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  “Jerry didn’t really seem to have an opinion,” Suzanne said uncertainly. She grabbed a roll. With nervous, jerky movements, she began pulling off piece after piece and stuffing them into her mouth.

  “Hey, Jerry’s the best lawyer there is,” Marcus insisted. “If he thinks it’s okay, then I’d go with that. You gotta trust the guy’s instincts. I mean, he’s been doing this for, what, ten or twelve years?”

  Personally, I’d have preferred a lawyer who’d been “doing this” for twenty or thirty. Not to mention one who actually had a track record as a criminal lawyer. Helping immigrants with the paperwork required for a green card was fine. Defending an innocent woman who the police suspected of murder was something else entirely.

  Still, I knew that Jerry Keeler was here to stay, at least for now. I grabbed a roll of my own and began scarfing it down. When the going gets tough, I always say, go for the carbs.

  “Besides,” Marcus went on, speaking a little too loudly for the intimate space we were in, “I don’t think there’s anything to worry about. We all know that Suzanne’s innocent. There’s no way she had anything to do with what happened to Cassandra Thorndike. So I think we should all relax. After all, why shouldn’t justice prevail? Why should we believe for even a moment that anyone would ever be capable of convincing a jury of twelve clear-headed, objective, intelligent individuals that Suzanne did something she’s obviously incapable of even thinking about doing?”

  Dead silence fell over our table. When I dared glance over at Nick, I saw that he was poised to speak. But then he snapped his mouth shut, as if he knew only too well what he was dealing with. Suzanne, meanwhile, had tears in her eyes. Tears of joy or maybe even gratitude, I surmised from the way she was looking at Marcus.

  My hero! she seemed to be thinking.

  I was glad that our waiter chose that moment to come over with our entrees. Focusing on who’d ordered the Thai Pepper-Crusted Ahi Tuna with Wasabi Ginger Ponzu and who got the Fettuccine Jambalaya in Cajun Tomato Cream Sauce was much easier than listening to Marcus Scruggs’s diatribe on the effectiveness of the American judicial system.

  Especially since the question of whether or not justice was likely to prevail loomed so dreadfully close to home.

  In fact, it wasn’t until I’d eaten my way through what I had to admit was probably one of the best meals I’d ever encountered that I remembered that I’d dragged my posse to G for more than the Wasabi Ginger Ponzu—or even to get Suzanne out of the house. The dessert list that the waiter presented to us with high drama was a great reminder. In fact, as I scanned it, my blood ran as cold as the strawberry drizzle that apparently accompanied the vanilla bean gelato.

  I waited until Marcus was monopolizing Suzanne’s attention with a long, detailed anecdote that, not surprisingly, centered around him. Then I whispered, “Nick, do you notice anything interesting about the dessert menu?”

  “You mean aside from the fact that it doesn’t include a warning from the Surgeon General?”

  “Look at it carefully,” I insisted. “Does it sound familiar?”

  “Raspberry–Blueberry Swirl Cheesecake,” Nick mumbled, reading aloud. “Cinnamon Brioche Bread Pudding. Espresso Crème Brûlée with Chocolate Coffee Beans.” Slowly, a look of comprehension crossed his face. “Now that you mention it, this list does sound a lot like an inventory of the box of goodies you brought home yesterday.”

  “Exactly what I was thinking.”

  “So there’s one of two things going on here,” Nick said. “Either your friend Jean-Luc is in cahoots with the pastry chef here at G—”

  “Impossible!” I interrupted. “Jean-Luc told me Preston is a fraud—not to mention a thief who steals his competition’s recipes, employees, and anything else he can get his hands on. He hates Preston’s guts. Although, being French, I suspect he’d put it more delicately.”

  “Okay,” Nick said. “Another possibility is that every restaurant on the East End has pretty much the same repertoire.”

  “There is a third possibility,” I told him. “The one Jean-Luc complained to me about. And that’s that Preston DeVane has been robbing him blind. Not only has he been stealing his staff; he’s also been stealing his desserts. Jean-Luc told me he’d co-opted one recipe, but I had no idea he’d stolen all of them.”

  “Hmm,” Nick said thoughtfully. “Sounds as if there may be a dessert war going on.”

  I had to agree that that sounded like a distinct possibility. In fact, I was starting to see Dr. Atkins’s warnings about the dangers of carbohydrates in a whole new light. “What did you think?” I asked Nick as we drove west along Sunset Highway, leaving the East End behind.

  “The food was great, but I shouldn’t have had the appetizer. It was too much, even though that was the most incredible shrimp—”

  “Not the restaurant,” I interrupted. “Suzanne. And Marcus.”

  Nick cast me a wary glance from the driver’s seat. “You know I’d rather have a root canal than spend an evening with that guy. As for Suzanne, she seems to be holding up okay. Why? What did you think?”

  I remained silent for a minute or two, thinking. On the surface, the evening appeared to have gone just fine, although Nick was right about eating too much. Yet I’d definitely picked up on an undercurrent between Marcus and Suzanne. Or, more accurately, from Marcus to Suzanne. Something was going on from his end, and I suspected that it wasn’t good.

  “I guess it went okay,” I finally said in response to Nick’s question. It was easier than getting into a long explanation—and safer than voicing my fears.

  “I’m pooped, and I’ve got to get to school early tomorrow,” he announced after we’d gotten home and performed the usual ritual of greeting each of my pets, letting the dogs out, and checking all the water bowls. “I’m going to bed. Care to join me?”

  “In a few minutes. I’m still wound up from the evening. I think I’ll check my e-mail.”

  “Don’t hesitate to give me a poke,” Nick offered. “Just because I’m snoring, that doesn’t mean I’m not available for entertainment purposes.”

  His eyes were so bleary and he was yawning so much that I already knew I wouldn’t take him up on his offer. “Okay, hot stuff. I’ll be in soon.”

  I scooped up Cat before sitting down at my desk, then gently positioned her in my lap. She purred, letting me know she was grateful for the company.

  “How’s my favorite pussycat?” I asked, stroking her soft fur as my computer booted up. Tinkerbell didn’t seem to mind. She was too busy rolling around at my feet, batting a thread that had come loose from my sock. I was noticing that while Tink had absolutely no problem bossing the dogs around, there was clearly no doubt in her mind who was top cat. She also kept her distance from Prometheus. I didn’t blame her. The mere sight of his no-nonsense beak was enough to keep anybody in line.

  I scanned the list of new mail in my in-box, noting that I’d received a few messages from the usual array of friends, veterinary organizations, and purveyors of various drugs and devices designed to work wonders on any substandard body parts I might own.

  But there was one name I didn’t recognize. The e-mail address was intriguing: [email protected].

  I checked the subject line. It read, Hey, Jess. Thought you’d enjoy this.

  Somebody I know? I thought, grabbing the mouse and moving the cursor to that line. Or some clever Web marketer trying to get my attention?

  When I double-clicked, the computer paused to load what looked like images of some kind. The text was already visible, however.

  Hey, Jessica Popper!

  Sorry we didn’t get a chance to speak the other day. But I thought you’d get a kick out of these.

  You’ll hear from me again. I promise.

  Odd, I thought, wondering who’d written such a strange e-mail. I waited while the graphics loaded, figuring this would turn out to be from some obvious person like Suzanne or even Marcus who was sending me a list of the Top Ten something
or other.

  But when the images finally finished loading, I was simply confused. And then my stomach lurched as I realized what I was looking at.

  The photographs were of me. I was wearing my navy-blue jacket, just as I had every day this week. From the small amount of scenery I could make out in the background, they looked as if they’d been taken somewhere on the East End.

  And I’d had no idea they were being taken.

  “What is this?” I asked aloud, even though no one around me was likely to answer, aside from Prometheus.

  I quickly clicked down past the three photographs, hoping to find a name at the bottom of the page. Nothing. I still had no clue as to who had sent me this e-mail. My mouth uncomfortably dry, I scrolled back to the top to study the photographs more carefully.

  The first one was a close-up of my face, taken in profile. Whoever took it had been standing behind me, since most of the shot was of my back. Still, the top half of my body pretty much filled the frame.

  Which meant the photographer either had a good zoom lens or had been standing very close to me.

  In the second one, my mouth was open and I wore a peculiar expression, since I’d apparently been caught mid-sentence. I was talking to someone, although whoever it was hadn’t been included in the picture. Just me.

  Nothing wrong with that, I insisted to myself, trying to ignore the gnawing in my stomach.

  It was the third one that made me gasp. Me again, standing in front of my van. I recognized the setting as the parking lot outside both G and Granite, which meant it had been taken yesterday. In the photograph, I was pulling my keys out of my pocket, getting ready to leave.

  I remembered that moment clearly. I’d thought I was alone. Obviously, I was dead wrong.

  Somebody was watching me.

  Chapter 7

  “Cats are smarter than dogs. You can’t get eight cats to pull a sled through snow.”

  —Jeff Valdez

  The uneasy feeling that came from having discovered that someone was keeping tabs on my comings and goings lingered into the next morning. And the fact that that person had managed to get to me in my own home as I sat alone in the wee hours increased the creepiness factor by about a hundred.

  I replayed the last few days in my mind, trying to remember who I’d given my business card to. But then I realized my cards weren’t the only way someone could get hold of my e-mail address. All they had to do was enter my name into a search engine like Google or Yahoo!, and my Web site address would come up. Then, they could click on Contact Us and, as Jean-Luc would say, “Voilà!”

  Still, I decided not to say anything to Nick. At least, not yet. I knew perfectly well that he wasn’t crazy about my involvement in investigating Cassandra Thorndike’s murder and that the only reason he was being at all supportive was that he recognized the importance of proving Suzanne’s innocence. The last thing I wanted was for him to worry any more than he already had. Especially since he was under so much pressure himself, thanks to the demands of law school.

  As I drove to the North Fork to make a few calls and do a little more nosing around, I ruminated over who my secret friend might be. Driving on the Long Island Expressway was pretty monotonous at times like this, when mercifully little traffic clogged the three eastbound lanes of the dead-straight highway. It afforded me the perfect opportunity to consider each of the members of the murder victim’s circle I’d already met, one by one.

  I started with her family, even though I found it hard to believe that any of them could be involved. Joan Thorndike, Cassandra’s stepmother, made no bones about the fact that she and her stepdaughter hadn’t been on the best of terms. Even though I liked her, I couldn’t completely discount her as a possible suspect. I couldn’t say the same for Gordon. He was clearly distraught over his daughter’s tragic fate. As for Ethan, he struck me as weird enough that anything was possible.

  Next on the list were the people Cassandra knew through her fiancé—starting with the man himself. While I tried to remain open-minded about Robert Reese, now that I’d met him I couldn’t help suspecting him. Anyone who could get that upset over a lunch box—a Starsky and Hutch lunch box, no less—had to possess at least a few screws that were badly in need of tightening. Besides, spouses and boyfriends were always key suspects in situations like this.

  Then there were the other people Cassandra had associated with through her involvement with the family business, as well as through her relationship with Robert. According to Jean-Luc, Preston DeVane, the arrogant owner of G and Robert’s number-one competitor, was pretty much capable of anything. Just how big a leap was it from stealing crème brûlée recipes to bumping off a business rival’s fiancée?

  Even Jean-Luc could have done it, I mused, instinctively stepping on the brake as I noticed a cop car by the side of the Expressway, lying in wait. Maybe all that sugar in his bloodstream got him a little too hyped up during an argument with Cassandra over how much raspberry drizzle was too much raspberry drizzle.

  My list of suspects was already fairly long. And at this point, I simply didn’t know enough about Cassandra or the people in her world to know who else to add. Virginia Krupinski, Theo Simcox, even someone I hadn’t actually met but who had noticed what I was up to—any one of them could have sent me that eerie e-mail.

  Fortunately, a morning filled with house calls took my mind off Cassandra’s murder, at least for a few hours. It felt good to lose myself in treating animals, since I never failed to find it endlessly rewarding. As usual, it was refreshing to throw myself into the absorbing task of dealing with one patient after another. While being in the company of humans has its rewards, I’ve always found that surrounding myself with animals provides me with a level of emotional fulfillment that I can’t get anywhere else.

  It wasn’t until I glanced at my watch and saw it was almost one that I realized how hungry I was. I also had a long break in my schedule, which I’d built in to allow for a bit of exploring on the North Fork.

  For all I know, I thought as I turned into Clyde’s Roadside Inn, I might stumble across Captain Kidd’s treasure. Of course, I’d be much happier finding Cassandra Thorndike’s killer.

  It wasn’t coincidence that my grumbling stomach prompted me to pull into Clyde’s. Theo Simcox’s comment about his plans to spend his Saturday night there gave me the impression he was a regular. I figured a man who described himself as a “lonely bachelor” could well have staked out a neighborhood eatery as a place where he could regularly find a little homeyness. With a little more of that “luck” that seemed to be going around, I might even run into him. I hoped he might be able to help me learn more about Cassandra’s involvement in the family business.

  Clyde’s did, indeed, look every inch the roadside inn. Unpainted cedar shingles that had been darkened by weather and time covered the small, oddly shaped building. A red neon sign lit up the single tiny window that faced the road, boasting that Budweiser was on tap.

  Inside, a long, narrow room lined with dark wood paneling stretched toward the back. Actually, the walls were covered with some synthetic material that simply looked more or less like wood. Still, the effect was the same as if it had been the real thing: dark and claustrophobic.

  The bar that ran the entire length of one long wall— and was separated from the dining area by a wooden divider decorated with nautical paraphernalia like plastic starfish and fishing nets—made the space feel even more closed in. Yet there was news from the outside world, thanks to the television positioned above the bar. It was broadcasting the local channel, Channel 14 News. For a few seconds, I watched a segment on a Girl Scout troop that was introducing the residents of a senior center to the joys of rap music.

  Clyde’s looked like the perfect place to grab a cup of clam chowder, which, at the moment, was high on my list. In fact, I’d had about all I could handle of pretentious, overpriced restaurants that offered ambiance instead of mere atmosphere. At the moment, atmosphere suited me just fine, even if
it did involve a few crumbs that the last patrons had left behind on the plastic red-and-white-checked tablecloth.

  “Just one?” the waitress asked as I lurked in the doorway, honoring the Please Wait to be Seated sign. She glanced behind me anxiously, as if she were certain there just had to be somebody in the world who was willing to have lunch with me.

  “Just me,” I told her, smiling.

  She led me to a back table and left me with a laminated menu. I was marveling over the fact that you could actually get a turkey club for under five dollars— and that the $7.99 Fish o’ the Day Dinner Special included soup, salad, Jell-O, and tea or coffee—when I happened to glance up at the bar.

  The image on TV was enough to take away my appetite.

  Lieutenant Anthony Falcone’s face covered the screen, his dark, piercing eyes staring straight at me. He looked as if he’d combed an unusually large amount of gel into his hair, even for him. His suit was at least as shiny. He kept pointing his finger at the camera to emphasize what he was saying.

  I got up from my seat, edging toward the TV until I was close enough to hear him.

  “...assure the people of Norfolk County that the police department has made finding the person who’s responsible for the brutal murder of Cassandra Thorndike our number-one priority. This is truly one of the most heinous crimes that has occurred here in a very long time. Right now experts are collecting and analyzing forensic evidence, and we’re interviewing several suspects. We’re keeping a close eye on one particular person of interest, and we expect to make an arrest soon.”

  Falcone made his last statement with remarkable assuredness, even though he managed to pronounce the word particular without hitting either one of the rs. In fact, he sounded as if he were bragging rather than reassuring Norfolk County’s citizens.

  But it wasn’t his Long Island accent or his self-important posturing that was making my stomach churn. It was his claim that he expected to arrest someone soon. I had a strong suspicion that the person he was referring to was Suzanne.