Who's Kitten Who? Read online

  “I only looked at him for a second,” Lacey went on. “My main thought was that I had to get away. From the horrible sight, I mean. And that I had to call 911.”

  “Which is what you did,” I noted.

  “That’s right. From my cell phone. In the hall, right outside the dressing room.”

  “Lacey,” I asked, “did you happen to see anything odd?”

  She looked startled. “Finding a dead body in a trunk isn’t odd enough?”

  “I mean anything that might have indicated who the killer was. A scarf, a button, a hair—anything at all?”

  Lacey shook her head. “I didn’t have enough time to see anything like that. Like I said, I just wanted to get away. It was such a horrible sight.”

  “I understand completely,” I assured her. “It must have been awful for you.”

  “I’ll never forget it,” she agreed solemnly. “Look, I’m finding this really painful. Maybe we’d better stick to talking about whatever it is that brought you here today.”

  I froze. I’d been so busy trying to locate Lacey that I’d forgotten to come up with a good reason for showing up at her workplace like this.

  I glanced around frantically until my eyes lit on one of the photographs of the school’s alumni hanging right outside. It featured a cute little girl in a black-and-white polka-dot dress and fluffy blond hair with a big white bow.

  “Uh, I have two nieces, named Maxine and Lou—Louella,” I stuttered, glad that I was fairly fast on my feet, if not always exactly inspired. “I’m, uh, thinking of enrolling them in an acting class to help them build up their confidence. They’re pretty shy.”

  It was true that Lou could be described that way. However, the idea of my pushy little terrier Max being anything close to shy was laughable. Unless there was a thunderstorm, of course. Then all his feistiness vanished, sending him under the bed, quaking.

  “Anyway,” I continued, “somebody mentioned at rehearsal the other night that you conduct acting workshops for kids here at the Yellow Brick Road, and I thought I’d come check it out.”

  Lacey beamed. “The Yellow Brick Road is the top acting school on the island, as far as I’m concerned.” She pointed to the row of photos right outside the door. “We’ve had kids go on to do commercials, soap operas, movies, Broadway shows…Of course, a lot of them just take a class or two for the same reason as your nieces. It’s a great way to build confidence. It also helps them improve their social skills and their communication skills. Acting is a great way for children to increase their self-esteem.”

  “You’re so good with them,” I observed. “They really seem to respond to you.”

  “The kids are great,” she said, her face lighting up again. “Working with them, helping them explore their creativity—it’s almost as rewarding as being onstage myself.”

  Surprised, I said, “But I thought you just did costumes.”

  “For this production. But I’ve been in a lot of the Theater One productions. In fact, when I was in college in Alabama—that’s where I’m from—I majored in theater arts. At least, until my junior year.”

  That explained the lingering accent. “What happened during your junior year?”

  Her expression twisted into one of disdain. “My father announced that if I didn’t find a more practical major, he wasn’t going to pay for the rest of my college education.” She sighed. “I suppose I could have become one of those students who carry a full course load plus work thirty or forty hours a week. But I guess when it came right down to it, I had serious doubts about whether I’d ever be able to make it in the theater. So I just switched majors to education.”

  “I take it your father was happy with that?”

  “Oh, yeah. He thought becoming an elementary school teacher was the ideal career path for his drab little daughter.” The bitterness that had crept into her voice made me cringe. “Working here, at least, is a version of that I can live with.”

  “Besides, you’re still involved in theater,” I pointed out. “You have the Yellow Brick Road during the day and the Port Players at night.”

  “And She’s Flying High is such a fabulous show.” Her expression darkened. “Simon was a real genius.”

  “Yes, it sounds as if he really was,” I agreed.

  She was silent for a few seconds. “Jessie,” she said hesitantly, “since you’re part of the show and all, someone’s bound to tell you sooner or later that Simon and I had a—we dated for a while. Theater people do so love to gossip.” Hastily, she added, “But we remained on good terms after we broke up. We turned out to be one of those unusual couples that manages to stay friends.”

  “I see.” Simon and Lacey? They struck me as an unlikely duo. Still, her revelation explained her anger over his relationship with Aziza.

  It also made the fact that she had been the one to call in his murder after reportedly stumbling upon his body much more interesting.

  As if she’d been reading my mind, she added, “Which made finding him like that all the more horrifying. I always felt that Simon and I were destined to get back together.” Her big brown eyes filled with tears. “Once he got away from that witch Aziza, that is.”

  Aha, I thought. The intrigues of the cast and crew of She’s Flying High were getting more and more complex every minute—especially with respect to the two women who had competed for Simon’s affections. Who was the wise writer who said, Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned?

  I remained silent, hoping for more detail. Instead, Lacey blinked hard a few times, then said, “Anyway, I’m glad you’re part of the show. And Maureen up front will give you a copy of the Yellow Brick Road’s schedule. Classes are broken down by age group. I’m sure you’ll find something that’s right for your nieces. We have classes in comedy, magic, voice, movement, acting for television…If you have any questions, we can talk more at rehearsal tonight.”

  Definitely comedy for Max, I thought, getting caught up in the charade. He’s a natural clown. As for Lou, he’s so gawky he could probably benefit from a movement workshop.

  I had to remind myself that as much as I loved them, they were dogs, not children. And that I hadn’t really come to the Yellow Brick Road to enroll my Westie and my Dalmatian in theater classes.

  I’d come because Lacey Croft had seemed like such an obvious suspect. Not only was one of Simon’s closest friends convinced she was guilty; she’d found the body and called the police.

  Now I’d learned there was a third reason she deserved a prominent place on my list of possible killers. Simon, Aziza, and Lacey had been caught up in a love triangle, and neither woman had been ready to let go. And as even amateur sleuths know, since the beginning of time that’s been a very strong motive for murder.

  Chapter 7

  “A kitten is chiefly remarkable for rushing about like mad at nothing whatever, and generally stopping before it gets there.”

  —Agnes Repplier

  I spent the rest of the morning zigzagging around Long Island, making house calls. I often brought Max and Lou with me, but the last thing I wanted was to get railroaded into taking Mitzi-Bitzi along too. I was afraid Dorothy would decide that her beastly Maltese felt left out, especially since she couldn’t very well bring Mitzi while she and Henry went sightseeing. Even she realized that her surrogate daughter wasn’t likely to be allowed in museums, restaurants, or other establishments that had health codes to adhere to. Since Mitzi and my menagerie would be spending the day together, just to be safe I’d arranged for Betty to stop in at the cottage from time to time to make sure that no fur was flying—literally.

  I was particularly anxious about my eleven-fifteen appointment in Metchogue. Grace Washington, a dignified octogenarian with the demeanor of a queen, was a favorite client of mine. She had been understandably traumatized when her sweet eight-year-old Lhasa Apso’s back legs became paralyzed a few weeks earlier.

  I’d discovered that poor Sugar had intervertebral disk disease, which had resulted in a ruptu
red disk. The ailment is common with the breed, as well as with French bulldogs, basset hounds, Welsh corgis, and several others. The first step, a course of corticosteroids, hadn’t been successful in reducing the inflammation. So two weeks earlier I’d surgically removed what was left of the disk from Sugar’s spinal cord. It was time to see if his body had taken over, filling in the area with scar tissue and enabling him to walk again.

  Mrs. Washington was peering out her living room window when I drove up to her house. Even before I’d parked, she rushed out the front door with Sugar in her arms.

  “Dr. Popper, you’re right on time.” She greeted me with a nervous smile as I climbed out of the van. “I’ve been waiting for you all morning. I’m so anxious to hear how you think Sugar is doing.”

  “Bring him inside and we’ll find out.”

  As I expected, she insisted on carrying Sugar up the steps herself. Even though my van is only twenty-six feet long, it houses an entire clinic: examining table, cabinets stocked with medications and supplies, and, thanks to a generator, running water, heat, and air-conditioning. I sometimes arrange to borrow another veterinarian’s surgery room, and I often use an outside lab for testing. Other than that, I have everything I need to treat animals right here.

  “When is Sugar going to walk?” she asked apprehensively as I gently lifted her dog onto the examining table. As usual, she was wearing a dress, stockings, and a pair of pumps with a low heel, and a long string of pearls hung around her neck. Her salt-and-pepper hair was neatly sculpted into a short pageboy.

  “I know you’re worried, Mrs. Washington,” I replied. “But as I’ve said, his recovery will probably take six to eight weeks. Let me take a look and see how’s he doing.”

  I stroked my patient’s soft gray and white ears, noticing how closely his coloring matched his owner’s. He wagged his tail, meanwhile gazing up at me uncertainly with his big brown eyes. “Hey, Sugar, how’s my boy? Have you been trying to walk?”

  “He certainly has,” Grace answered, sounding like a proud mom. “Stand up, sweetie. Show Dr. Popper how well you’re doing.”

  “Has he recovered his ability to urinate?” I asked.

  “Yes, he has. I don’t have to massage his bladder anymore, the way you showed me.”

  “That’s good news.” I put my hand under Sugar’s paw and was encouraged when I felt him push against me.

  Grace toyed with her reading glasses. “What should I be doing to help him?”

  “Put him on the floor, pull him to his feet, and help him stand there. That will help Sugar start walking again by strengthening the muscles in his legs and back. Can you sit on the floor with him? Or kneel?”

  “Not with my back.” Grace thought for a few seconds. “But I have a low bench. I can use that to sit with him.”

  “That’s perfect. Put your hand on the side of his groin and let him move his legs. The more he moves them, the faster he’ll recover. And until he’s able to walk, he shouldn’t be allowed to pull himself down the stairs or climb on the couch, since his legs are still weak and we don’t want him to fall.

  “Mrs. Washington, Sugar will walk again,” I assured her. “He’s making excellent progress. Just give him some time.”

  I didn’t know which I found more rewarding: the fact that the gentle, even-tempered dog was on his way to recovery or the look of gratitude in his owner’s eyes.

  As I was about to head to my next appointment, I suddenly remembered that I had to call Patti Ardsley, the producer of the fifteen-minute television show I host every Friday morning. I always check in with her early in the week to tell her what topic I plan to talk about on the next show.

  “How are you going to wow our viewers this week, Dr. Popper?” she asked after the show’s production assistant, Marlene Fitzgerald, put me through. As usual, Patti exhibited all the energy and enthusiasm of a terrier who’d OD’d on caffeine.

  “I thought I’d do a segment on CPR for animals,” I replied, relieved that I’d finally come up with a topic. I got the idea from a television show I’d seen recently, a police drama in which a paramedic saved someone’s life. “It’s a skill that’s really helpful for pet owners to learn, but most people don’t even know it can be applied to animals.”

  “I like it,” Patti said. I could picture her nodding. “It’s unusual, but not too unusual. And we can do a great teaser. Something like, ‘CPR—for cats and dogs? Tune in to Pet People for breaking news in the medical field.’”

  “It’s not exactly breaking news,” I corrected her. Still, I’d learned enough about the world of television in the six or seven months I’d been doing this to know my pleas about sticking to reality were likely to fall on deaf ears.

  “Our audience is always interested in something new,” Patti noted.

  No use arguing, I thought. At least it’d be new to most of the viewers.

  “One more thing,” I added. “I’ll need a mannequin to demonstrate on.”

  “A mannequin?” Patti repeated.

  “A fake dog or cat,” I explained. “You know how life-size dummies are used for practice in regular CPR classes? I’ll need one to show how the technique is done. I can’t use a real dog or cat, since it would be next to impossible to demonstrate on a conscious animal.”

  “Got it,” Patti said crisply. “Fake dog or cat. That shouldn’t be too difficult. I’ll put Marlene on it right away.”

  As I hung up the phone, I wondered if I’d been explicit enough in defining exactly what I needed. But at the moment I had too many other things on my mind to worry about it—like my next house call, during which I’d have to share some very discouraging test results with a cat owner. Even after all my years as a vet, that still took an emotional toll.

  I finally took a break around noon, when I stopped off at one of my favorite delis to grab a sandwich. I devoured it in the driver’s seat of my van, washing it down with a bottle of iced tea. Then I headed for my twelve-thirty appointment with another cohort of Simon Wainwright’s. I didn’t know whether to consider Kyle Carlson a suspect or merely a potential source of information. But I hoped that by the time I treated his dog, Monty, I’d have a better idea.

  Kyle lived in a ranch house with a fair-size yard in Melton, an undistinguished community known for its abundance of big box stores. From a distance, Kyle’s home looked like every other house on the block—which wasn’t surprising, since they had obviously all been built at the same time with the same blueprints.

  Still, most of the homeowners had found ways to distinguish their cookie-cutter houses. One had hung a wreath made of dried flowers on the front door, while his next-door neighbor had recently painted the shutters bright blue. Another had added a porch with hanging plants and an old-fashioned swing. The houses looked lived-in, with a tricycle on the lawn or gardening tools left on the front steps that gave clues about their residents.

  Kyle’s house showed no such signs of homeyness. With its brown shingles, white shutters, and nondescript shrubs, I got the feeling it looked pretty much the way it had the day it was built. I suspected that Kyle lived here alone, without any females to add cozy touches or children to scatter their colorful toys around.

  I spotted a hole in the cyclone fence that surrounded the property, no doubt the one that was responsible for Monty’s gashes. Fortunately, it had been patched up with chicken wire.

  When I opened the car door, I heard loud barking, the kind that can only come from a large, chesty dog. Sure enough, a sleek silver-gray Weimaraner that easily weighed eighty pounds waited for me at the front door, watching me intently through the screen.

  “Quiet, Monty!” Kyle scolded as I got closer. Grabbing the dog’s collar, he added, “He won’t hurt you. As the old saying goes, his bark is worse than his bite.”

  “I’m usually pretty good with dogs,” I assured him, adding, “In this line of work, I’d better be.”

  The moment Kyle opened the door to let me in, Monty stopped barking. Instead, he wagged his tail fu
riously, skittering on the wooden floor and tripping over his own paws as he pranced around and jumped up on me. From the way he acted, you would have thought we were long-lost friends reunited.

  “You were right,” I said, laughing as I leaned over to scratch Monty’s ears. “He’s nothing but a big pussycat.”

  “Yeah, he is,” Kyle agreed.

  He pushed back his shaggy sand-colored hair and crouched down in front of Monty. He placed his hands on either side of the dog’s long, graceful neck, then pressed his human proboscis against Monty’s gray, wet, throbbing one so they were nose to nose and forehead to forehead.

  “Get over here, y’big goofus,” Kyle said, using a deep, throaty voice to address his beloved canine. And then he proceeded to emit a string of sounds that were somewhere between baby talk and the utterings of some otherwordly being. I did manage to make out several syllables that sounded like, “Goofus, moofus, woofus.” I wondered if these particular terms of endearment had been inspired by the elocution lessons from acting classes he’d taken.

  Still, I couldn’t help smiling. I’d noticed that most of my clients had a special voice they used only to communicate with their pets. In fact, a lot of them had developed their own vocabulary as well, using terms of endearment for their cat or dog or rabbit or gerbil that wouldn’t be found in any dictionary. Words like moofus and woofus, for example. It was possible that no other human being on earth had ever spoken them, yet Monty seemed to know exactly what they meant.

  Instead of being embarrassed that he’d been caught speaking a language that was comprehensible only to him and his dog, Kyle looked up at me and grinned. “He’s a great dog, isn’t he?” he asked.

  “He certainly is,” I agreed. Glancing around, I added, “And this is a terrific place you’ve got here.”

  Actually, the interior of Kyle’s house was similar to the exterior in that it had few homey touches aside from a bedraggled fern on the windowsill and a fairly worn recliner chair that looked as if someone loved it too much to part with it. Then again, the living room was so cluttered that it was difficult to focus on the actual decor. Papers and books were scattered everywhere, even in piles on the floor. A stack of DVDs as high as a floor lamp towered in one corner of the room.