Dead Canaries Don't Sing (21 page)

I also saw Leilani in her tank, the chameleon’s tiny feet curled gracefully around a branch as she stared at me with one eye. I looked away.

I cleared my throat. “Okay. This shouldn’t take too long. Up to this point, I’ve spoken to—let’s see, six people who were close to Tommee Frack. That includes his accountant, Jonathan Havemeyer, who I met at the funeral. The way I see it, so far we’ve got three suspects.”

Nick sat down on the sagging couch he’d saved from demolition by hauling it home from someone’s curb. Our knees were nearly touching. “And they are . . . ?”

“The first is Merrilee, the furious ex-wife who’s still smitten with him and who just learned he was about to marry someone else. The fact that she and Tommee kept canaries is another reason she’s made my top ten list.”

“I already know your theory about the ex-wife.”

“The second is George Babcock. He gave Tommee his start, and Tommee repaid him by stealing half his clients and starting his own PR firm. As if that weren’t bad enough, he continued stealing his clients—as recently as a few weeks ago. The latest was Pomonok Properties, one of Babcock’s oldest clients. And on top of that, his secretary claims that since last week, starting right about the time Tommee was murdered, George has been acting—and I quote—‘high.’ ”

“Right . . .”

“And number three is Barbara Delmonico, Tommee’s fiancée. I haven’t yet figured out what her motive would have been. Even if she was just marrying the guy for his money, she’d be ruining her chances for a lifetime meal ticket if she—”

The shrill ring of the doorbell interrupted me. A shock wave ran through me as I imagined the worst.

“Expecting someone?” I asked coolly.

“As a matter of fact, I am. I’ll be right back.”

As he made a dash for the door, I braced myself for the possibility that I was about to come face to face with the new object of Nick’s affection, the individual whose phone call the other day had reduced him to a teenager in the throes of puppy love. I glanced over at Leilani for strength, but I could already feel my defenses snapping into place.

They drooped considerably when he returned, accompanied only by a large brown paper bag.

“Takeout.” He held up the bag. “Chinese.”

When I just stared without replying, he added, “It was always your favorite. I figured that hadn’t changed.”

If he’s ordered spring rolls and Garlic Triple
Crown,
I thought,
it’s all over
.

“I got Garlic Triple Crown and a couple of spring rolls. I hope that’s okay.”

It was the culinary version of presenting me with a dozen roses.

“I didn’t know we’d be having dinner together,” I protested feebly.

“A
working
dinner.” He began unpacking the bag. “Unless you’ve already got plans . . .”

“No. No plans.” I couldn’t help adding, “I guess you don’t have any plans, either.”

“No. I’m free all night. I mean, all evening. Uh, until tomorrow.”

It would have been the perfect time to ask about the woman I’d heard him talking to on the phone. During the silence that followed, I could have casually inquired, “So how’s your social life?” or even, “Tell me about the great new woman you’re seeing.”

But while part of me was dying to know, another part—a much more sensible part, I’m sure—wanted as few details as possible. It wasn’t my business. Nick’s love life didn’t matter to me. My relationship with him was something I’d put behind me.

“Anyway, I still haven’t figured Barbara Delmonico out,” I said firmly. “Whenever I try to focus on what she’s all about, I see a big question mark. On the one hand—”

“Chopsticks?”

“Sure.” I reached for the chopsticks, taking care not to make bodily contact. Boy, this was turning out to be difficult. “On the one hand, she’s playing the role of the heartbroken fiancée whose one chance for happiness has been snatched away. On the other hand—”

“Tea?”

“I get the feeling she’s not who she . . . What?”

“I’ll make tea, if you like.” He held up the tea bag he’d just pulled out of the bag.

Another one of my favorites.

“Yes, tea. That’d be great. As I was saying, Barbara the fiancée strikes me as someone who’s trying very hard to be something she’s not. If I had a dollar for every lie she told me, I’d be sitting in a hot tub right now—in the Caribbean. I get the feeling her relationship with Tommee was part of some desperate attempt at upward mobility.”

Unwrapping my chopsticks, I mused, “There’s something about her that just feels
wrong
. My gut tells me she could have killed him, even though my head hasn’t been able to figure out why she would have wanted Tommee dead—”

Suddenly Nick stood up.

“Where are you going?” I asked.

“To make the tea.”

I flopped back in my chair, not even trying to hide my exasperation.

“What?”
he asked innocently. “You said you
wanted
tea.”

“I did. I do. But I’m trying to focus on the investigation and—and I feel like I’m talking to a brick wall! I thought you’d agreed to play Starsky to my Hutch.”

“Within reason. I figured I could make a few calls, help you piece together bits of information . . . But frankly, Jess, if you’re going to go traipsing around Norfolk County, interrogating people like the guy whose business Frack destroyed and his nutty ex-wife and his—”

“None of them have any idea I’m investigating Frack’s murder.”

“Says
you
.”

“You don’t think I’m capable of doing this, do you?” Fury was forming a knot in my stomach.

“On the contrary. You seem to be doing a terrific job.”

“So what’s the problem?”

“The problem,” he responded evenly, “is that this insane thing you’re insisting on doing has got me worried sick.”

The word “insane” made my blood boil. “Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. Me coming over here tonight, I mean.”

“Look, why don’t we take a break and eat?”

“I don’t see what—”

“The food’s here, it’s getting cold, and there’s no point in letting it go to waste.”

“Fine.”

We sat in silence, shoveling in shrimp. Then, just as the knot in my stomach was beginning to loosen, Nick asked, “So how did you do it?”

“Do what?”

“Get Frack’s fiancée to talk to you.”

“I saw a photograph of Tommee and Barbara on a table in her apartment, so I asked about it. The rest was easy.”

“No, before that. How did you get into her house? How did you find out where she lived?”

I hesitated. I knew Nick would disapprove of my methods. At the same time, I couldn’t help being proud of my ingenuity.

“I have a friend who got me Barbara’s address, based on her dog’s registration.”

“And you just knocked on this woman’s door and introduced yourself?”

“Not exactly.” I hated the defensiveness I heard in my voice. “I called her first and told her I had a client who wanted to mate her female Tibetan Terriers. I said I was looking for a stud.”

“Whoa. Now
there’s
an opening even
I
would find difficult to turn down.”

He laughed, a welcome sound. I couldn’t resist taking advantage of the cease-fire. “You know, Nick, there’s something that’s been bothering me. I’ve been tracking down all these people who knew Tommee, people who seem like the obvious people to talk to, and it doesn’t seem as if the police have been interviewing any of them.”

“Maybe the people you’re talking to aren’t telling you everything.”

“Could be.”

“Or maybe the police just haven’t gotten to them yet.”

“Come to think of it,” I mused, “the police haven’t asked me any more questions, either. Just the statement I made at the crime scene. Don’t you think that’s odd?”

“A little. Then again, you didn’t even know the dead guy. You were just the person who happened to find his body.”

“That’s true. . . . Nick, is there any chance you could ask your pal Officer Pascucci what’s going on?”

“Vince? I don’t know him that well. Besides, I’d rather save him for a really big favor.” He paused. “Hey, Jess?”

The softness of his voice surprised me.

“Aside from being worried about you day and night, I think you’re doing an incredible job.”

I eyed him suspiciously, bracing for the “but.” If he was going to tell me one more time that I had no business poking around in this murder—

“I mean it, Jess. I’m really impressed with all the information you gathered, not to mention the clever ways you got it.”

His compliment caught me completely off guard. I focused my attention on devouring a spring roll with an enthusiasm that was reminiscent of the canine branch of my family.

“Can I ask you something?” I asked.

“Shoot.”

“Who do
you
think murdered Tommee? Based on what I’ve found out so far.”

He was silent for a few moments. Deciding whether or not to indulge me, I guessed.

“From what you’ve told me,” he said, “I think all three of your suspects are possibilities, although I agree that you don’t know enough about Ms. Delmonico to figure out what her motive could have been.”

“What would
you
do? If you were investigating this case, I mean.”

He looked at me warily. “If it were me, I’d keep going. Talk to more people. Find out why George Babcock is so cheerful all of a sudden. Get more information about what was really going on between Barbara and Tommee. But I’d never forget for a minute that—”

“That’s exactly what I’ve been thinking,” I interrupted. “I need to track down some of Tommee’s other employees. There’s got to be at least one who didn’t think Tommee was a prince. As for Barbara’s relationship with Tommee, maybe her snake-loving pal Claudia Martin knows something. I’m going to look her up.”

“At least let me go with you,” Nick pleaded.

“I think this calls for a woman-to-woman approach. Less intimidating.”

He shook his head disapprovingly. But at least he refrained from putting his two cents in.

When the Chinese food was gone, I knew it was time for me to go. As I stood up to leave, I noticed the fat LSAT review book lying on the couch, half-hidden by a pillow. The Eagles were on in the background, singing “Take It to the Limit.”

“Hey, Nick?”

“Hmm?”

“Why law school?”

“It’s not as if becoming a private investigator was ever my career goal. The only reason I fell into it was that there weren’t many options. I remember looking for a job after college and being astounded that potential employers weren’t falling over themselves to grab someone who’d gotten an A on his honors thesis on Edgar Allan Poe.” With a shrug, he added, “Anyway, I need a change.”

I impulsively asked the question that had been nagging at me ever since I’d learned about Nick’s decision to take his life down a totally different path.

“Deciding that your life needed a major overhaul didn’t have anything to do with me, did it?”

“Maybe.”

Not the answer I’d been hoping for.

“Don’t tell me that”—I searched for the right words—“what happened with us precipitated some kind of midlife crisis.”

“I like to think I’m too young for midlife, but sure, our breakup precipitated a crisis. I’d be lying if I told you otherwise.”

“You know, Nick, we never really talked about . . . all that.”

“I don’t think we need to, Jess. I know how you feel, and that’s all there is to it.”

All the emotions of our dreadful trip to Hawaii came rushing back. For me, our week in paradise had seemed like a chance to sleep late, snorkel, and drink mai-tais while watching the sun go down together. I thought that adopting Leilani, an injured female Jackson’s chameleon we found on the low limb of a banyan tree, would be the biggest surprise of the trip. It never occurred to me that in addition to packing a pair of rubber fins and a blue Speedo I teased him about mercilessly, Nick had also packed an engagement ring.

Maybe if I’d had an inkling of what was on his mind, I would have handled things more gracefully. Instead, his unexpected proposal—made on our final evening there, delivered shyly on Kaanapali Beach at sunset—threw me into a state of utter panic. I’d responded by stomping clumsily all over his feelings. What should have been the most romantic moment in both our lives turned into one of the most excruciating.

We flew home in silence, enduring a twelve-hour flight and an endless layover in San Francisco. After we returned, we spoke only a few more times. Most of our conversations dealt with logistics, like who would get to keep Leilani.

And all of our conversations were short.

We never had the one we needed most. Or maybe it simply wasn’t possible. Nick felt so hurt and I felt so threatened and confused and angry at him, not only for taking away my lover but also for depriving me of my best friend, that maybe there was no way for either of us to talk about what was really going on with us.

We had been so good at loving each other. I guess it shouldn’t have surprised me that we also turned out to be good at causing each other pain.

“It’s late,” I said. “I should get going.”

He nodded, the two of us silently agreeing to pretend that was the only reason I was hurrying out the door.

As I stepped outside, I was surprised by the frigid air that assaulted me. It was one of the first bitterly cold nights we’d had so far.

Winter really is coming, I thought. In fact, it’s here.

I pulled up the collar of my jacket, hurried to my car and drove home.

Alone.

Chapter 11

“If cats could talk, they wouldn’t.”

—Nan Porter

By the next morning, I was more than ready to throw myself into another round of interviewing. I told myself it was because of Nick’s begrudging encouragement. For the moment, at least, that sounded like as good a reason as any.

My day was booked with back-to-back appointments that ran into the middle of the afternoon, but I had time for two quick phone calls before heading out. I settled on the couch with Cat in my lap, Max chewing a mangled piece of rawhide at my feet, Lou standing guard at the front door, and Prometheus happily devouring a slice of orange—the best way to keep him quiet. First, I dialed the number Marcus Scruggs had given me for Barbara Delmonico’s pal, the woman who shared with the murder victim’s fiancée both a love of snakes and a love of hot pants.