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  “So the murderer didn’t take her purse.”

  “Or anything else, apparently. At least, not that the cops have noticed. The TV, the DVD player, jewelry, some cash that was in a drawer—all untouched.”

  “So robbery was not the motive, just like it said in your article.” My head buzzed with all the bits and pieces of information Forrester was handing me. “Are there any theories about whether Cassandra’s attacker was someone she knew or if he—”

  “Wait a sec. You referred to the murderer as a ‘he.’ How do you know it wasn’t a ‘she’? In fact,” he went on, a strange look crossing his face, “how do you know it wasn’t your pal who killed Cassandra? Just because you and this Suzanne used to play field hockey together at Bryn Mawr—or whatever you two did—doesn’t mean she didn’t off her ex’s new flame.”

  Once again, I could feel a wave of fury rising up inside me. “Look, Forrester. I’ve known Suzanne Fox for a very long time. And I would bet my life on the fact that there’s absolutely no way she had anything to do with this!”

  “I hear you,” Forrester returned, holding up his hands. “I’m just raising the question, that’s all. I mean, when you come right down to it, how well do any of us really know each other?”

  I had no interest in pursuing that line of discussion. Pointedly, I changed the subject, saying, “Falcone made a rather snotty remark about the possibility of me being of some use because there was an animal involved in the case. I just assumed he meant Beau, Cassandra’s cat. But now I’m wondering if he meant the stuffed bunny.” I couldn’t resist muttering, “That idiot.” Actually, I was thinking of some much more colorful comments I could make about Lieutenant Falcone, including some that used variations on the word stuffed.

  “If I were you,” Forrester said mildly, “I wouldn’t go out of my way to aggravate Falcone.”

  I stared at him in disbelief. “Since when are you the diplomat?”

  “Since always. I’m a reporter, Popper. And one of the first lessons I ever learned is that you don’t get people to help you by pushing their buttons.”

  “But—”

  “I suggest that you stop and ask yourself a very simple question: What matters more, your ego or your friend Suzanne?”

  I had to admit that he had a point.

  “Look, Popper,” he said. “If you want to help your friend, you don’t need Falcone, okay? In the end, it won’t matter whether or not he has witnesses and forensic evidence that put her at the scene of the crime. This is one of those cases that’s not going to be solved with physical evidence. The answer’s going to come from the people who knew Cassandra. If you want my advice on how to clear your friend’s name and find the real murderer, I’d say go ahead and ask as many questions as you want—and meanwhile stay out of Falcone’s way.”

  I jammed my clenched fists deep into the pockets of my polyester fleece jacket, biting my lip and thinking hard. I could tell from how hot my cheeks were that they had turned beet red.

  “Hey, think about it, okay?” Forrester finally said. “That’s all I’m asking. You’ve got a good head on your shoulders. Use it to insinuate your way into Cassandra’s world. Get to know the people she knew. Find out which ones were her true friends—and which ones just pretended to be her friend. And try to re-create, in your mind, exactly what happened on Tuesday. That’s where the answer lies, not in the hairs on her carpets and the fingerprints on her front door.

  “Besides,” he added in a voice that was only half-teasing, “maybe you can help me scoop the other news mongers by finding the real murderer and giving me an exclusive. I’m telling you, this looks like a case you can crack.”

  He turned and began walking back to his own car.

  “Forrester?” I called.

  He glanced back over his shoulder, raising his eyebrows.

  “Thanks.”

  His face melted into a grin. “That’s the spirit, Popper. Later.”

  I stood in front of my car, watching him drive away. The anger that always seemed to arise simply from being in Forrester’s presence was already dissipating—largely because I realized he was right.

  Of course, the fact that the answer to the riddle of who had killed Cassandra Thorndike probably didn’t lie in fingerprints and fibers wouldn’t make it any easier to solve—especially since Suzanne’s were guaranteed to be among them. But at least it didn’t put me at a major disadvantage by not having Lieutenant Anthony Falcone and his staff of forensics experts on my team.

  I glanced up Cliffside Lane one last time, making doubly sure that Forrester was gone. Then I wandered up the front walk, back toward Cassandra’s house. Even with the yellow crime-scene tape, it looked tempting. But at the moment, it wasn’t number 254 I was interested in. It was the charming if somewhat dilapidated house next door, the home of the woman who’d found Cassandra’s body.

  The good news was that someone had painted it a cheery yellow. The bad news was that it looked as if that had happened about thirty years ago—without a single touch-up since. The front porch sagged, the grass badly needed cutting, and the black paint on the wooden shutters was peeling. The old car parked in the driveway fit right in. Its fenders and doors were bumped and bruised, and it was in dire need of a day of beauty at a local car wash.

  Still, the little house looked like it was loved. Pots of chrysanthemums, bright yellow and deep purple, stood on each wooden step, and a wreath made of dried flowers hung on the open front door. White lace curtains covered the large living-room window, and a row of ceramic figurines lined the windowsill.

  The afternoon had warmed up enough that whoever lived there had left the front door open. A television blared through the screen door. It sounded like it was tuned to one of those home-shopping channels, since an unusually seductive woman’s voice was insisting there were only three left and that $49.99 was the deal of a lifetime.

  I studied the porch, noticing that a wooden swing, one of those old-fashioned ones that hold two people, was hung at one end. I also spotted a tricycle, and a red plastic bowl was placed on the porch’s top step so a pet could easily drink from it.

  I peered through the screen, but all I could see was a small living room. Along the back wall was a large sagging couch decorated with four needlepoint throw pillows. Two matching upholstered chairs, covered with dark green chenille slipcovers, were draped with crocheted armrest covers the color of limes. A beige pole lamp was topped with a fringed lampshade that was still encased in clear plastic. Yet aside from the noise from the TV, there were no signs of life.

  At least, none that I could see. I raised my arm to knock on the screen door, then froze. Even though I was the one who was sneaking around, I couldn’t shake the sudden feeling that I was being watched. I turned and scanned the yard but didn’t see a soul.

  As I started walking toward Cassandra’s front door, trying to act as if I actually had a reason to be there, I heard a twig snap. This time I whirled around quickly, trying to catch whoever was spying on me. Yet I still didn’t see anyone.

  So I jumped high enough to qualify for the Olympics when I heard a high-pitched voice demand, “Are you looking for Cassie?”

  I turned around once more and saw that the person who’d been watching me was a little girl no more than four or five years old who had suddenly appeared in the front yard of the house next door. She had the angelic face of a cartoon character—one of the Rugrats, maybe—and was dressed in kelly-green corduroy pants, orange high-top sneakers, and a red shirt printed with a faded picture of Big Bird. Both her pants and shirt looked about two sizes too large. Wisps of dark brown hair curled around her face, which featured the biggest brown eyes I could remember having seen in a long time.

  “Uh, no,” I replied. “I don’t think she—”

  “ ’Cause Cassie’s not here anymore. Grammy says she’s not coming back, not ever. But we got her cat! He’s my kitty now!”

  Her last comment really caught my interest. After all, Cassandra Thorndike’s
cat was the sole witness to her murder. Even though we couldn’t put him on the stand, the idea that the feline had probably watched the entire crime unfold intrigued me to no end.

  “I’ll show you my cat,” the little girl continued, as if my silence had been an indication of disbelief over her good fortune. Wandering around the side yard that separated her house from Cassandra’s, she called, “Come here, Beau. Beau, where are you? Nice kitty . . .”

  Just as I was beginning to doubt the little girl’s claim, a cat darted out from underneath some bushes that ran along the two backyards, edging the cliff. The sleek animal was completely black. In fact, with his wide green eyes, he could have posed for Halloween decorations.

  “Hey, pussycat,” I called in a soft voice.

  “Meow!” he yowled angrily, pausing only long enough to glare at me. Then he dashed toward the small yard behind Cassandra’s house, which ended in a sharp drop down to the sea. Ignoring the yellow tape reading Crime Scene—Do Not Cross, he darted inside through the cat door set into the back door.

  “Beau keeps going back to Cassie’s house, even though he’s supposed to be my pussycat now,” the little girl pouted. “There’s a teensy-weensy door in back, just for him, and he goes in and out all day.” With the feline no longer around to distract her, she turned her attention back to me. “Are you a policeman?”

  “No, honey. I’m a doctor. I take care of animals. Cats and dogs, mostly, but also horses and all kinds of other animals.”

  She brightened. “I love animals! Doggies and kitties and bunnies and goldfish . . . but I was never allowed to have a pet before. Mommy works all day, so Grammy takes care of me. And she’s too old to take care of animals. She’s not really my grandma. She’s Mommy’s grandma, so she’s really old.” Pensively, she added, “I hope she lets me keep Beau. ’Cause he doesn’t have anybody else to take care of him. Not since Cassie left.”

  “I hope you can keep him too,” I told her. “I can tell you’re really good at taking care of animals.”

  She accepted the compliment with a shy smile. “What’s your name?” she asked.

  “Jessie. What’s yours?”

  “Maggie Rose.”

  Before I had a chance to reply, a woman’s scratchy voice interrupted, “Come away from there, Maggie Rose! Stop bothering the lady!”

  “She’s not bothering me in the least,” I assured the elderly woman who had just come out to the porch and was making her way down the uneven wooden steps, clutching the rickety wooden railing. “In fact, I’ve been enjoying talking to her.”

  Like the little girl, her caretaker was dressed in clothes that didn’t quite fit and didn’t quite match. A pair of lemon-yellow stretchy pants with an elastic waistband was pulled up high around the woman’s thick torso, the pale blue T-shirt she wore with it carefully tucked in. She also wore a bulky sweater that looked hand-knit, made of puffy salmon-colored yarn and containing an impressive number of different stitches. Like the little girl, her hair was a halo of wisps, although time had turned hers gray. There was one major difference between her and her great-granddaughter: Her eyes were a pale shade of hazel, as if time had faded them as well.

  “You a friend of Cassie’s?” she asked, peering at me over her glasses.

  “Not exactly. It’s more like I know people who knew her.”

  “What’s that?” she asked, squinting at me and leaning her head forward.

  “I said I know some friends of hers,” I repeated, this time more loudly.

  “Terrible thing, isn’t it?” She shook her head slowly. “So young. A person’s not even safe in their own house anymore. Somebody shows up at your front door, and the next thing you know—”

  She stopped herself, glancing at the little girl beside her. Maggie Rose, however, looked much more interested in the butterfly she had just noticed hovering above a shrub.

  “Yes, it’s extremely sad,” I agreed. “By the way, I’m Jessie Popper.”

  “Sorry?” She leaned forward. “I’m afraid I don’t always hear so good these days.”

  “My name is Jessie Popper,” I repeated, speaking up.

  “Pleased to meet you, Jessie. I’m Virginia Krupinski. This here’s my great-granddaughter, Maggie Rose. But I guess you two already met.”

  “We’re practically old friends by now.”

  “I watch her during the week,” Virginia explained. “My granddaughter works up at the big outlet mall in Riverton.” Proudly, she added, “She’s assistant manager at the Liz Claiborne outlet.”

  “I love Liz Claiborne!” Not that you’d ever guess by looking at me, I thought, glancing down at my less-than-stylish black jeans and my polyester fleece jacket in a classic shade of navy blue. Then again, I figured that a woman who still considered the popcorn stitch the height of fashion wasn’t exactly in the best position to judge.

  “How long have you lived here?” I asked. After all, there was no time like the present to pump her for every bit of information I could get.

  The woman let out a loud, coarse laugh that sounded like a cough. “Longer than you can imagine. Since way before the war—the big one, that is.”

  I did a quick calculation. If she’d been in this house since a few years before World War II, she was at least in her seventies—which sounded about right.

  “How about Cassandra Thorndike?” I asked. “How long did she live here?”

  “Oh, not long.” She frowned, as if she was thinking hard. “Not even a year. Eight, ten months, maybe.”

  “Did you get to know her at all?”

  “Sure did. Lovely girl, that Cassie. She always had time for Maggie Rose here. They’d play games or read stories. She was good to me too. That girl was always coming home with candy and things, since she worked in the restaurant business and all. One sales rep, who I guess was sweet on her, was always giving her these special chocolates his company made. Those were my favorites, and I never found any stores that sold them. She was always happy to share them with me.

  “And of course the dessert chef at her boyfriend’s restaurant—John something, one of them funny French names—he was always making her special desserts and things. Being a young girl and all, she was always worried about keeping her figure. So she’d invite me over to help myself. One of the few good things about being my age is that I stopped worrying about keeping my figure ages ago!”

  “What about the day that she—what about Tuesday?” I eyed Maggie Rose, who still didn’t appear to be paying attention to what the grown-ups were saying. Even so, I knew perfectly well that little girls often had big ears. “Were you home when...you know?”

  “Sure was. I don’t go out much these days. Especially when Maggie Rose is here. I’m getting too old to take her to some shopping mall where I’d have to chase after her.”

  “I’m sure the police already asked you this,” I continued hesitantly, “but did you hear anything out of the ordinary that day?”

  “The police?” She waved her hand dismissively, letting out another cough-style laugh. “They don’t take somebody like me very seriously. They think I’m too old to know anything.”

  Maggie Rose trotted over from the backyard, having apparently lost interest in the butterfly. “Grammy says Cassie’s not coming back here ever again,” she announced.

  “That’s right, honey,” Virginia agreed, glancing at me sadly.

  “I’m gonna miss her. She was my friend.” The little girl’s face crumpled, and she looked forlorn—but only for a few seconds. Breaking into a sunny smile, she asked, “Do you ever take care of sick butterflies? Like if they break their wing or something?”

  I laughed. “I’m afraid we didn’t learn much about butterflies in veterinary school.”

  I turned back to Virginia, meanwhile fishing through my pocket. “Let me give you my business card, Mrs. Krupinski. As I mentioned, I know people who knew Cassandra. I’d be very interested in anything at all you can remember about Tuesday. If you think of something, even something that
you think is insignificant, don’t think twice about giving me a call. If you have access to the Internet, you can also e-mail me through my Web site. The address is at the bottom of the card.”

  “Maybe I’ll call you if Beau here needs some medical care,” Virginia said, taking my card and squinting at it.

  “Please do.” Sincerely, I added, “I enjoyed meeting you both, and I’d be happy to be Beau’s doctor.”

  When I got back in my car, I slammed the door extra hard. I was trying to shut out the sound of Falcone’s voice, which kept replaying in my head. As much as I hated to admit it, he was probably right when he concluded that Cassandra’s neighbors weren’t likely to be very useful in figuring out who had killed her—even though they’d both been right next door at the time she was murdered.

  The clock was ticking—and with every passing second, Falcone was undoubtedly becoming more and more anxious to make an arrest. With Suzanne high on his list of suspects, I couldn’t afford to waste time.

  But at the moment, I was bleary-eyed from all the running around I’d done that day, especially since it wasn’t quite what the doctor ordered. It was hard to believe that it was only that morning that I’d been released from the hospital. Since then, I’d visited Suzanne, met her incompetent lawyer, endured Lieutenant Falcone, and snooped around Cassandra Thorndike’s neighborhood.

  As I turned the key in the ignition, a sharp pain shot through my neck. The effort required to reach up and massage it made me realize just how tired I was. All at once, the long, stressful day seemed to be catching up with me. On top of that, it was already getting dark, and I still had a long drive back home.

  Yet home was suddenly the one place I longed to be.

  Chapter 4

  “As every cat owner knows, nobody owns a cat.”

  —Ellen Perry Berkeley

  Just pulling into the long, winding driveway that led to my cottage was usually enough to relax me. Today was no exception. As I veered off Minnesauke Lane, I could feel the tension draining out of my neck and shoulders. As always, the charming little house in Joshua’s Hollow that I had the good fortune to call home seemed like a refuge from all the terrible things that were going on in the big, bad world.