Dead Canaries Don't Sing (15 page)

“Did you find out anything about those names I gave you?” I asked eagerly.

“A few turned out to be registered dog owners. Why don’t I just E-mail all the information?”

“Perfect. And thanks, Vanda. You are such a doll.”

“Forget that. Tell me what’s going on with you and Nick.”

Et tu,
Vanda? I was tempted to cry. Maybe I was the victim of a statewide conspiracy, designed to throw me into the arms of one Nick Burby. Not that I could blame her for asking. Nick had been the subject of so many E-mails and phone calls that I suspected he was one topic of conversation I’d never be rid of.

“No news on that front,” I told her firmly. “At this point, he and I are just good friends. We talk now and then. That’s it.”

Up in Albany, Vanda sighed. “It’s your decision, Jess. But I can’t imagine him not being an important part of your life anymore.”

I hung up the phone and logged on to my computer, determined to concentrate on the information Vanda had gotten for me instead of on her well-meaning advice concerning my lack of a love life. As Cat leaped into my lap for her usual ear scratching, I scanned the list of new E-mail messages. Sure enough, there was an E-mail from Vanda.

“Yes!” I breathed after clicking on it. The phone numbers and registration details that she’d sent were exactly what I needed.

I clicked “Print,” meanwhile studying the names and phone numbers on the screen. As I did, I remembered an idea that had popped into my mind once or twice in the past couple of days. Something about abandoning the investigation, some wild ruminations about Just Saying No to snooping around.

What could I have been thinking?

Still carrying Cat, I snatched the list out of the printer and headed straight for the coffeepot. My head spun as I worked out a strategy. I now had a whole list of people to question, each of whom could be considered a prime suspect in Tommee Frack’s murder.

And I already knew who headed the list.

A dozen butterflies played tag in my stomach on Tuesday afternoon as I veered off Old Oaks Road and onto the street that led to Barbara Delmonico’s home. I’ve never been very good at telling even white lies, and up until this point, I hadn’t had to. True, I’d allowed Merrilee to assume that I’d taken care of her ex-husband’s Dobermans, but that was as far as my need for deception had gone.

I’d felt the same nervousness the day before when I first called Barbara.

“Ms. Delmonico?” I began. “My name is Jessica Popper. I’m a veterinarian based in Joshua’s Hollow.”

At least that much was true. But as I muddled through the next part, I was certain I could feel my nose growing longer.

“A client of mine owns two female Tibetan Terriers. She’s interested in breeding them, and she asked me to help her find a possible stud here on the island. I understand you own a male with quite an impressive pedigree . . . Karma Kai Li of Shangri-La Kennels?”

“Oh, yes,” Barbara replied enthusiastically. “Karma is a beautiful animal. He’s registered with the American Kennel Club and the Tibetan Terrier Club of America.”

“Would you consider breeding him?”

“Certainly! I mean, I owe it to all the other people who love the breed the way I do. Karma is exceptional. Everybody tells me so.”

As I’d suspected, the way to get to this woman was through her designer dog. But pulling off a charade like that over the phone was one thing. Now, it was time to try it out in person.

Barbara’s condominium complex, Edwardian Estates, was a community of luxury town houses designed for the discriminating resident. I knew that because the sign out front told me so. As I drove up to the guard whose job it was to decide who was permitted to enter the gated community, I realized that every one of the dozen or so buildings was identical. They were all outfitted with gabled roofs, oval windows, and other architectural details I’d always associated with the Victorians, rather than the Edwardians.

Somehow, the overall effect reminded me of Disneyland. Everything was too perfect, giving the impression the place was trying just a little too hard. Even the bushes were precisely manicured, as if renegade branches that took it upon themselves to grow faster than the others would not be tolerated here.

Barbara answered the door seconds after I rang the bell.

“Ms. Delmonico?” I said, acting as if I’d never seen her before. “I’m Dr. Popper.”

“Come in,” she insisted, holding open the door. I was immediately surrounded by a cloud of pungent perfume. “Thank you so much for coming to the house. It’s so much more convenient than bringing Karma to your office.”

“There’s my office, right there.” I pointed to my van, parked in the visitors section between a Jaguar and a Lexus. I figured it lent legitimacy to my visit.

Up close, I could see she was a bit older than I’d assumed she was the first time I’d seen her, when she’d made her dramatic entrance at Tommee’s funeral. The tiny wrinkles around her eyes added at least a decade to my original estimate of her age.

Barbara gestured toward a sparsely furnished living room. “We can sit in here.”

She was dressed in black again, but this time she wore a sleek pantsuit. It looked expensive, even to someone like me, whose fashion sense doesn’t go very far beyond knowing not to wear chukka boots to a formal event. Her outfit would have been tasteful if it weren’t for the fact that the cream-colored silk blouse she wore with it was open far enough to display a fascinating amount of cleavage. The edge of a lacy crimson bra was also exposed.

Then there were her shoes, four-inch platforms fastened to her feet with rhinestone straps. These were bare enough to reveal three toe rings, as well as part of an ankle tattoo.

“I made us some Deejarling,” she said.

I thought I’d misunderstood what she’d said because of the chewing gum in her mouth. Then I realized she was simply mispronouncing “Darjeeling.”

“Tea sounds lovely.”

“I’ll see if the water’s boiling.”

I watched her disappear into the kitchen. As I debated whether there was enough time to start ransacking drawers and peering under furniture, she stuck her head out of the doorway.

“I forgot to aks you. Do you take lemon or sugar?”

Aks
. Her mispronunciation made my ears prick up like Max’s when he hears the crinkle of cellophane packaging.

“Sugar, thanks.”

She returned moments later, carrying a tray with a silver teapot and two dainty china cups. As she poured, I asked, “How did you get interested in Tibetan Terriers, Ms. Delmonico? It’s a fairly rare breed.”

“I know.” She smiled broadly, as if pleased that I’d understood that that was the whole point. “I read about them in a magazine.
Town & Country,
I think. Or maybe
The New Yorker
. I’ve always been a dog lover. My family had dogs while I was growing up.”

“Did you grow up on Long Island?”

“Connecticut.”

“Really? Where?”

I was just making conversation, but her smile flickered, as if the question unnerved her.

“Uh, northern Connecticut. The New England part. I went to a very prestigious girls’ boarding school up there.”

She reached into her mouth, removed a wad of gray gum, and stuck it on the Limoges saucer.

I was tempted to ask if that was something she’d learned at boarding school. Instead, I said, “How did you end up on Long Island?”

“I moved to the New York area after I went to college. That was also in New England.”

“Oh, really? What school?”

“Vassar.”

My eyebrows shot up. I immediately pulled them back into place.

“After graduation, I moved to Manhattan to become a stockbroker. My parents were terribly disappointed, of course. I mean, my father is a surgeon and my mother’s a radiologist, and they expected me to follow in their footsteps. But I preferred the world of finance. Anyways, when I lived in the city, I spent most of my weekends out in the Hamptons, so I finally decided it was time to move out here.”

There were so many things here that weren’t adding up that I wished I’d brought along a calculator. I was reminded of that children’s game, “What’s wrong with this picture?” The fact that Vassar was located in Poughkeepsie, New York, not even close to New England, was just the beginning. There was also her claim that both her parents were doctors. It didn’t jibe with the way she mangled the English language, not to mention her table manners.

Then there was the idea that someone who spent weekends in the ultraposh Hamptons, rubbing elbows with the rich and famous on Long Island’s chic East End, would consider a suburban condo complex straight out of Fantasyland the next best thing.

I wished I’d brought along my notebook. I didn’t want to forget a single detail.

“But here I am, chatting away and wasting your time when you really came to look at Karma.” Barbara stood up. “I’ll get him.”

Once again, I was dying to poke around. But I could hear her in the kitchen, opening the door of a metal cage.

Oddly enough, that was the only sound I heard. Most pet owners can’t resist talking to their animals. I’ve witnessed many long, one-sided conversations between owners and their pets, everything from gerbils to tropical fish. But Barbara didn’t offer so much as a, “There you go, boy.”

“This is him,” she announced.

She didn’t have to. The bundle of fur that came bounding out of the kitchen was impossible to miss.

Karma really was a beautiful example of the breed, which looks like a smaller version of a sheepdog. He shot right over to me, jumping up and placing his oversized paws on my knees, then delivering endless dog kisses to my nose and cheeks as he gazed up at me with dark, liquid eyes fringed with remarkably long eyelashes. I knew those lashes were no accident. They’re the breed’s best bet for keeping their hair out of their eyes. Nevertheless, they made it impossible not to fall in love with him immediately.

“Well, look at you! Aren’t you a beauty?” I greeted him. I ran my fingers through his soft black and white fur, giving him a hard scratching. He twisted his body ecstatically in response, clearly craving more. “Hey, Karma! How’s my boy?

“He’s absolutely gorgeous,” I told Barbara sincerely as Karma plopped down at my feet.

She beamed like a proud parent. “You know, they were originally bred by Tibetan monks in the Himalayas. And here’s something else that’s interesting: they’re not actually terriers. But in England, where they were first introduced to the Western world, they were classified as terriers because of their size.”

Barbara Delmonico had clearly done her home-work.

“He must be kind of high-maintenance, though.” I could feel how thick his fur was as I continued scratching him, this time concentrating on his neck.

“I brush him all the time,” Barbara told me earnestly. “I guess you know they have two coats, a soft one underneath and a thick one on top. But it’s worth it. You wouldn’t believe how many people stop me to tell me how gorgeous he is. And most people have never even heard of the breed. I really get a kick out of telling people about his background. It makes him . . . special.”

“They can be shy, you know.”

“Not Karma. He’s extremely friendly.” She sounded oddly defensive.

“And there are some other problems that are inherent in the breed. Genetic diseases, like hip dysplasia, a couple of eye diseases . . . that’s why my client wants to be careful about finding the right mate.” As do we all, I thought. “Would it be possible to see Karma’s medical records?”

“They’re right upstairs. Make yourself comfortable and I’ll go get them.”

I seized advantage of her absence to sneak a closer look at my surroundings. Karma looked on woefully as I roamed around, clearly distressed over having lost his expert scratcher. The few pieces of furniture, as well as the decorative touches, were all of the highest quality. I turned over a decorative blue bowl to confirm that it was Wedgwood. The crystal vase on the mantlepiece was Baccarat.

Even if I hadn’t been casing the joint, I wouldn’t have missed the only personal item in the room. The photograph of Barbara and Tommee, she in a clingy black evening gown and he in a tux, was prominently displayed in an elaborate frame. I recognized it from the Tiffany catalog I regularly received in the mail, proof that American business doesn’t really know as much about each individual’s buying habits as they claim.

I hastily put the photograph back when I heard Barbara coming down the stairs.

“Here are the medical records. As you can see, Karma has gotten the best care possible. He’s had all his shots and he’s never been sick. I never feed him from the table. He gets Science Diet.”

I studied the bills, each one spelling out exactly what treatment Karma had received and when. But I was less interested in the thoroughness of Barbara’s record-keeping and her pet-care habits than I was in the name of her veterinarian.

Marcus Scruggs, D.V.M.

Not exactly my favorite person in the world, but someone who might be able to supply me with useful information about the woman who’d so very nearly become Tommee Frack’s trophy wife.

“Would you mind if I gave Dr. Scruggs a call?” I asked casually.

“Of course not. Aks him whatever you want. I’m sure he’ll have only good things to say about Karma.”

As I stood up to leave, Barbara grabbed Karma’s collar. Now that his usefulness had been exhausted, I suspected he’d be put back in his cage. For a fraction of a second, I entertained the fantasy of kidnapping him and bringing him home with me. Surely Max and Lou could adapt to a new brother, teaching him the intricacies of Slimytoy and the ten best ways to irritate Cat.

Barbara’s firm grip on his collar and her stern command—“Sit, Karma!”—snapped me back to reality. Instead, I took advantage of my final moments with her to pretend to notice the photograph in its silver frame for the first time.

“What a nice picture. Is that your husband?”

She froze. For a fraction of second, a peculiar look crossed her face. If I hadn’t known better, I’d have interpreted it as distaste.