do this by phone. “So what have you learned?”

“I made a few calls, and I found out who the murder victim was. I figured you’d be interested.”

“Of course I’m interested!” Inadvertently, I leaned forward in my seat.

“His name is—was—Tommee Frack. That’s T-O-M-M-E-E. He was a big-time PR guy here on the island. He started his own public relations firm in Pine Meadow about five years ago. He was quite successful, even though he was pretty young. Barely thirty, in fact.”

I blinked. “That’s it?”

“What else are you looking for? That he was also a bigamist who did a little drug dealing on the side and had recently ticked off the mob?”

“Really?”

Nick cast me a dirty look. “Hey, Jess, if you’re going to get involved in the murder biz, you’d better stop believing everything everybody tells you. That’s rule number one.”

“I’ll remember that.”

“Speaking of which, forget rule number one. In fact, forget this entire thing. I want you to leave this alone.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know perfectly well what I mean. I know you. When you and I were together, you were more into the details of every case I investigated than I was. You’re not a street-wise homicide cop or a certified private investigator, yet somewhere along the way you decided you’re the reincarnation of Nancy Drew.”

“I can’t be the reincarnation of someone who never really existed,” I said crossly. “Nancy Drew was a fictitious character.”