Who's Kitten Who? (26 page)

“Maybe you’ve seen her on TV,” Forrester interjected. “
Pet People
? On Channel Fourteen?”

“That’s right!” Ernie exclaimed. “That vet show, where all those crazy people call in.”

As soon as he left, Forrester turned to me and grinned. “See that? You’re famous.”

“Right,” I replied dryly. “People recognize me as soon as you explain to them in explicit detail who I am.”

He’d just begun to protest when a petite dark-haired woman tapped him on the shoulder.

“Forrester!” she cried. “What a lovely surprise!”

“Hi, Jean,” he greeted her.

“Did I ever thank you for the fabulous piece you did on the Long Island Food Bank?” she asked, beaming.

He just smiled modestly. “Glad it worked out.”

“Call me!” And then, much to my amazement, she departed with the words, “We’ll do lunch!”

“She certainly seems to like you,” I observed. “So does everybody else. In fact, is there anybody here who doesn’t know you?”

Forrester grinned apologetically. “Maybe this restaurant wasn’t the best choice. Next time we’ll go someplace where we can be alone, without being interrupted every thirty seconds.”

I opened my mouth to comment on the part about “next time.” But the hostess had just called Forrester’s name. I was relieved that she led us to a table way in back.

It was actually quiet for a few minutes as Forrester and I scanned our menus.

“I’ve had the scallops here and they’re amazing,” he commented. “In fact, their recipe was featured in
Gourmet
magazine.”

I realized then that Forrester had put a lot of thought into this date. And it
was
a date. Getting all dressed up, getting picked up at home and driven to a restaurant…I could no longer deny it.

As soon as I admitted to myself that I was, indeed, on a date with Forrester Sloan, I was overcome with anxiety. I didn’t
belong
on a date with Forrester Sloan—or anybody else, for that matter. I was glad the bottle of wine he’d ordered arrived quickly.

As soon as our waiter poured us each a glass and disappeared to give us time to decide what to order, Forrester held his glass in the air.

“I propose a toast,” he said, clinking the rim of his against mine.

“What kind of toast?” I asked nervously.

“C’mon, Popper—I mean, Jessie. Work with me here.” Even though he sounded serious, there was a distinct look of merriment in his eyes. He was clearly enjoying every minute of this.

I wished I could say the same. But before I managed to say anything at all, a large-stomached, middle-aged man appeared at our table.

“Hey, Mr. Sloan!” he cried, slapping Forrester on the back.

“Mr. Phillips. What’s up?”

“Same old, same old. Hey, when are you gonna write about all the great things the Knights of Columbus are doing?”

“Call me Monday,” Forrester replied. “I’ll see if I can set something up.”

As soon as the Knight of Columbus left, I said, “Goodness, Forrester. Maybe you should think of running for public office.”

Even though some of the exasperation I was feeling leaked out, he didn’t acknowledge it. Instead, he just shrugged. “What can I say? I’m a popular guy.”

“I can see that.”

“We could go somewhere quieter, if you’d prefer,” he offered. “In fact, I know this great little out-of-the-way place—”

“This is fine,” I assured him. “It’s just that I never realized you were such a celebrity.”

“I’m not. I happen to know a lot of people, that’s all. It comes with the job.”

Without the least bit of warning, he reached across the table and took both my hands in his. “But let’s talk about us.”

I did my best not to fall off my chair. But at least I had the presence of mind to insist, “Forrester, there is no ‘us.’” Unfortunately, my voice sounded weak. And for some reason, my hands stayed exactly where they were: grasped tightly in his.

“Not yet,” he agreed. “But I think we’ve got great potential. For one thing, I’m absolutely crazy about you, Jessie.”

I squirmed in my seat, which suddenly felt ridiculously hard and uncomfortable. Maybe falling off it wouldn’t have been such a bad idea. “Please don’t be crazy about me, Forrester.” My voice was strangely hoarse. In fact, it was practically a whisper.

“Why not?”

“Because…because…”

I wanted to explain that I couldn’t possibly cope with anyone being crazy about me—anyone other than Nick, at least. How could I, when I still didn’t know what was going on with me, much less with Nick and me as a couple? But before I had a chance to say any of that, our waiter reappeared.

“Are you ready or do you need more time?” he asked pleasantly.

More time, I thought, fighting off the panicked feeling that simply would not go away. Definitely much more time.

When Forrester asked, “What would you like, Jessica?” it took me a few seconds to realize he was talking about something as mundane as dinner.

“The scallops,” I replied automatically.

After Forrester ordered, he said, “I’m sorry about all these people who keep interrupting us, Jess. The last thing I want to do is make you uncomfortable. Maybe we should talk about the usual first date things.”

I gulped. At the moment, I couldn’t think of a single topic that people were likely to discuss on a first date.

“So, how about those Mets?” Forrester tried.

I had to laugh. “A much safer topic. Unfortunately, it’s one I know absolutely nothing about. How about Simon Wainwright’s murder?”

“How about anything
but
Simon Wainwright’s murder?” he returned.

“Fair enough,” I admitted.

“Okay, then let’s go through the list. Favorite books, any good movies or DVDs either of us has seen lately, various acquaintances we might have in common, hopes and dreams for the future, astrological signs—any of those strike your fancy, Jess?”

I had to admit, Forrester Sloan had a certain amount of charm. In fact, I felt kind of sorry for him. I mean, here he was, obviously trying his best to be a good date. He had picked out a nice restaurant, he ordered good wine, he was working hard to make sure the conversation went smoothly—what more could I ask for?

Unfortunately, the answer to that question was all too obvious. Nick.

“I’m sorry,” I told Forrester sincerely. I could feel my face growing warm, a sure sign that it was an embarrassing shade of red. With a deep sigh, I added, “This isn’t going very well, is it?”

“Let’s put it this way: This evening isn’t likely to make it into the Dating Hall of Fame.” He hesitated before adding, “I think I may have overestimated my capabilities.”

“What do you mean?”

“I thought that given half a chance, I could win you over with the old Sloan charm. That somehow I could find a way to make you forget all about that Nick character. But I can see that no matter how much I want that to happen, you’re too much in love with him.”

I was about to protest, simply because it seemed like the polite thing to do. But I knew he was right. The fact that I’d never wanted to go out on this stupid date with Forrester in the first place wasn’t even the point.

The point was that I was crazy about Nick. He was the One.

Betty knew it. Forrester knew it. And deep down inside, I knew it.

I decided it was time to make sure that Nick knew it too.

One of the nicest things about having so many animals was that I never came home to an empty house. Even so, as I stood in the doorway after Forrester dropped me off, the cottage
felt
empty, even with Max and Lou scampering around at my feet.

I scanned the living room, trying to put my finger on what was different. It took me only a few seconds to figure out what it was.

Nick’s things. They were gone.

“Nick?” I cried, hoping that somehow I was mistaken.

I headed into the kitchen. There was a big empty space on the counter where Nick’s Mr. Healthybody Super-Juicer had once been, and his
Instant Human! Just Add Coffee
mug was missing from the drain board.

“Nick?” I called again, my voice cracking.

I dashed into the bathroom, still hoping I was misreading what I was seeing. Instead, I noticed that his toothbrush was gone. Mine looked horribly lonely, sitting all alone in the ceramic toothbrush holder.

It wasn’t until I came back into the living room that I saw the note.

I hesitated before picking up the white sheet of paper that was sitting in the middle of the coffee table. Biting my lip, I began to read.

Dear Jess,

Since we’ve decided to give ourselves some time to figure out where we’re going, I thought it might help both of us to have a little breathing space. I’ll be staying at Ollie’s for a while. I took some of my stuff, but I hope you don’t mind that I didn’t take all of it. His place is pretty small.

He’d signed it simply
N.

At least, that was what I thought the note said. To be honest, the tears in my eyes made it a little hard to read.

Chapter 14

“No matter how little money and how few possessions you own, having a dog makes you rich.”

—Louis Sabin

S
unday may not have been the most depressing day of my life, but it definitely made the top ten. The house seemed so empty now that Nick was gone. Since he’d left some of his stuff behind, I saw signs of him everywhere I looked. His bathrobe hung on the back of the bathroom door, the shape of his left shoulder still molded into the fabric. His half-full bottle of Red Bull sat in the refrigerator, next to the milk. One of his black socks that had been missing for days finally turned up under his pillow.

Even my animals missed him. They seemed to pick up on my mood, sensing that this wasn’t just another day on which Nick had toddled off to law school. Lou spent the entire morning lying by the front door, as if he couldn’t even think about enjoying himself until Nick walked in. Max chewed on his new pink rubber poodle halfheartedly, so that it made soft wheezing sounds instead of its usual hysterical squeaks.

Cat also seemed more subdued than usual. She barely left her favorite spot on the couch—her domain once again, now that Mitzi was out of our lives. As for Prometheus, he insisted on singing every song Nick had ever taught him, including “Happy Birthday” and that stupid ditty that goes, “Yo ho, yo ho, the pirate’s life for me.”

I was glad when Monday morning finally rolled around, since a day jam-packed with house calls was the ideal way of forgetting my cares and woes. I was equally glad I had rehearsal that night, since the prospect of hanging around an empty house all evening struck me as absolutely deadly.

I didn’t anticipate that the one topic I was trying to avoid thinking about was the same one Betty couldn’t wait to bring up.

Early that evening, as soon as she got into my red VW so I could drive us to rehearsal, she opened with, “Is this a good time to talk about what’s going on with you and Nick—and how absurd it is for you to be going out with someone else?”

“Not really,” I returned, backing out of the driveway.

“Jessica, I don’t like the idea of you going out on dates, especially with that newspaper reporter,” she continued, pointedly ignoring what I’d said. “He clearly knows what he wants, and he’s been interested in you for a long time. Still, I suppose no real harm has been done—at least, not yet. I noticed you came home fairly early Saturday night. Alone.”

I gasped. “You were
spying
on me?”

“I just wanted to make sure you got home safely,” she replied, sounding defensive. But she quickly added, “Actually, Jessica, you’re right. I
was
spying. But only because I wanted to make sure you didn’t do anything you’ll regret once this ridiculous argument blows over and you and Nick both come to your senses.”

We happened to have stopped at a red light, and I reached over and took her hand. “Betty, I know you’re trying to make me feel better,” I said, “but I really don’t think that’s going to happen.”

“Of course it’s going to happen,” she insisted. “You and Nick love each other. You always have, even during your ups and downs. All this foolishness is just a normal part of prewedding jitters—both Nick’s and yours. There’s no doubt in my mind that before you know it, that bouquet of roses will be arriving, along with an apology for acting so impetuously—”

“Betty,” I interrupted, “there’s something you should know.” My voice sounded strangely thick. I put my hand back on the steering wheel and stared straight ahead. “Nick moved out.”

“What do you mean, he moved out?” she demanded. “Where would he go?”

“He’s staying with a friend from law school,” I said. “He took most of his things with him.”

“That’s—that’s utterly ridiculous,” Betty sputtered. “He’s simply trying to make a point.” She was thoughtful for a few moments, then added, “Would you like me to talk to him?”

I smiled sadly, touched by her concern. “Thank you, Betty. If I thought it would help, I’d say give it a try. But this was more than just an argument. In fact, I don’t think Nick’s decision to break off our engagement and move out had anything at all to do with his parents coming to visit. I think it’s because Nick senses that, deep down, I’m just not ready.”

We drove in silence for a long time before she said, “Jessica, a love like the one you and Nick have doesn’t come along very often. Some people are never lucky enough to experience it at all. Surely the two of you must recognize that you may never experience it again.”

I was glad that I’d just pulled into a parking space outside Theater One. The fact that Betty had verbalized one of the sad truths that had been plaguing me since the breakup made it difficult for me to talk. Without my words coming out as sobs, that is.

“Well, I guess we’d better go in,” she said with forced cheerfulness. “Derek hates it if anyone’s late. But you already know that, don’t you?”

She reached over and took my hand. When she gave it a squeeze, I squeezed right back.

“Okay, I want Amelia and Anita downstage for the flying lesson scene,” Derek announced, clapping his hands to bring the prerehearsal chatter to an end.

I took a few steps closer to the edge of the stage, surprised at how quickly following the director’s instructions had become second nature—and once again glad I had something other than my broken engagement to think about. Now that I was on my own, I was more determined than ever to throw myself into both the play and the murder investigation that had gotten me onstage in the first place.

I had to admit that it was rewarding to see how well the production was coming together. By this point, the dance numbers were smooth and the singers’ voices were strong and in tune. The actors were delivering their lines almost perfectly.

Even I was feeling much more comfortable onstage. Once I had the confidence that I could remember my lines and do a competent job with the dance steps—thanks to my private coach, Betty—it actually became fun. True, wearing costumes, as we were doing now that opening night was only four nights away, made moving around more difficult. But even that was starting to feel more natural.

“Anita, let’s start with your line,” Derek commanded. “Amelia, I want you to react. Give me a nod or a change in facial expression when she says, ‘Let’s show these men…’”

After my few lines of dialogue, Amelia and I got into the plane. Actually, we climbed through a hole in the hand-painted wooden cutout that was supposed to look like a plane, taking care not to knock it over. Then, I gave her a flying lesson amid the clouds created onstage by the fog machine that Sunny had pointed out to me in the props closet.

We finished our few lines of dialogue, delivered with Corey’s airplane engine sound effects rumbling in the background. Then the chorus broke into song. From my elevated seat in the airplane, I had a pretty good view of the entire theater, despite the fake clouds. Kyle was onstage, dressed in a pair of knickers with red suspenders and singing his heart out with all the others. I spotted Lacey in the wings, fluttering around a group of women from the chorus who played society ladies in the next scene, pinning flowers onto their dresses and adjusting their sashes.

At the moment, neither Lacey nor Kyle struck me as capable of murdering anyone, least of all Simon.

“Let’s take a ten-minute break,” Derek called after we’d run through the entire first act, with very few glitches. “If any of you are still having costume issues, this would be a good time to check in with Lacey.”

Most of the cast members scattered around the theater, settling into the red velvet seats and chatting with one another. A few dashed out to the delicatessen around the corner, while another group headed toward the lobby to rehearse the “They Call Her Lady Lindy” number by themselves. Some of the crew members, meanwhile, pulled open the three trapdoors onstage to make technical adjustments in the basement. As a safety precaution, they yelled, “Opening trapdoor!” every time they did.

As for me, I had other plans. I needed to consult with Lacey about the fact that my knickers kept riding up over my knees. The last thing I wanted to be doing onstage was tugging at my costume.

Lacey was no longer in the wings, so I assumed she was backstage, probably making adjustments to other people’s costumes. I had just stepped inside the women’s dressing room, which I was dismayed to find empty, when I heard a muffled voice remark, “But that was so like Simon.”

I froze, realizing immediately that the voice was coming from the other side of the wall. It took me only a few seconds to identify the speaker as Jill. She had to be in the dressing room next door. Even though the door that opened onto the hallway was closed, the wall between the two rooms was thin enough for me to hear most of what was being said.

It occurred to me that I was standing in the exact same spot Sunny had been in when she’d overheard Simon arguing with an unidentified woman shortly before he was murdered.

I moved closer, straining to hear the conversation on the other side of the wall.

“Yes, Simon had a heart of gold,” a second voice said. That speaker was definitely Derek. “Even when it came to her.”

“He never learned, did he?” Jill commented.

Derek sighed loudly. “I hate to say it, since she’s done so much for this theater company, but she’d really started acting crazy right before Simon was murdered.”

“I know,” Jill agreed. “We all saw what was going on.”

Lacey, I thought. Derek and Jill are saying the same thing that Kyle and Aziza said: that Lacey went off the deep end after Simon broke up with her.

“I suppose I wasn’t even that surprised when she dropped out,” Derek continued, “although I’ll never forgive her for leaving me with two weeks until opening night and no one to play Amelia Earhart.”

Aziza! If I hadn’t been standing close enough to hear every single word, I wouldn’t have believed that Derek and Jill were talking about Aziza rather than Lacey.

“You’d think she would have learned her lesson after Simon dropped her and took up with Lacey,” Jill said.

“Especially given how pathetic she was, the way she begged him to take her back,” Derek added. “Heavens, it was so embarrassing! The more he insisted he was tired of her theatrics and her tantrums and her possessiveness, the more she kept swearing up and down that she’d change.”

“And of course she went right back to being the same old Aziza as soon as he agreed to give their relationship another chance,” Jill said scornfully.

Derek sniffed. “It was only a question of time before he dumped her again. I know that over these past few weeks he pretended things were going well. But between you and me, he confided in me that he’d had enough of her theatrics. Simon told me he was planning to break up with her again.”

“I had no idea!” Jill cried. “Do you think she suspected?”

By that point, I was reeling. I’d been surprised enough to learn that Simon Wainwright had two women after him, Aziza and Lacey. But it seemed he wasn’t planning to stick with either one of them. From what Derek was saying, even Aziza, who’d been playing the role of the bereaved girlfriend to the hilt, wasn’t going to be in Simon’s life much longer.

I froze as what suddenly seemed like an obvious scenario popped into my head. Simon could have broken up with Aziza that Friday night, while the two of them were alone in the theater. She could have been the woman Sunny heard him arguing with. And Aziza could have been so furious, so unwilling to accept what he was telling her, that she grabbed the ceramic Buddha and whacked him in the head with it.

Suddenly, the events of that horrible evening played inside my head with amazing clarity. Aziza Zorn, the woman scorned, had means, motive, and opportunity—the three ingredients homicide professionals looked for when trying to identify a murderer.

On top of that, she had the acting ability to pretend that she was completely heartbroken over Simon’s death. If that wasn’t a worthwhile use of a person’s acting lessons, I didn’t know what was.

All I had to do was prove it.

Tuesday morning brought rain. I was actually pleased that the weather matched my mood. Somehow, the gray skies and relentless drizzle made me feel much more comfortable wallowing in my own misery.