Hare Today, Dead Tomorrow Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Praise

  A Note to Readers

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  About the Author

  Also by Cynthia Baxter

  RIGHT FROM THE GECKO - A Reigning Cats & Dogs Mystery

  Copyright Page

  PRAISE FOR CYNTHIA BAXTER’S

  LEAD A HORSE TO MURDER

  “A cleverly constructed mystery chock-full of

  dysfunctional characters all hiding motives for

  murder . . . Readers—and particularly pet lovers—

  [will] savor this delightful cozy.” — Publishers Weekly

  “Baxter hits all the right marks. Her characters step out

  of the pages and into the corral, with plenty of bumps,

  jumps and lots of horseplay.” —Horse Directory

  “A pure gold mystery.” —Midwest Book Review

  “A well-written murder mystery . . . I enjoyed the

  glimpses into Jess’s personal life as she put the pieces

  together to solve the murder. Ms. Baxter has created a

  tale that will delight her fans.” — Fresh Fiction

  PUTTING ON THE DOG

  “Dog lovers, rejoice! Baxter is back with a frisky sequel

  to Dead Canaries Don’t Sing. . . . The tale moves

  smoothly as Jess mingles with the film industry’s hottest

  stars, tracking down clues, but readers will derive the

  most pleasure from the antics of Jess’s canine

  companions, Max and Lou, the author’s behind-the-

  scenes look at dog shows and the sprinkling of

  information she provides on each breed.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Baxter excels at the telling detail: Her dogs wake up in

  the morning as if they’ve ‘already hit the espresso pot,’

  and a scene with Jessica dancing with the movie

  heartthrob of the moment is so real it offers a

  vicarious fantasy.” —Romantic Times (4 stars)

  “A fun romp through Long Island’s east end . . . A real

  page-turner. If you love good mysteries or love animals

  or mysteries with animals, you’ll love Baxter’s

  Putting On the Dog.” —Long Island Times-Herald

  “In a similar vein to that of Susan Conant, Ms. Baxter

  does an excellent job of creating hysterical characters

  and providing plenty of descriptions of their four-legged

  companions. An extremely quick read, Putting On the

  Dog is a wonderful mystery that packs a lot of action

  and red herrings into a slim volume that avoids the

  pitfalls of pretentious punning. This is a great book

  to read while curled on the couch with your own

  four-legged friends.” —TheBestReviews.com

  “Cynthia Baxter has done it once again, and created an

  extremely enjoyable, laugh-out-loud funny mystery that

  would please anyone. Putting On the Dog is utterly

  unstoppable, and hard to put down, while the

  characters are all filled with crazy quirks, leading you

  to think that absolutely anyone could be the killer.

  Loaded with tons of pop culture references, as well

  as an exclusive peek at how the rich live, this is

  sure to be an absolute hit with all.”

  —Community Bugle Newspaper (CA)

  DEAD CANARIES DON’T SING

  “Dead canaries don’t sing, but you will after reading

  this terrific mystery!”

  —Rita Mae Brown, New York Times bestselling author

  “A little bird told me to read this mystery, which is

  awfully good. For the record, I would shred

  any canary who insulted me.”

  —Sneaky Pie Brown, New York Times bestselling cat

  “Clever, fast-paced and well-plotted, Dead Canaries

  Don’t Sing stars an appealing heroine and furry

  sidekicks sure to enchant pet lovers.”

  —Carolyn Hart, Agatha, Anthony and Macavity awards winner

  “Dead Canaries Don’t Sing is top dog, the cats’s

  pajamas, and the paws that refresh all rolled into one

  unfurgettable mystery entertainment.”

  —Sarah Graves, author of the Home Repair Is Homicide series

  “Loads of fun! Baxter’s veterinary sleuth and her

  menagerie of animal companions are a great way to

  spend an afternoon. So pull up a chair and dive in.”

  —T. J. MacGregor, Edgar Award winner and author of Category Five

  “An auspicious debut . . . Messages, murder and a

  menagerie of odd animals are along for the fun.”

  —Mystery Scene

  “Should be on your [summer reading list].” —Newsday

  “Baxter’s light-hearted, enjoyable mystery is an

  entertaining debut featuring a likable menagerie of

  characters, a few surprising plot twists and a touch

  of romance.” —Lansing State Journal

  “Charmingly humorous . . . [Baxter is] funny without

  being fussy. Along with lovable Jessica and her

  menagerie, the author has created a subtle yet creepy

  antagonist whose unmasking is as intense as it

  is surprising.” —Romantic Times

  “A truly refreshing read that moved the plot right

  along. I’m looking forward to more in this new series.”

  —Rendezvous

  “A lighthearted mystery with a strong convincing plot.

  Recommended.” — I Love a Mystery Newsletter

  “Baxter tells her story with straightforward cheerful

  simplicity [and] with an undemanding plot. Dead

  Canaries Don’t Sing is a satisfying read, and should

  especially appeal to animal lovers and residents

  of Long Island.” —mentalhealth.net

  “You’ll fall in love with Popper’s four-legged

  sidekicks. . . . Integrat[es] veterinary work and murder

  in a fast-paced, light style that will keep you turning

  the pages.” —I Love Cats

  “A wonderful new mystery by newcomer Cynthia

  Baxter . . . Jessica and her menagerie of pets are fun

  new characters who have a nose for truth, and

  the curiosity to go along with it. . . . An exciting,

  intrepid new mystery.”

  —Community Bugle Newspaper (CA)

  Also by Cynthia Baxter

  DEAD CANARIES DON’T SING

  PUTTING ON THE DOG

  LEAD A HORSE TO MURDER

  To Faith

  Acknowledgments

  In researching this book, I worked with several people who were unbelievably generous with their time and their knowledge. I would like to thank Ursula Massoud of Paumanok Vineyards, Ltd in Aquebogue, who taught me the basics about wineries and winemaking. I would also like to thank Martha S. Gearhart, D.V.M., as well as Marc A. Franz, D.V.M. and the entire staff at the Woo
dbury Animal Hospital in Woodbury, especially Wendy Niceberg, Kim Marino, and Joanne St. George.

  The fascinating true story of Captain Kidd comes from an outstanding book, The Pirate Hunter: The True Story of Captain Kidd, by Richard Zacks. I would also like to thank Lisa Pulitzer and Kieran Crowley, my much-appreciated sources for information about police procedures.

  And thanks to Caitlin Alexander for her invaluable help in pulling the whole book together, as well as Faith Hamlin, who is an ongoing source of encouragement and support.

  A Note to Readers

  Hare Today, Dead Tomorrow is a work of fiction, and all names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual events, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental. Although some real Long Island places and some real people are mentioned, all are used fictitiously.

  Chapter 1

  “A man who carries a cat by the tail learns something he can learn in no other way.”

  —Mark Twain

  What!?” “Cassandra’s cat. He just stared at me.... There was blood everywhere, and she was lying on the floor, not moving—” Suzanne Fox’s voice broke off in a hoarse choke. We were sitting in her living room, less than forty-eight hours after she’d first called me with the news.

  “Start at the beginning,” I instructed her, struggling to keep my voice even. I’d done the same thing hundreds of times before—usually while trying to calm an alarmed animal owner. “Slow down, take a deep breath, and tell me exactly what happened.”

  She let out what sounded more like a desperate gasp than a deep breath. “Jessie, the police think I murdered my ex-husband’s fiancée. Her name is—was—Cassandra Thorndike. What am I going to do?”

  “Thorndike—as in Thorndike Vineyards?” I asked, naming one of the most successful and best-known wineries on Long Island.

  “Exactly. She was found stabbed to death at her house in Cuttituck, out on the North Fork.” Suzanne paused, as if she was trying to find the strength to go on. “Apparently her next-door neighbor dropped by for a visit. But Cassandra didn’t come to the door, even though it was wide open. The neighbor noticed her car was in the driveway and the TV was on. So she dialed 911. The police showed up, expecting to find some senior citizen with an overly active imagination and too much time on her hands.” In a strained voice, she added, “Except it turned out she was right.”

  “But why would the police think you had anything to do with it?” I asked.

  “They have witnesses, people who live in the neighborhood, who claim they saw a car the same make and color as mine drive up to her house not long before her next-door neighbor called. They said the driver had bright orange-red hair.”

  “Were you there?”

  “Yes.” She let out a little choking sound before adding, “I—I saw her body, Jess. So I wasn’t really surprised when the cops showed up on my doorstep a couple of days ago and said Cassandra had been murdered.”

  “You told them what happened, right?”

  She waited for what seemed a very long time before answering. “Not exactly.”

  “What do you mean, ‘not exactly’?” My mouth had suddenly become very dry.

  “I—I told the police they had the wrong person. That I’d never even been to Cassandra’s house.” Before I had a chance to react, she cried, “Jessie, you’ve got to help me!”

  It’s not easy staying calm when you’ve just found out one of your best friends is a murder suspect. I liked to think my decade of working as a veterinarian had taught me to handle all kinds of situations, especially the past few years of traveling around Long Island with my clinic-on-wheels. But this...well, this was something new.

  I just stared at Suzanne for a few seconds, not wanting to seem too horrified by her situation but not quite able to take it all in. Even though she sat in a wooden rocking chair, she remained motionless. The fact that I always think of her as one of those people who never sits still made the image especially peculiar.

  It was late morning, yet the blinds were drawn and the lights were off, casting the room in shadow. Even in the dim light, I could see that her huge, round eyes, the same shade of blue as cornflowers, were swollen and rimmed in red, as if crying had become as much a part of her routine as breathing. Her nose and cheeks were also puffy, and they’d taken on a pinkish tinge. Her remarkable orange-red hair looked surprisingly lackluster. While she had tamed her wild, wavy mane during our college years by wearing it in a waist-length braid, she’d recently gotten it cut into layers. Somehow, through either physics or chemistry, she’d also made it dead straight. It was usually stunning. Today, however, it hung limply about her face, looking as dejected as she did.

  “I’m still not getting this,” I told her. “Why were you at Cassandra’s house in the first place?”

  She glanced at me warily. “You know how upset I was when I heard Robert was engaged. For heaven’s sake, we’d only been divorced for a few months! The body that was our marriage was still warm.”

  I cringed at the metaphor. Somehow, the image of anything dead, even a relationship, hit a raw nerve.

  “I do remember you telling me how painful it was for you,” I commented.

  “ ‘Painful’ is an understatement,” she replied. “I felt worse than I did when my impacted wisdom tooth got infected. Anyway, I decided that meeting her might make me feel better. I figured that once I saw for myself that she was just another person, maybe even someone I could be friends with, the idea that Robert had chosen her over me wouldn’t hurt as much.”

  Frankly, I thought that sounded like a really bad plan. But at this juncture, it seemed kinder to keep my opinions to myself.

  “So I found out where she lived,” Suzanne continued. “On Tuesday afternoon, I went over to her house and rang her doorbell. I figured I’d introduce myself and that maybe she’d offer me coffee or something. I was hoping that by the time I got out of there, I’d have the closure I was looking for.” She shook her head sadly. “I mean, she couldn’t have been an ogre. She was probably a very nice person, someone I would have liked if we’d met under different circumstances.”

  “Probably,” I replied unconvincingly.

  “Anyway, when I got there, I was pretty sure she was home. But she wouldn’t come to the door.”

  “Why did you think she was in the house?” I asked.

  “Her car was parked in the driveway.”

  “How did you know it was hers?”

  Suzanne rolled her eyes. “Jess, it was a red Miata with the license plate CASSLASS. Who else could it belong to?”

  “Good deduction,” I said, nodding.

  “Besides, the front door was open. That wasn’t surprising, since it was one of those gorgeous October days. And the TV was on.”

  “So you rang the bell?” I prompted.

  “Two or three times. Then I knocked, really loudly.” Frowning, she noted, “My first thought was that she knew perfectly well who was on her doorstep. I figured she’d looked out the window and recognized me from Robert’s description, or photos he had.

  “Anyway, the idea that she was holed up inside her house, hoping I’d just go away, got me mad.” Suzanne hesitated. “Finally, I opened the screen door and walked in.”

  I guess a look of surprise crossed my face, because she quickly added, “It’s not like I barged in or anything. I just stepped inside and called her name. You know, like, ‘Cassandra? Are you here? Anybody home?’

  “I could hear the television blaring from the back of the house. So I followed the sound. But I kept calling her name. I mean, I wasn’t trying to sneak up on her or anything.

  “Then I reached a room that looked like a home office. It had a computer and a fax machine and a little TV, stuck up on a shelf. I got as far as the doorway. And then, and then—” Her voice broke off. “I saw her.”

  “Exactly what did you see, Suzanne?” I asked gently.

  She paused to take a couple of deep breaths. “She was . . . s
he was on the floor, facedown. But she was crumpled up, as if she’d fallen. There was blood everywhere. Most of it had soaked into the carpet, I guess. And there was plenty of blood on the desk. Everything on top was in chaos. Papers were lying all over the place, and the pencil mug was on its side with pens and pencils scattered.

  “The whole scene was horrible, Jess! And what made it even more disturbing was the fact that, right in the middle of this grotesque scene, there was one single sign of life.”

  I blinked. “What are you talking about?”

  “Like I told you: Cassandra’s cat. He was lying on the floor next to her, acting as if he was just waiting for someone to come and help. He looked up at me and blinked, then let out a loud meow. It was really creepy. I almost got the feeling he was trying to tell me what had happened. Or that maybe he was asking me why it happened.”

  The idea of someone’s poor pussycat witnessing such a horrendous event broke my heart. I immediately thought of my own two cats. Cat—Catherine the Great—was a longtime companion who had often picked up on my bad moods, everything from sadness to grumpiness. She seemed to have a sixth sense about what was going on with me, and she seemed to long to comfort me. Tinkerbell was still just a kitten, but I’d even caught her staring at me, wide-eyed, at times when I was upset, as if she had also noticed that something was amiss.

  “Anyway, I panicked,” Suzanne continued. “I just turned and ran. I got in my car and drove off.” Her shoulders slumped. “That’s what happened. But somehow, I couldn’t bring myself to tell the police.”

  The face of Lieutenant Anthony Falcone, Norfolk County’s chief of homicide, flashed before my eyes like one of the bursts of light that often precede a migraine. Even in my imagination, he didn’t look happy.

  “Why not, Suzanne?” I demanded, trying not to sound exasperated. “Why didn’t you just tell them the truth?” I realized I was perched so far on the edge of the couch that I was close to toppling onto the floor. I also noticed that the brightly colored fabric, splashed with cheerful flowers, looked painfully out of place in the somber room.