Who's Kitten Who? (27 page)

I was more than ready to throw myself into my work, hoping that keeping busy would help me forget all about my mess of a social life. In fact, I was actually doing a decent job of getting myself into that mind-set when I heard a vehicle crunch into my driveway.

Glancing out the window, I saw that the white van that had pulled up in front of my cottage had the name
Flora’s Florals
hand-painted in lavender script on the side.

Calm down, I instructed myself, even as my heart went into overdrive. Maybe Betty sent flowers. Or Suzanne. Or even Winston.

At that point, I wasn’t willing to entertain the idea that Betty may have been right, that Nick already missed me and wanted to undo what he’d recently done.

I tried to keep my expectations in check as I flung open the front door and found a man who was barely out of his teens, dressed in jeans and a
Flora’s Florals
T-shirt, standing there. Yet when I saw the huge white box in his arms, all my resolve instantly vanished.

“Delivery for Jessica Popper,” he said. He actually sounded bored, as if even at his young age he’d already brought joy into people’s lives too many times.

“Thank you, thank you!” I cried, pressing a ten-dollar bill into his hand.

“Wow, thanks!” It was obviously a bigger tip than he was used to. So big that it actually managed to break through the boredom.

Excitedly I carried the box over to the table. Inside were two dozen long-stemmed red roses. Of course they were absolutely beautiful. But it wasn’t their appearance that was the point. It was the point that Nick had sent them.

I thrashed through the cloud of green tissue paper until I found the small white envelope I knew had to be in there somewhere. Sure enough, it was tucked between two of the spindly stems.

I felt like singing as I tore it open.

Then felt my heart turn to lead when I read the note inside.

As hard as I try, I can’t stop thinking about you
was scrawled across the card. Underneath, it was signed
Forrester.

I dropped the card, blinking away the stinging in my eyes. Through the tears that insisted on pushing their way through, I stared at the flowers, amazed at how quickly they’d lost their beauty.

When I heard a knock at the door, my first thought was that it was the guy from the florist, coming back to tell me there’d been a mistake. But it was Betty who popped her head in.

“As I was walking over just now, I couldn’t help noticing that a florist made a delivery here,” she said in a merry, singsong voice. “I was right about your little spat with Nick, wasn’t I? It turned out to be nothing more than a lovers’ quarrel.”

“I’m afraid not,” I told her, swiping at my damp eyes with the heels of my hands.

Her smile faded instantly. “What do you mean?”

“It wasn’t Nick who sent me flowers.”

“Who was it, then?”

I hesitated before ’fessing up. “Forrester Sloan.”

“That
Newsday
reporter?” She practically spat out the words.

“Yup.”

“Why is he sending you flowers?” she demanded.

“Probably because our date Saturday night went so poorly,” I replied. “He was the one who made the observation that I’m still too much in love with Nick to be good company for anyone else. I thought he’d given up on me.”

Betty frowned. “I’ve never heard of a man sending a woman flowers because he’d given up on her.”

She peered into the long, white box. “These should be in water,” she said. “Where do you keep your vases?”

“Will you do me a favor?” I asked. “Will you take them back to your house? I—I don’t particularly want them around.”

“Of course.” She didn’t even look surprised. “But before I go, I have some good news. Sharing it with you was actually my original reason for coming by.”

“I could use some good news,” I commented.

“Winston’s daughter has decided she doesn’t mind you being the maid of honor after all. Of course, Chloe being Chloe, there’s one condition: that I let her daughter be the flower girl.”

“That’s wonderful, Betty. I’m glad it worked out. Now you can stop worrying about Chloe and go back to planning your special day.” Surprisingly, it felt good to talk about somebody else’s love life. Especially one that was actually working out.

“Yes, and little Fiona is adorable. She’s six years old and guaranteed to upstage the bride.”

I laughed.

“It’s good to hear you laughing,” Betty said. Her voice growing serious, she added, “Jessica, are you going to be all right?”

“Of course,” I told her. “I’m fine.”

And then I forced a smile, proving to myself that I was a much better actress than I thought.

I was about to climb into my van and head off to my first appointment of the day when my cell phone trilled. Glancing at the caller-ID screen, I saw that someone from Channel 14 was calling.

Great, I thought, bracing myself for the strong possibility that a day that had started out badly was about to get even worse. The station has probably been getting calls from the Garfield Anti-Defamation League. Or else the celebrity cat’s stable of lawyers.

I was relieved that Marlene Fitzgerald,
Pet People
’s production assistant, sounded like her usual cheerful self.

“Sorry to bother you, Jessie,” she chirped, “but somebody left you a message on the station’s voicemail system last night. Want me to read it to you?”

“That would be good,” I replied.

“It says,
Please tell Jessica Popper to come to Theater One at one o’clock Tuesday afternoon. I have some important things to go over.
”

“Who’s it from?” I asked, jotting
Theater One today @ 1:00
on the first scrap of paper I could find.

“The caller didn’t leave a name. Or at least the receptionist didn’t write it down.”

It had to be either Derek or Jill, I thought. “Was it a man or a woman?”

“I don’t know that either. Sorry.”

“It’s not important,” I assured her, wondering when corporate message-taking had gotten so lax. Maybe it was an outgrowth of dress-down Friday. “By the way, while I’ve got you on the phone, I might as well run my idea for this week’s show by you. I thought I’d talk about breaking dogs and cats of bad habits…”

Fortunately, my midday appointments were all in the area, making it possible for me to squeeze in a last-minute rehearsal. Still, I was surprised at the short notice. And I wondered why Derek or Jill or whoever had contacted me from the Port Players hadn’t called me on my cell phone.

As I pulled out of the gravel driveway, I told myself there could be a dozen different explanations. Besides, I wasn’t about to start asking questions.
She’s Flying High
was opening in only three more days, and I knew I needed all the help I could get before the curtain went up and I found myself standing on the stage, gazing out at a real, live audience.

Chapter 15

“Curiosity killed the cat, but for a while I was a suspect.”

—Steven Wright

O
nce again, work proved to be a welcome distraction from my messed-up love life. Apparently Sigmund Freud was right about the importance of love and work. But I wondered if the good doctor ever realized how good one could be at compensating for a lack of the other.

My Tuesday schedule included another follow-up with Kyle Carlson’s dog early that afternoon, which I saw as an opportunity to do a little more snooping. True, at that point, three women topped my list of suspects. Aziza currently held the number one spot, thanks to Derek’s claim that Simon had intended to break up with her—and that she was likely to react badly. Gloria was a close second, since I now knew she had been more than anxious to get Simon out of the way so that a well-known actor could play the male lead in the Broadway production of
She’s Flying High.
And while the more I talked to Lacey, the less convinced I was that she was capable of murder, she
was
Simon’s ex, and it was clearly a role she was having difficulty accepting.

But I hadn’t ruled out the possibility that on the night Simon was killed, a man had arrived at the theater sometime after Simon’s argument with a woman and committed the heinous act. And even though Kyle and Ian had provided each other with an alibi, I still believed one of them could have been the murderer.

As I neared the front door of their house, I could hear Monty inside, barking. With a doorbell like that, it wasn’t surprising that his master had already opened the door by the time I reached the front steps.

“You’re right on time,” Kyle greeted me, smiling. “Come on in.”

Monty seemed equally pleased to see me. Just like both of the other times I’d come by, he gave me a hero’s welcome, wagging his entire butt and sliding around on the wooden floor like an ice skater gone out of control. When I crouched down to return his greeting, the muscular Weimaraner lunged forward to lick my face and sent me sprawling onto the floor.

“Not my most dignified moment,” I said, laughing. “Guess I should have seen that coming.”

Kyle grinned. “Believe me, Monty’s decked people a lot bigger and stronger than you,” he said proudly. “That’s ’cause he’s such a friendly guy.”

He knelt down on the floor. “You’re a really friendly guy, aren’t you, Monty?” he said in the same playful voice he’d used to communicate with his favorite canine the first time I’d seen the two of them together. “You’re nothing but a big goofus, right? That’s right, a big goofus. You’re my favorite woofus, foofus, soofus…”

The heartwarming interaction between a boy and his dog was a real Hallmark moment, even though the boy in question had said good-bye to thirty long before. “Monty may look big and tough,” I observed, “but you’re right: He’s an absolute teddy bear.”

When the two of them had finally finished bonding, Kyle stood up and brushed at his shirt and pants. Looking a little sheepish, he said, “Sorry about that. I know I get a little carried away. It’s just that I’m crazy about the guy, y’know?”

“Most animal owners feel the exact same way,” I said. “In fact, I don’t know where we’d be without our pets.”

“Speaking of which,” he said, “let’s make sure this guy is on the mend. I’m actually on my lunch break right now, so I don’t have much time before I have to get back to work.”

“Ian’s not here?” I asked casually, glancing around the tiny house.

He shook his head. “He had an appointment with a client. By the way, thanks for coming by to check on Monty the other day, even though I wasn’t home.”

“No problem,” I assured him. “It was a stroke of luck that Ian was here to fill in. I was glad it worked out.” I looked down at Monty. “And I can see even from here that he’s doing well.”

Crouching beside Monty, I examined the two gashes on his right thigh. The fact that there was plenty of healthy pink granulation tissue was a sign that both wounds were healing nicely.

“He looks great,” I told Kyle. “Just keep up with the same routine, and he’ll be one hundred percent again in no time. In fact, there’s no need to keep him housebound anymore. I’m sure the big guy would much rather be outside, running around. Just keep away from those squirrels, okay, Monty?”

“What a relief,” Kyle said. “How much do I owe you for the follow-up?”

“Nothing,” I told him. Realizing I’d just run out of reasons to linger, I added, “But I could use something cold to drink. Even a glass of water would be fine.”

“I’ve got some bottled water in the fridge.”

He led me into the kitchen at the back of house. It turned out to be surprisingly neat for a bachelors’ pad. Then again, maybe Kyle and his roommate preferred takeout to home cooking. I leaned against the counter, making a few notes in his dog’s chart as he poured me a glass of water.

“Here you go, Dr. Popper,” he said, handing it to me.

“Thanks—and please call me Jessie,” I corrected him.

“At the theater, it’s Jessie. When you’re treating Monty, it’s Dr. Popper.” He frowned. “Speaking of the theater, do you happen to know if the police have made any progress with the investigation? Have they got any new leads or suspects?”

“Not that I’ve heard,” I replied.

Dropping into a chair tiredly, he said, “That’s what I thought. I’ve been following the articles in
Newsday,
and the cops don’t exactly seem to be knocking themselves out trying to solve this thing.”

He shook his head. “I can’t believe how dense they are,” he said, his tone bitter. “I mean, could it be any more obvious that Lacey’s the one who killed Simon? Why don’t they just arrest her? What are they waiting for?”

So Kyle was still convinced that Lacey had murdered Simon. His words from the first time we’d spoken at that Monday night rehearsal echoed through my head.
There was a lot going on between those two,
he’d said about Simon and Lacey.
Believe me, I know. Simon gave me an earful, especially over the last couple of weeks. That woman is not stable.

It had been the first time I’d heard Lacey characterized that way. The second time had been during my conversation with Aziza. But of course she was also a suspect, which made me question anything she said.

“Kyle,” I asked hesitantly, sitting down opposite him at the kitchen table, “you mentioned that Lacey was acting strange the last few weeks before Simon was murdered. What exactly did you mean by that?”

He looked surprised. “I guess you’d have to know her to see that she was going off the deep end. She just couldn’t accept the fact that Simon had dumped her.”

“I’ve heard the same thing from other people.” I chose my words carefully, not wanting to give out any clues about who I’d been speaking with. “I don’t know Lacey very well, but it’s hard for me to imagine her stalking Simon.”

“But that’s exactly what she did!”

“So you knew about that?”

“Of course. Simon told me all about it.” Narrowing his eyes slightly, he asked, “How did
you
know?”

I did some fast thinking. “From Betty,” I replied. “Aziza told her all about them, and after Simon was killed, Betty mentioned them to me. Kyle, did you actually see any of the letters Lacey wrote to Simon?”

He was silent for what seemed like a very long time. “This is kind of hard to admit,” he finally said, picking up the salt shaker sitting in the middle of the table and fiddling with it. “Simon never actually showed them to me, but I managed to see some of them anyway.”

I stared at him, not comprehending his meaning.

“Let’s just say I did a little spying,” he finally explained. “I’m not proud of it, but I couldn’t help being curious. I guess I was disturbed by the fact that Simon didn’t seem to take any of it very seriously. I was hoping to get a sense of exactly how far gone Lacey really was. I wanted to find out if she was sending him teary letters pleading with him to take her back or something more onerous.

“So once, when he was over here a couple of weeks ago and was busy with Ian, looking at some computer thing, I took advantage of the opportunity to go into his backpack. He’d left it lying on the floor with some of the pockets unzipped, and I could see he’d stashed some papers inside. There were a few envelopes sticking out that could have only been letters.” Kyle swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down along his neck. “So I read them.”

“And they turned out to be from Lacey?” I asked. I tried to sound matter-of-fact. The last thing I wanted was to sound judgmental about his method of investigation.

He nodded. “They were pretty creepy, for lack of a more descriptive word.”

I tried to hide my excitement over having Aziza’s story corroborated. “I understand some of them even said things like,
I’d rather see you dead than with her.
”

“That sounds about right,” Kyle agreed. “I don’t remember exactly how they were worded, but I’m pretty sure it was something like that. You know, I wasn’t even that surprised. Like I told you, I already knew she was unstable.”

“It certainly sounds like she was having a hard time coming to grips with the breakup,” I noted.

Kyle sighed. “What I didn’t get was that Simon didn’t seem to understand how serious all this was. I could see that Lacey was dangerous, but like I said, Simon refused to believe me.”

“Did you suggest that he go to the police?” I asked.

“Of course I did. Ian thought that was what Simon should do too. I remember the three of us sitting around this very table late into the night, with me and Ian working on Simon. We kept trying to convince him to take action. But he was such a nice guy he couldn’t imagine anyone having even an ounce of evil in them. Especially someone he used to care about.”

His voice broke as he added, “Unfortunately, he had to find out the hard way.”

As I said good-bye to Kyle and fondled Monty’s smooth silver-gray ears one last time, I was as convinced as Kyle was that Lacey had killed Simon Wainwright. It was hard not to be, when I just heard him verify what Aziza had told me about Lacey stalking Simon in the weeks that preceded his murder.

And if Derek had been telling the truth—if Simon really had broken up with Aziza in his last days—Lacey wouldn’t necessarily have known about it. Besides, just because Simon’s relationship with Aziza was over, that didn’t mean he had a place in his life for Lacey again. Lacey being the killer made perfect sense.

But as I climbed into my van, a thought that had been nagging at me from somewhere in the back of my mind stubbornly pushed its way to the surface.

Had Kyle really verified Aziza’s claim that Lacey was stalking Simon? I wondered. Or had I completely misread what just transpired between him and me?

Sitting in the driver’s seat, I struggled to reconstruct our conversation. As I replayed it in my head, I tried to figure out whether Kyle had actually volunteered any information about Lacey and the letters she’d purportedly sent Simon—or if he’d simply agreed with what I’d told him, then proceeded to embellish. I was frustrated over my inability to recall every single word that I’d said and every word he’d said.

One thing he’d said stood out in my mind: his story about peeking into Simon’s backpack and reading his mail, stumbling upon a letter that happened to fit the description of the letter I was talking about exactly. At the time it had certainly sounded convincing.

Then again, Kyle was trained as an actor.

The problem was that almost everybody I was dealing with who’d had anything to do with Simon Wainwright had a background in the theater. And given his circle of acquaintances’ dedication to mastering the art of deception, how was I supposed to know who I could believe?

All the world’s a stage,
William Shakespeare said. Yet it wasn’t until the past couple of weeks that I’d come to realize just how right he was.

Even though I did my darnedest to get to Theater One on time, it was ten minutes after one by the time I pulled my van into the parking lot. I hurried inside, knowing that Derek hated his cast members to be late, even though in this particular instance he’d given me ridiculously short notice.

The outer doors of the theater were unlocked, as they usually were during the day. I passed through the lobby, expecting to find Derek or Jill sitting in the front row or onstage, waiting for me—I hoped not too impatiently. Instead, the theater was dark except for the dim light that filtered through the open doors that led to the lobby. I patted the wall just inside the entrance, looking for a switch. No luck. The glowing exit signs helped, but not much.

That’s strange, I thought, wondering if somehow I’d gotten the time wrong. Frowning, I checked my watch again. But it was too dark to see.

I slid one hand along the edges of the seats as I gingerly made my way up the aisle in the semidarkness. I exercised the same wariness as I climbed the stairs to the stage.

No signs of life here either.

I poked my head into the wings, figuring that was the next most likely place to find whoever was expecting me. It was dark there too.

I’d just returned to the stage when I heard a creak that sounded like a footstep on an old wooden floor.