Who's Kitten Who? (15 page)

“Where were you standing when you heard the altercation?” I asked.

“Right here.” Sunny took a step sideways, then stood up straight as a soldier once she got into position. “I remember exactly where I was, because I was struggling to get this stupid lipstick stain off.” Frowning, she leaned forward and ran her finger over the mirror. “Look, you can still see a smudge.”

“And you heard the argument through here?” I pointed at the wall behind the mirror she was still scrutinizing.

“Yup. I guess these walls aren’t that thick. Besides, Simon and whoever else was in there were both pretty loud.”

“But you didn’t hear what they were saying.”

“Nope. As soon as I realized a fight was going on, I drowned it out with my music.” With a shrug, she added, “I come here to clean, not eavesdrop. I figured I’d give them some privacy, since they seemed to think they were the alone in the theater.”

No doubt, I thought.

“Can you also show me the spot where the police found Simon’s body?” I asked.

“Sure. It’s right next door, in the men’s dressing room.”

The other dressing room was almost identical to the first. But they were mirror images of each other.

“This is it,” Sunny said ruefully. “The room where the argument took place and the room where Simon was killed. From what I understand, the trunk his body was found in was right about here.” With both hands, she indicated an area toward the back of the small room, near the counter. “Of course, the police took it with them as evidence. But it had been sitting in this corner for a long time. Certainly as long as I’ve been working here, which is, like, seven or eight months.”

We were both silent for a few moments, as if each of us was contemplating the awful event that had transpired right in this spot just a few days earlier. I had hoped that finally visiting the scene of the crime would provide me with some insights I wouldn’t have had otherwise. Instead, being here just made me feel sad.

“Simon was really a nice guy,” Sunny finally said, speaking with a kind of reverence. “I know everybody’s talking about how great he was, now that he’s dead. But that always happens when someone dies. Simon
was
pretty great, though. He had a terrific smile, and he never walked by me without saying something friendly. He had a way of making me feel like I mattered—”

Suddenly she gasped. “Oh, my gosh. What time is it?”

I glanced at my watch. “A few minutes past noon.”

“I gotta get busy. I just took on a new cleaning job at a law office. I’m supposed to meet with them at three to find out exactly what they want me to do.”

When we returned to the stage, where Sunny had left her broom, she turned to me and said, “Hey, have you got a business card?”

“Sure.” When I handed her one, she studied it. “Wow.
Jessica Popper, DVM.
It must be so cool to see your name like that. With those letters after it, I mean. It makes you seem really important, y’know?”

“The main thing is that those letters mean I can do a job I really enjoy.”

“You’re so lucky,” she said wistfully.

“I guess I am,” I agreed. “Anyway, thanks for the tour. And thanks for sharing your theory about the murder weapon with me.”

“No problem. Think about my offer, okay?” she called after me as I headed down the aisle. “If you ever need help, I’m your girl.”

“I’ll keep that thought in mind,” I told her.

And I did file it away, just as I’d promised. Even if it was way in back.

Chapter 9

“No animal should ever jump up on the dining-room furniture unless absolutely certain that he can hold his own in the conversation.”

—Fran Lebowitz

A
s I left the theater, I checked my schedule and saw I had some time before my next appointment. I decided to use it to pay Kyle another visit.

Making a second house call so soon after the first was only partly legitimate. True, it wasn’t a bad idea to check up on Monty and see how the Weimaraner’s wounds were healing. But my real purpose was trying to pump a little more information out of his owner. I’d been interested in his claim that Lacey was the guilty party ever since I’d first heard him voice his opinion. Now that I knew Sunny had overheard Simon arguing with a woman Friday night, I was anxious to find out more about the status of Lacey’s relationship with Simon at the time he was killed.

I decided to call first to make sure he was home. After pulling into the first parking lot I spotted, outside a supermarket, I punched Kyle’s number into my cell phone. I was greeted by the usual “Hello?” at the other end of the line.

“Hello, Kyle?” I said. “This is Jessie Popper. I’m close to your house, and I thought I’d stop by to see how Monty is doing, if this is a convenient time.”

“Sorry, Kyle’s not here right now.” It was only then I realized the man I was speaking to had a British accent. After a pause, he added, “This is his roommate, Ian.

“But if you’d like to check on Monty,” he continued, “you’re welcome to come over. I’m sure Kyle wouldn’t mind. In fact, he’d probably be grateful that you’re taking such good care of that beloved beast of his.”

“Great. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

I was mildly disappointed that I wouldn’t have a second chance to pump Kyle for information. But the opportunity to meet his roommate was at least as valuable. While Ian Norman wasn’t part of the theater world in which Simon traveled these days, I was still curious about just how “friendly” this trio of college buddies was—and whether the intrigues within their little group could have driven either Kyle or Ian to murder.

I’d barely pulled up in front of the tiny brown house when the door opened. A man in his thirties stood in the doorway. He was dressed in very dark jeans that looked crisp and new. The same went for his navy blue sweatshirt with
Massachusetts Institute of Technology
emblazoned across the front in white letters. If that old saying about the clothes making the man was correct, then Kyle hadn’t been exaggerating when he’d described his roommate as a computer geek.

Yet the rest of his look didn’t quite fit the nerd template, as if he was trying not to succumb to it fully. Underneath his baseball cap, he had curly hair with a reddish tinge that made him look like a throwback to the 1960s. His scraggly beard, also reddish-brown, was sorely in need of a trim, which went even further in giving him the look of an aging Flower Child. Then there were his wire-rimmed glasses. They weren’t at all the type of spectacles favored by the computer nerds I’d encountered.

“Dr. Popper, I presume,” Ian said, his dark eyes peering at me through his thick lenses as I neared the door.

“That’s me,” I replied. Smiling, I added, “For some reason, that big old van parked outside always gives me away.”

“It does, rather, doesn’t it?” he replied, chuckling. “I’m Ian Norman. Ian Michael Norman, if you want the complete introduction.”

“Nice to meet you, Ian,” I said, shaking his hand. “Especially since I’ve already heard so much about you.”

“Oh, dear,” he said, sighing. “Now I have to worry about what Kyle’s been saying about me.”

“Nothing but good things, I assure you.”

“That’s a relief. But, goodness, I’m certainly not being much of a host, am I? Please, come inside.” As he opened the door, he added, “And I should mention that Kyle has also told me wonderful things about you. Mainly that you’ve taken good care of Monty.”

I had to smile at his proper way of speaking. He reminded me of Winston, who epitomized the proper English gentleman. You couldn’t help expecting this man to suggest tea and crumpets—if not a tour of Buckingham Palace.

In fact, I found it absolutely charming. But my focus quickly shifted to Monty, who had raced over to greet me.

“Hey, Monty,” I said, crouching down and fondling his soft silver ears. “How’s my boy? How’s my fella?”

Glancing up at Ian, I asked, “Has Monty been staying inside? I told Kyle that was important to help his wounds heal.”

“Goodness, yes,” Ian replied. “The little devil’s been underfoot constantly.” Rolling his eyes, he added, “It’s been positively maddening.”

“But the best way to help the poor guy get better,” I commented. “I’m anxious to see how he’s coming along.”

“Maybe you’d like to take him into the kitchen to examine him,” Ian suggested.

“Normally I’d bring him into the van,” I said. “I’ve got an entire clinic in there. But for something like this, I can check him out right here.”

Still crouching beside the dog, I examined the wounds on his thigh. There was almost no pus, a sign that the infection was clearing.

“Monty looks great,” I told Ian. “But it might not be a bad idea for me to check on him again in a few days. In the meantime, please tell Kyle to continue giving him the antibiotic and to keep up with the warm compresses twice a day.”

“Will do,” Ian assured me. “Now, how about a cup of tea? Or do you have to run off?”

I generally don’t avail myself of my clients’ hospitality, largely because I simply don’t have the time. But Ian wasn’t just any client. He was the friend and roommate of one of the suspects in Simon Wainwright’s murder. He was also the person who’d provided Kyle’s alibi—and possibly a suspect himself.

“Tea would be great,” I told him.

“Why don’t you sit down?” he suggested. “I’ll just toddle into the kitchen for a moment to get things started.”

“Thanks.”

As Monty settled happily into a corner, I took advantage of being left alone to do a little snooping around the living room, something I hadn’t had a chance to do during my first visit. I started with the wooden bookshelf tucked away in the corner, next to what appeared to be a nonworking fireplace. Not surprisingly, many of the tattered paperbacks were plays. I spotted the works of Samuel Beckett, Anton Chekhov, Sam Shepard, Eugene O’Neill, Tennessee Williams, Tom Stoppard, Neil Simon, and, of course, William Shakespeare. I didn’t know much about acting, but I knew a comprehensive collection of the world’s greatest plays when I saw one.

The collection also included books about acting theory by such masters as Sanford Meisner, Uta Hagen, Konstantin Stanislavsky, and Stella Adler. Interspersed were books on computer programming, biology, and chemistry, including some textbooks I recognized from my own days as an undergraduate.

I took one down from the shelf. The name
Ian Norman
was scrawled on the inside cover.

“Caught me red-handed,” I quipped when Ian strode into the room, carrying a tray. “Sorry to be so nosy. I love books, and I can’t resist looking through every bookshelf I come across.”

“Be my guest,” Ian replied, setting the tray down on the table. “As long as you don’t mind all the dust. Neither Kyle nor I are particularly committed to housekeeping.”

“I figured these books belonged to Kyle, since they mostly seem to be about acting,” I observed. “But I noticed your signature inside this one.”

“Somehow Kyle’s books and my books have gotten all mixed up together,” he explained. “I’m not even sure which ones are mine anymore, especially since books seem to find me, like stray cats and dogs. And some of these are quite old, going all the way back to my college days.”

“Isn’t that where you and Kyle met?” I asked, returning the book to the place I’d found it.

He looked surprised. “Yes. How did you know?”

“I think Kyle mentioned it,” I said. “What about Simon Wainwright? Did you know him too?”

“Yes,” he replied. “We’d drifted apart in recent years, but I knew him well back in college.” His voice suddenly sounded strained. “I still saw him from time to time, once Kyle and I began sharing this house.”

“Did you take acting classes at Brookside too?”

For some reason, Ian seemed to react strangely to this question as well. “Oh, yes,” he answered. “That’s how Kyle and Simon and I met: studying acting as undergraduate students at Brookside University. We were in so many productions together—
Glengarry Glen Ross, Our Town, The Iceman Cometh, The Skin of Our Teeth
…In fact, we used to joke about being a modern-day version of the Three Musketeers. We even got really drunk one night and dubbed ourselves the ‘Three Musk-Actors.’” Smiling sheepishly, he added, “I guess that’s only funny after you’ve been doing tequila shots.”

Suddenly, the muscles in his face hardened. So did his voice as he concluded, “But all that was a long time ago. I eventually decided that the cutthroat world of theater wasn’t for me. I’m involved in computers now. Not only is that a much more practical way of making a living; the nature of my job also enables me to work from home.”

The topic of acting seems to be a bit of a sore point, I observed, filing that factoid away. Was it possible that Ian had been jealous of Kyle’s continued interest in the theater—maybe even because of his roommate’s strong attachment to Simon? I couldn’t help feeling that I’d stepped into a plot as intriguing as a long-running soap opera.

And Ian struck me as one of the more mysterious members of the soap opera’s cast. I was frustrated by my inability to put my finger on exactly how he fit into Simon’s world, and the rest of our conversation over tea yielded little more information. So I decided to check in with the one person who was mostly likely to know.

Even though it went against my better judgment.

“Falcone,” the Chief of Homicide barked when he picked up the phone. Five seconds of interacting with me and he already sounded impatient.

Frankly, I was surprised he’d even taken my call. When I’d been put on hold while the officer who answered checked to see if he was “available,” I expected to get the brush-off.

But now that I had his attention, I wasn’t about to let go of the opportunity to find out whatever I could. No matter how minimal it might turn out to be.

“Thanks for taking my call,” I began, figuring a little buttering up never hurt.

“You got five minutes, Dr. Popper,” he replied, as usual not bothering to pronounce the
r
at the end of my name.

Somewhere out there, I mused, there’s a tremendous warehouse filled with all the
R
s that people living in the New York area have discarded.

“That means
five,
” he repeated, “not six or seven or ten. And the clock’s already started ticking.”

Great, I thought. I’m trying to solve a murder, and instead I’m suddenly a contestant on a game show.

I dove right in. “You know how upset my dear friend Betty Vandervoort is about Simon Wainwright’s murder,” I began. “And naturally she finds the possibility that one of the Port Players may have killed him terrifying. You also know that, as a result, I’ve taken a real interest in the investigation.”

“You seem to do that quite often,” he commented.

I let that one pass.

“I’ve taken the liberty of speaking with a few people in the theater company,” I continued. “People who strike me as suspects. I’m sure most of them have also been a focus of your investigation.”

“We’re questioning a number of individuals who are of interest,” he retorted, sounding as if he was reading the stock phrase off an index card.

“I wanted to know what you think about Kyle Carlson and his roommate, Ian Norman.”

“Dr. Popper, surely you don’t think I’m going to discuss this case with you.”

Actually, I thought, I was hoping you’d do exactly that.

Aloud, I said, “What
about
Kyle? Do you consider him a suspect?”

“Kyle Carlson has an airtight alibi,” he replied, sounding almost smug. “His roommate, Ian Norman, swears Kyle was at home with him from Friday after work until Saturday morning, when they both heard the news from somebody in the theater company.”

“But how do you know Ian’s not just covering for Kyle?” I persisted. “After all, the two of them are obviously close friends. Why wouldn’t they lie for each other?”

“Look,” Falcone huffed, “we had both of them come into the station. Separately, of course. And they managed to convince us they were both telling the truth. They were consistent on even the smallest details.”

“You talked to Ian Norman yourself?”

“That’s right.”

“And you didn’t sense anything…strange about him?”

“Aside from his accent?” From the way Falcone sounded, I could tell there was a big smirk on his face. As if
he
was one to talk. “He seemed perfectly believable. By the way, according to my watch, you got about forty-five seconds left.”

“How about Lacey Croft?” I tried, talking faster than usual. “Did you know she was Simon’s jilted girlfriend?”

“We’re looking closely at the female suspects,” Falcone admitted begrudgingly, “based on what the cleaning lady told us about the argument she overheard.” Sourly, he added, “Speaking of Sunshine McGee, Forrester Sloan told me you may have had a conversation with her.”