Murder Had a Little Lamb (21 page)

I noticed that today, there was an addition to the set: a large cardboard box on the floor, right next to my stool. I surmised that inside it was whatever animal Patti had decided would be the topic of today’s show. I didn’t hear any scratching, let alone any barking, mewing, or squealing.

Whatever is in that box, I thought, I sure hope it doesn’t have stage fright.

“We’ve got twenty seconds,” Patti informed me with a scowl.

“I’m ready,” I assured her, even though ready was the last word I’d have used to describe the way I really felt. Anxious, scattered, disoriented—all of those would have been much more accurate.

“Ten seconds!” Patti barked as I settled into my seat, ran my fingers through my hair in a pathetic attempt at combing it, and looked directly at the camera.

“Five, four, three—” As always, Patti mouthed the last two numbers, meanwhile holding up the appropriate number of fingers.

“Welcome to
Pet People,”
I began confidently, aware that the red light beaming at me from the camera meant we were now on the air, “the program for people who are passionate about their pets.” The in-tro—not my creation, but Patti the Producer’s—was really a mouthful. But by now I’d said it so many times I no longer tripped over all those P’s.

“I’m Dr. Jessica Popper, and I’m pleased to announce that today, we have a special treat.” I hoped I sounded confident enough that none of the viewers were catching on to the fact I didn’t have a clue about what that special treat might be. “Actually,” I added, clearing my throat, “we have a special guest.”

I leaned over and opened the flaps of the box, assuming that inside I’d find something cute and furry.

“Yeow!” I yelped, jumping off my stool so abruptly that it swayed from side to side. It would have crashed to the floor if it hadn’t tilted against my hip.

Writhing along the bottom of the box were two snakes.

They weren’t large and they weren’t particularly menacing. But they were—well, snakes.

While no one is a greater lover of animals than I am, there is one exception. And two examples of it were slithering along the bottom of the box.

It took me a few seconds to comprehend the fact that these two particular members of the
Serpentes
suborder were today’s guests.

Waves of panic cascaded over me like Niagara Falls. Desperately I glanced at Patti, hoping that somehow this would turn out to be nothing but a cruel joke. Instead, she was scowling. Even though she was only in her twenties, deep grooves cut across her forehead like telephone wires, and her perfectly lipsticked mouth was suddenly drawn into an upside-down U.

She was also making a rolling gesture with one hand, using the sign language that was so popular with people in the TV business. While I wasn’t fluent, even I knew she was ordering me to keep things moving.

“I’d, uh, like to tell you about today’s guests—uh, or at least today’s topic,” I went on, my voice cracking like a twelve-year-old boy’s. “It’s, uh, snakes.”

I swallowed hard. Just saying the word had dried out my mouth so much it was as if I were in the dentist’s office with one of those little moisture-sucking hooks in my mouth.

I stared straight into the camera, pointedly ignoring the two slithering creatures I now knew were in the room.

“A lot of people enjoy keeping snakes in their homes,” I went on in a pinched voice. “And, uh, for
many reasons, they make really good pets. For example, you don’t have to walk them.”

I made the mistake of letting my eyes drift back over to Patti. By that point, her hands were on her hips and her cheeks had taken on kind of a reddish tone.

“Actually, there are
lots
of good reasons why snakes make excellent pets,” I went on, doing my best to sound enthusiastic. “Uh, they don’t take up a lot of room. I mean, if you have a big dog, you have to fence in your yard or at least build a special pen. But snakes live in a tank. In fact, you don’t even have to take them out of it.
Ever.”

Once again, I glanced at Patty. Much to my horror, she was mimicking taking snakes out of a box. Which meant she thought I should be doing the same.

Instead, I sat motionless, telling myself,
The show must go on, the show must go on
.

I could hear the two snakes sliding around inside the box, mere inches away from my feet, separated from me by nothing but a thin layer of cardboard …

While just a few seconds had passed without me saying anything, in TV time that’s the equivalent of an entire century. I could feel the tension growing in the studio. The cameraman looked stricken, and Marlene was wearing a horrified look as she kept glancing from Patti to me and back to Patti.

I have to do
something
, I thought. I can’t just sit here forever, talking about the benefits of not having to put pet snakes on a leash and take them for a jog around the block.

“We have two snakes here with us today,” I finally
said, fixing my eyes on the camera once again. “And I’d like to show them to you.”

I could feel the level of anxiety in the room drop.

“But first—”

The tension instantly returned.

“Before I do,” I said, “I’d like to tell you about what’s required to keep these, uh, intriguing animals in your home.”

This time, I didn’t look at Patti. I didn’t look at anyone in the studio. Instead, with my eyes still glued to the camera, I launched into a monologue about caring for a snake. I began with the importance of choosing a tank that was the correct size, moved on to the dos and don’ts of using heat lamps and heat rocks to maintain the proper temperature, and then launched into Snake 101, including feeding them, cleaning up after them, and even determining whether the snake in question was male or female. In short, I delivered a pretty comprehensive lecture on Everything You Ever Wanted to Know about Snakes—but without
handling
an actual snake.

I hoped desperately that by the time I came up for air, I’d be out of time.

Instead, when I’d just about run out of things to say and was considering addressing the question of whether it was possible to make little articles of clothing like Santa Claus hats for one’s pet snake, I checked the big clock at the back of studio. My mouth dropped open when I saw that I still had seven minutes before the call-in segment.

No reason why we can’t push that up a little, I thought.

“I’m sure a lot of you have questions about snakes,” I told my viewers. “After all, it’s, uh, such a
fascinating
subject. So please feel free to call in—immediately—with any questions you may have. No matter how trivial your question may seem, please don’t be shy. In fact, if you have questions about anything at all, like dogs or cats or horses or—or llamas, please call. Call
now.”

I didn’t care that I was beginning to sound like a spokesperson in an infomercial. An extremely desperate spokesperson.

Hopefully, I stared at the lights on the phone in front of me. Yet even though I gave them the Evil Eye, they stubbornly refused to blink.

And then something that
never
happens on TV happened.

I stiffened as I noticed Patti walking toward me with a determined look on her face. I instantly understood what was happening: The producer of my show was about to join me on camera.

I was still trying to process this unexpected turn of events when I heard Patti’s voice directly behind me.

“Hello, everyone!” she said cheerfully. “I’m Patti Ardsley, the producer of
Pet People
. I’m sure you’ve all been enjoying Dr. Popper’s extremely informative talk about snakes and what rewarding pets they make. But since we’re running out of time—”

Not fast enough! I thought as feelings of panic once again began to envelop me.

“… I want to make sure you have a chance to see some of these fascinating creatures,” Patti continued.
“Especially viewers who aren’t as familiar with them as I’m sure Dr. Popper is.”

I felt her fingers grip my shoulders—
hard
—as through gritted teeth she added, “Dr. Popper, why don’t you take the snakes out of the box?”

Trapped
.

I tried to mumble, “Sure,” but couldn’t manage to get the word out. It was the same dentist-hook-in-the-mouth problem.

Still painfully aware of Patti standing behind me, I leaned over and opened the flaps of the box once again. I hoped that somehow the two snakes had disappeared. Escaped, maybe, squeezing through some tiny hole in the cardboard I hadn’t noticed and hiding by blending in with the thick black cables draped across the studio floor.

No such luck.

They were still lying at the bottom of the box, intertwined with each other like two giant sausages that had been tossed into the box haphazardly.

Both of them poised and ready for their fifteen minutes of fame.

Gulping so loudly that I suspected the folks out in TV land could hear me, I reached into the box. I could feel the room starting to spin, and lights suddenly seemed to be flashing on and off around me. All the air seemed to have been sucked out of the room, too. Which no doubt explained why I was having such difficulty breathing.

You can do this, I thought. You
have
to do this.

My chest heaved as I clamped my clammy hands around one of the snakes. I told myself it was just a
toy snake. Or even one of those sausages I’d been imagining.

Wincing, I forced myself to pick up the wriggling mass of muscle, trying to minimize the amount of skin that actually made contact. Far in the distance, I could hear Patti saying, “Why don’t you tell us what kind of snake that is? Dr. Popper?”

“Uh, a boa constrictor,” I said, amazed that this time, the words actually came out.

“And what can you tell us about boa constrictors?” Patti prompted.

They’re
snakes
, I thought wildly. What else does anyone need to know?

But somehow, a calmer, more levelheaded part of my brain was activated.

“Boa constrictors come from South America, Central America, and the Caribbean,” I recited in a robotic voice.

Somehow, I couldn’t quite digest the fact that I was actually holding one of these creatures in my hands. It was almost as if another Jessie Popper, a clone perhaps, was doing it while the real me was merely standing by. I had never before had an experience like this, one in which my brain felt completely separate from the rest of my body.

“They can live in a variety of environments, including both the tropical rain forest and the desert,” I continued. “They eat mammals, mostly rodents, but even monkeys and wild pigs. They also eat birds and lizards.”

Actually, the bulk of knowledge came from a report I’d done on boas in the fifth grade. Even then, I’d
found snakes horrifying, but I decided that learning about them might help me overcome my fear.

I’d done fine with the writing part. But when it came to cutting out pictures and gluing them on construction paper, I froze. I’d ended up with a C—an A for the text and an F for the pictures, since I was the only kid in the class who handed in a ten-page report composed mostly of empty pages.

“How interesting!” Patti prompted. “What else can you tell us, Dr. Popper?”

“They generally grow to be much bigger than this one, usually about ten feet long,” I continued, still sounding about as animated as a wooden soldier. I wasn’t moving much more than one, either. “But some have gotten even bigger. And their average weight is sixty pounds.”

“My, that’s big!” Patti exclaimed.

The better to strangle you, I thought morosely.

“Boa constrictors can live for thirty years,” I went on, “which means anyone who’s considering getting one as a pet should think about the long-term commitment they’re making.”

“Are they venomous?” Patti asked with inappropriate cheerfulness.

“Uh, no. But that’s because the way they capture their prey is by using their powerful, muscular bodies to suffocate them. Constriction, in other words, which is how they got their name. They do have sharp teeth, but they use them for fighting and eating. There are cases of boas that people kept as pets strangling their owners. There was this one guy—”

“Fascinating,” Patti interrupted. “Dr. Popper, do
you think you could hold the boa up a little higher so everyone can see it?”

Isn’t the fact that I’m holding it at all enough? I thought. But I automatically did what I was told.

Something about holding the snake up high enough that I couldn’t help but stare at it set off a reaction in me. While up to this point I’d felt as if I were watching what I was doing without actually being there, as soon as I stepped back and thought about this strange phenomenon, it seemed to vanish.

I was suddenly me again, with all the pieces stuck together, holding a snake in my hands.

“A-a-augh!” I cried.

Before I even realized what I was doing, I let go. I watched in horror as it dropped about two inches, hitting the counter with a gentle thud and taking off.

“Jessie!” Patti screamed. She followed with a four-letter word that I never would have dreamed she was capable of uttering.

The entire studio instantly erupted into chaos. Marlene let out a shriek, although whether it was over a snake being loose in the studio or her boss just violating one of the strictest rules of television, I couldn’t say. The cameraman, meanwhile, scampered after the runaway snake, leaping over coils of cable with more agility than I ever would have expected a man who weighed 200-plus pounds to possess. The other crew-members who had been standing by in the studio also leaped into action, yelling things like “Get the snake!” or “Stop that thing!” At least one of them cried “Eeew!” which at least made me feel a little better.

“Go to commercial!” Patti commanded. “Go to commercial!”

The next thing I knew, the bright lights in the studio dimmed, a sign that we were off the air.

“Got him!” one of the crewmembers yelled, proudly holding up the captured snake for all to see.

But it was too late.

Patti turned to me, her face now as red as—oh, say the blood of one of those wild pigs boa constrictors like to eat for breakfast.