Dead Canaries Don't Sing (22 page)

“Four-seven-oh-oh,” a male voice answered gruffly.

Not exactly what I’d been expecting. I’d just assumed Marcus had given me Claudia Martin’s home phone number, and I’d anticipated the usual uncomplicated “Hello.” “I’m, uh, trying to get in touch with Claudia Martin.”

“Nobody’s here now. But she should be in later, like around two, two-thirty.”

“And you’re still at 1055 Route 437?” I spoke quickly, sensing he was about to hang up on me.

“Been here seventeen years.”

Odd conversation to have with a husband or roommate, I thought. But I didn’t dwell on it. Instead, I made my second call of the morning, hoping to find out why the official murder investigation was proceeding so slowly.

I was put through the usual rigamarole before finally getting through to Harned. I kept myself from growling as I waited “on hold” by tossing Max’s slime-covered rawhide across the room a few hundred times. Somehow, he never tired of chasing after it and bringing it back for one more action-packed round.

“I’m just calling to check in, Lieutenant,” I began cheerfully. “I haven’t heard anything more about the case on the news—”

“It’s an ongoing investigation,” the lieutenant interrupted. “We’re looking at everybody. I can assure you, Dr. Popper, our detectives are following all leads.”

“You know, I was wondering—”

“Thanks for your interest, but I’ve got another call.”

And the line went dead.

I held the phone in my hand for a few seconds, flabbergasted over our conversation. If you could call it that.

I was still steaming over Harned’s rude refusal to take me seriously as Max and Lou and I pulled up in front of a small, run-down house in West Munchogue a half hour later. The two of them started skittering around the front seat, already itching to get out. I looked to them for inspiration, telling myself to stop brooding and get over it. After all, this was no mind-set for tackling my first house call of the day—especially given who it was.

Victor Fazio had been a client for almost a year, ever since his motorcycle accident had left him wheelchair-bound. I always got the feeling he didn’t like taking advice from a woman. Or maybe his anger was more generalized and I was just too sensitive.

As soon as I opened the door, Max and Lou shot outside, oblivious to the brisk autumn air that had me zipping up my fuzzy fleece jacket and pulling on my gloves. As I set up the ramp outside the entrance to the van, they romped around playfully on the stubby brown grass that constituted Victor Fazio’s front lawn. Before heading toward the front door, I called them over and fastened leashes on their collars. I wanted to be sure they remained on their best behavior. I reminded myself to do the same.

“How are you today, Mr. Fazio?” I greeted him as the three of us stood on his front step, using the same hearty tone I always adopted when I expected a less-than-warm reception.

“Considering that my cat is sick, I’d say I’m doing pretty well,” he grumbled. He barely glanced at me, instead keeping his head low so that his long stringy hair formed a curtain that half-covered his face.

“Let’s bring him into the van and I’ll check him out. Harley, right?”

“Yeah.” He laughed coldly. “Crummy choice for a name, don’t you think?”

I scooped up Harley, then moved aside to let Mr. Fazio go out to the van ahead of me. Even though there was a definite chill in the air, he didn’t bother to put on a jacket.
Real men don’t need coats,
I thought wryly. As I followed, I was treated to a first-rate view of his spectacularly muscular bare arms. They rippled impressively as he wheeled himself along the ramp outside his house, along the short walkway, and up the ramp that led into my van. His biceps, the size of cantaloupes, each sported a large, dark blue tattoo: on the right, a malevolent-looking eagle, poised to strike as he hovered in front of an unfurling American flag; on the left, the logo of the Harley-Davidson Motor Company.

I stroked Harley as I walked, trying to calm him. But the sleek black cat kept trying to jump down. He clearly didn’t like being held, and I suspected he wasn’t used to affection. The best strategy, I decided, was an examination that was as fast and matter-of-fact as possible.

Back in the van, I set Harley on the exam table as I read through his chart. He sniffed the metal surface and immediately jumped down and started slinking toward the door.

“Okay, Harley, back up on the table,” I said cheerfully. The four-year-old cat had never had any real health problems. “Mr. Fazio, when you called you said you’d noticed a yellow discharge around his anus?”

“Yeah, it squirted out from a couple of spots. And he keeps . . . cleaning himself, if you know what I mean.”

“Does the discharge smell?”

He looked at me as if I’d just asked the dumbest question in the world. “You really figure I stuck my nose down there?”

I decided to let it pass. “Have you noticed him rubbing his behind on the carpet? Is he eating and drinking the same as usual? Any problems with urinating or defecating?”

“Look, like I said, I noticed this yellow goo around his butt.” Crossly, he added, “You’re the doctor, not me.”

I resisted the urge to say something equally obnoxious. “His anal glands are probably ruptured,” I said, palpating the cat and finding everything else in order. “They get infected sometimes.”

By that point, Harley and I had reached an understanding. I was all business, asking nothing of him but his cooperation. He continued to glare at me, but let me do whatever I needed to do without protesting. I found myself missing Cat, who, for all her airs, had a sweetness and vulnerability that were sorely lacking in this animal. I vowed to bring her a treat the first chance I got, some catnip or her favorite indulgence in the world: chicken livers.

I took Harley’s temperature, which was normal: 101 degrees on the nose. Then I pulled on a pair of rubber gloves and did a rectal exam.

“Glad I don’t have your job,” Mr. Fazio observed, scowling. “Sticking your fingers up animals’ butts all day . . .”

I had to laugh. I’d never thought of my chosen career in those terms.

“Actually, I really enjoy what I do. It’s pretty rewarding to treat sick animals and make them well again.”

“Sounds like I’m not gonna have to go out and get a new cat.”

“Harley’s going to be just fine. I’ll give him an injection of amoxicillin, and I’ll leave you with pills. Make sure you put them in his food so they don’t upset his stomach. I’d also like you to hold a warm, wet washcloth on the infected area for five to ten minutes, twice a day. I’ll stop by and take another look at him in a week or so.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Mr. Fazio replied glumly. “So how much is this gonna cost me?”

After I left Mr. Fazio and Harley to enjoy each other’s enchanting company and got back into my van, I definitely needed a short hug break. “Come here, you guys,” I instructed Max and Lou. “Who are the best doggies in the world?
Who are the best
doggies?
”

They climbed all over to me in response, covering my face with wet dog kisses and testing the resiliency of my internal organs with a total of eight paws, jabbing at me with the force of a pneumatic drill. I wouldn’t have had it any other way.

As I drove away, I congratulated myself on how polite I’d been with both Lieutenant Harned and Mr. Fazio. I decided I deserved a few hours off later that day, after I’d finished the morning’s calls.

It was just after two when I headed for Route 437.

“This can’t be right,” I muttered as I drove along the four-lane highway, peering at the numbers and trying to find 1055.

I knew the road was mostly industrial, the home of office buildings and warehouses and, down around this part of the island, Long Island Airport. But I had assumed that a condo complex or maybe some garden apartments were wedged in somewhere.

I was even more puzzled when at last I spotted the sign sporting a big “1-0-5-5.” Right below it was the silhouette of a woman, a cartoonish figure who looked like she’d undergone extensive and overly enthusiastic plastic surgery.

“SILK ’N’ SATIN LOUNGE,”
the sign read. And underneath, in smaller letters,
“EXOTIC DANCERS FROM
ROUND THE WORLD.”

I pulled into the lot, deciding this was as good a place as any to figure out where I’d gone wrong. The few cars that were parked in the nearly empty lot were pretty run-down, cheap models that probably hadn’t looked that great even when they were first purchased. There was one exception, however: a sleek black Porsche. I decided it had to belong to the lounge’s owner, especially when I saw that the license plate read, “HOTGIRLZ.”

“You’ll have to wait in the van,” I told Max and Lou. “I don’t think you’re old enough for this place— even in dog years.”

The sky was clear and the sun was shining, making for a bright November afternoon. I pushed open the heavy wooden door of the lounge and instantly confronted nearly total darkness.

Don’t these people pay their electric bill? I wondered.

Inside, I hesitated. I breathed in stale air that reeked of beer and sweat and something that smelled suspiciously like urine. I’d stay just long enough to find someone who could explain to me where the real 1055 Route 437 was hiding.

As soon as my eyes adjusted, I realized I was in the real 1055 Route 437.

Hanging in the front entrance of the club were large color photographs of some of the hot girlz who worked there. One, completely nude except for what looked like a large postage stamp covering her nether regions, was wrapped around a pole that ran from the floor to the ceiling. She possessed both hair and breasts that would have put Dolly Parton to shame.

A second woman, who also looked as if she did her clothes shopping at the post office, straddled a large inflatable object that I guessed had originally been designed to simulate a hot dog. Her eyes were squeezed shut and her expression was one of devout ecstasy, as if nothing came even close to the feeling of polyurethane against one’s thighs.

But it was the third photograph that convinced me. A woman wearing eye makeup so thick she could have qualified for a heavy-metal rock band stared defiantly into the camera. She, too, had a prop, but hers wound around her neck, twisted across her stomach, and ended up between her legs. The python wore the same in-your-face expression as his dance partner.

“Something I can help you with?”

I whirled around, expecting to see a burnt-out sixtyish sleazeball chomping on a cigar. Instead, the man who’d approached me was about twenty-five. He was dressed in tight-fitting jeans and a T-shirt that looked as if it had been dry cleaned, and he was clearly no stranger to hair gel.

“I’m looking for Claudia Martin.”

“Too bad.” He was looking me up and down. “I was hoping you were here for a job.”

“Thanks, I already have a job. Is Claudia here?”

“You mean Peaches.”

“Excuse me?”

“Around here, we call her Peaches. As in Peaches N. Cream. Y’know, her stage name.”

“Is, uh, Peaches around?”

“You’re in luck. She just came in to pick up her check.”

He continued looking at me in a way that really gave me the creeps. I had a feeling he was trying to picture how I’d look with my legs wrapped around something long, hard, and one hundred percent synthetic.

“Could you please tell her I’d like to talk to her?”

“Tell her yourself. She’s in back.”

With his thumb, he gestured inside. Peering in that direction, I saw a wooden platform shaped like a half-circle, jutting out into a small room crammed with tiny tables. On one side of the makeshift stage, there was a curtained doorway.

“Go ahead,” he urged. “Nobody’s gonna bite you. Unless you want—”

“Thanks,” I said hastily.

You never know where life will take you, I reminded myself as I walked gingerly through the Silk ’N’ Satin Lounge, afraid of what I might step in. The air was thick with something I couldn’t identify. Testosterone, maybe.

Even though I would have preferred not to touch anything, I had no choice but to push aside the curtain, which turned out to be black velvet. I found myself in a narrow hallway. Through the doorway to my left, I could see a metal desk covered with papers. The business office, no doubt, the heart and soul of the operation, if an operation like this possessed either. A second door, to my right, was decorated with a flimsy star cut out of aluminum foil.

“Claudia?” I called. My voice sounded annoyingly high-pitched.

“Whaddya want?” a voice even higher than mine called back.

My heart pounded as I swung open the dressing room door. I was imagining all kinds of bizarre scenarios involving G-strings, inflatable objects, and body positions out of the Kama Sutra.

So I was startled to find an ordinary-looking woman perched on a stool, writing in a checkbook register.

She glanced up. “You looking for me?”

Claudia Martin was dressed in gray sweatpants and a sweater I’d recently seen at Old Navy. Her hair, dyed the same light blond as Barbara’s, was pulled up in a haphazard knot and held in place with a plastic clip. Her face had an unexpectedly fresh look, as if she’d just washed it. But even without the Halloween makeup, I recognized her as the woman in the photograph out front, the one dressed in a python and very little else.

“Ms. Martin, I’m Dr. Jessica Popper. I’m a veterinarian, and I’m working with Dr. Scruggs—”

“Oh, sure. Doc Scruggs is the best. He’s cute, too. But I’m sure you’ve noticed.”

I forced a smile. “Anyway, he asked me to stop in and make sure that everything was okay. With your snake, I mean. It’s been a while since you’ve brought him in.”

Claudia shook her head. “Isn’t he just the sweetest guy in the world? You tell him everything is just fine. Jasper and Clarence are both doing terrific. But that is
so
like Doc Scruggs to be concerned. One time, when I’d only had Jasper, like, a couple of weeks, his eyes got all cloudy. I totally freaked. I figured I wouldn’t even be able to go on that night, because it was making him so cranky. Pythons sure get fussy when they’re not feeling so great. Anyway, Doc Scruggs saw him right away. He explained to me that he was just shedding. I felt, like, a zillion times better. I brought Jasper on stage with me and he did just great.”