Dead Canaries Don't Sing (5 page)

“You’re being difficult again.”

“I’m not difficult!”

“You
can
be difficult,” he corrected himself. “And you can be pigheaded. Look, Jess, I know you think this whole thing is very dramatic and romantic and . . . and who knows what else. I mean, it’s not every day that someone finds a dead body in the woods. But the fact remains that finding out what happened to Frack isn’t a job for a layman.”

“Lay
person,
” I muttered.

“It’s a job for professionals.” Nick leaned back and folded his arms across his chest. “I’m serious, Jess. This could be nasty business.”

After an almost imperceptible hesitation, he added, “In fact, that’s why I’ve decided to make a change.”

I raised my eyebrows. “Joining the circus?”

“In a sense. I’m applying to law school.”

“Law school!” I wouldn’t have been more astonished if he had told me that he had just mailed in his application to Clown School, complete with an essay entitled, “What Emmett Kelly Means to Me.”

“What’s so strange about law school?” He sounded as if I’d hurt his feelings.

“How about the fact that people who go to law school become lawyers? Lawyers are people that nice, reasonable, normal folk make jokes about. Lawyers make a living by taking advantage of other people’s misery. Aside from which they wear suits and . . . and drink martinis and drive Mercedes . . .”

“Not all of them. Maybe I’ll work for an environmental firm. Or Legal Aid, helping people who don’t have any money to defend themselves. Or . . . or . . .”

The ringing of his phone made him jump. An odd reaction, I thought, given the fact that he conducted much of his work by phone.

What was even stranger was that instead of reaching for it, he just stared at it.

“Harassing phone calls?” I suggested. “Telemarketers?”

It kept ringing.

“If you’re not going to get that, I will,” I offered.

He grabbed the receiver.

“Nick Burby,” he said crisply. And then, in a much softer voice, “Oh,
hi
. I thought it might be you.”

His tone made my blood run cold. So did the fact that even though he’d turned his face away from me, I could see that his entire expression had changed.

When he laughed softly and said, “That’s funny. I was, too,” I took my cue.

“Gotta go,” I announced, shooting to my feet.

“Wait—Can you hold on a sec?” He glanced up, instantly turning back into the person he’d been thirty seconds earlier. “Jess, I think we need to talk about this a bit more—”

“There’s nothing to talk about. There’s no law against me nosing around a little. It’s not as if I’m about to go breaking and entering this person’s house and rifling through his sock drawer to try to find out why somebody wanted him dead.”

“ ‘Nosing around’ can be dangerous. Believe me, it’s not the way it is in the movies. There are some bad people out there, Jess, and the smartest thing you can do is keep away from them.”

“So you keep telling me. I can take care of myself. And maybe I can even find somebody to help me. Like that nice Officer Nolan, for example.”

He shook his head, looking annoyingly exasperated. “Look, I have to take this call. But you and I need to continue this discussion before you go off and do something crazy. I mean it, Jess.”

“Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.”

I strode out of his office, trying to prove with my erect posture and purposeful step just how capable I really was. At that moment, I was more determined to find out who had murdered Tommee Frack and why than I had ever been about anything in my life.

As I climbed back into my van, I was trembling with rage. At least, I told myself it was rage that was making my heart pound and my hands shake. The possibility that jealousy might have been responsible was unthinkable.

At any rate, I was glad the rest of my day was booked.

Once I was tooling along the countrified back roads of the North Shore, admiring the smattering of deep red and gold leaves still clinging to the trees, I could feel myself settling comfortably into a familiar rhythm. Driving around in a mobile medical unit suited me much better than being cooped up in some animal clinic. If there’s one thing that gives me the heebie-jeebies, it’s feeling confined. I can hardly bear to wear turtlenecks, and ordering theater tickets a month in advance has been known to make me break out in hives. So I never failed to appreciate the feeling of freedom that came from visiting my clients and their pets, instead of the other way around.

The wonderful world of technology made it all so easy. Not only did my van have its own generator, running water, heat, and air conditioning; it had everything I needed for performing diagnostic tests, surgery, and dentistry. My shelves were well-stocked with syringes, bandages, antibiotics . . . even doggie treats. True, some of the more complicated procedures required renting a surgery room from another veterinarian, and I frequently used outside laboratories to do some of the testing. But most of the time, I was totally self-contained. And I loved it.

I made it to Cupsewogue just in time for my eleven o’clock appointment to inoculate seven six-week-old Jack Russell terriers against distemper, hepatitis, influenza, and the big killer, parvo. By that time, I’d all but forgotten about the body in the woods. Instead, I focused on the tiny, squirming puppies, which were small enough to cup in my hand. I gave in to the temptation to nuzzle all of them, personally welcoming them to the world.

My next stop was at the home of one of my favorite clients. Like many of my regulars, Alfred Sutter was getting on and didn’t drive much anymore. While I’d known Alfred for more than two years, I’d seen him age dramatically since his wife, Evelyn, had died six months earlier.

These days, his black lab, Midnight, was his only companion. Just seeing them together always made me feel good. It was impossible to tell which one adored the other more.

I took a minute to read through Midnight’s chart before ringing the doorbell. As I stood on the front step, I noticed that the small house showed signs of neglect. The paint on the shutters was peeling and the late Mrs. Sutter’s garden, once her pride and joy, was choked with weeds.

Mr. Sutter’s face lit up when he answered the door. “Dr. Popper! How nice to see you!”

Suspecting he’d forgotten our appointment, I prompted, “I’m glad I was able to come by today. From what you told me on the phone last night, it sounds as if Midnight’s leg wound needs to be looked at.”

A look of comprehension slowly spread across Mr. Sutter’s face. “Oh, sure. Midnight’s leg.”

As I walked him to the van, I slowed my pace to match his. I could see that Midnight was trying just as hard to be accommodating. He stuck close by his master’s side, glancing up every few seconds as if to make sure he wasn’t going too fast. I was tempted to reach over and hug the black lab for being so thoughtful.

Inside the van, Mr. Sutter carefully lowered himself into the seat reserved for clients. “How’ve you been, Dr. Popper?” he asked congenially after he’d settled in.

“Much too busy, but what else is new?” Glancing over to smile at him, I noticed that his well-worn red plaid flannel shirt hung off his bony frame, a sign that he was losing weight.

Mr. Sutter held out both hands hopelessly. “Me, I’ve got the opposite problem. I got too
much
time.”

“I’m sure Midnight keeps you busy,” I commented. “He must be good company for you.”

“The best.” He smiled warmly at the black lab teetering nervously on the examining table. Poor Midnight definitely looked uncomfortable, and I could feel the tension in his muscles.

I felt my usual dismay over causing so much anxiety in an animal, especially an ailing one. I scratched his neck and stroked his ears, trying to relax him. “It’s okay, Midnight,” I assured him gently. “Nobody’s going to hurt you. I just want to take a look at that leg. That’s all. You’ll be out of here in no time.”

“Yep,” Mr. Sutter went on, “every morning, me and Midnight head over to the park for a couple of hours. He loves the exercise. Likes playing with the other dogs, too. He’s even got a girlfriend, a white French poodle about one-tenth his size. You should see the two of them together!”

“So you’ve been steppin’ out, huh, Midnight?” I let him lick my hand before I examined his eyes and ears. He wasn’t any more relaxed, but at least he seemed resigned to a little poking and prodding. As he looked at me mournfully with wet, woeful brown eyes, it was all I could do to keep from apologizing.

I ran my hands along his spine, checking each vertebra. “It sounds like his activity level is normal. Any change in how much he’s eating or drinking, Mr. Sutter? Any vomiting or diarrhea? Coughing? Sneezing?”

“Nope. He’s healthier than I am. ’Course, he’s a lot younger. A lot smarter, too. He already figured out how to undo the new latch I just put on the back door.” Mr. Sutter beamed proudly. “I’ve started calling him Hound-ini.”

“That’s a new one,” I said, laughing. I moved on to Midnight’s left back leg, where I found the wound Mr. Sutter had called me about. “It’s okay, Midnight. Whoa. I just need to take a look . . . Mr. Sutter, how did he cut his leg?”

“Must have been something sharp in the park. I didn’t notice he’d gotten hurt until I brought him home.”

“When was that?”

“Let’s see . . . Saturday. Three days ago.”

“It’s all right, Midnight. We’re done.” I gave him a final pat, then helped him climb off the table without banging his wounded leg. He couldn’t move fast enough, and his powerful paws skittered across the stainless steel. I was at least as relieved as he was that he’d gotten through his ordeal. I often felt frustrated that I couldn’t simply explain to my patients that all I wanted to do was help them.

I turned to Mr. Sutter. “Can you get hold of one of those mist bottles, the kind you spray plants with?”

He nodded. “My wife had one. You know Evvie and her plants! I swear, she used to act like they were her grandchildren—” He stopped suddenly, taking a moment to compose himself. This time, it was him I wanted to reach over and hug. “Anyway, I’m sure it’s still around somewhere.”

I nodded. “I’d like you to clean it out really well, then fill it with peroxide and spray Midnight’s wound three times a day. The spray won’t hurt him because he’s already healing and peroxide doesn’t sting old wounds. He needs antibiotics, and I’m also going to give you one of those big cones to put around his neck. If we want that wound to close up, it’s really important to keep Midnight from licking it.”

“He won’t like any of this, but he’ll do what I tell him. He’s a good dog.” Mr. Sutter reached down and stroked his head lovingly. “Aren’t you, boy? You’re a
real
good dog, Midnight.”

Midnight wagged his tail and gazed up at him, saying everything he needed to say with his body language.

Later, as I sat alone in my van, updating Midnight’s chart, I remembered that the reason I’d gone into veterinary medicine in the first place was that I wanted to take care of animals. But it hadn’t taken me long to learn that taking care of their owners was just as important.

I made a few more house calls, then checked the voice mail on my cell phone. I called back the three clients who’d left messages, making appointments with two and assuring the third that the antibiotics I’d given his beagle needed more than twenty-four hours to have an effect. Then I headed out east for acupuncture treatments on a sixteen-year-old collie with debilitating arthritis.

It was nearly six by the time I veered onto the Long Island Expressway for the trip home. Even though my brain was fogged by fatigue, I found myself brooding about the animals I’d seen that day. Midnight, in particular. I hoped his leg healed quickly—and that he remained healthy for a very long time. Mr. Sutter would be lost without him. Of course, the reverse was also true.

While all the day’s patients were still very much on my mind, there was one animal in particular that kept popping into the forefront: the canary buried next to Tommee Frack.

Whatever the murder victim’s faults might have been, I was pretty certain the bird had nothing to do with it. Yet he, too, had been a victim of the horrific crime I had uncovered that morning. He had been killed in cold blood, his neck broken as if someone had maliciously snapped his tiny, fragile body in two. Then he was unceremoniously hauled away by the police as Exhibit A.

As for the reason behind the crime, I remained completely in the dark. The situation reminded me of a dog or cat that presented with symptoms which didn’t readily point to any particular ailment. The next step was to dig deeper: doing tests, asking questions, struggling to fit the pieces together to come up with a diagnosis and a treatment. In other words, launching a full-scale investigation.

If I could do it with animals, I figured, there was no reason why I shouldn’t be able to use the same process to find out who had been responsible for Frack’s murder.

And it didn’t take a certified P.I. to know where to start.

Chapter 3

“Handsome cats and fat dung heaps are the sign of a good farmer.”

—French Proverb

As I pulled my red VW Beetle into the parking lot of the Mangione Brothers Funeral Home in Niamogue at nine A.M. two days later, my mouth dropped open. Literally. Tommee Frack’s wake had drawn a star-studded crowd. There were so many limousines lined up that I felt as if I’d come to Long Island’s version of Oscar night.

I already had an inkling that Nick hadn’t been exaggerating when he’d told me that Tommee Frack had been successful. The day after I discovered his body, the headline “PR MOGUL FOUND DEAD!!!” was splashed across the front page of
Newsday,
the only newspaper that covers all of Long Island. Below was a picture of a man I’d last seen covered with dirt and leaves—Tommee Frack, his smile as wide as a little kid’s and at least as innocent.

I’d opened the newspaper and found that page three was completely dedicated to him. Pictures of a short, pudgy man wearing a pleased grin dotted the page: Frack with the New York State governor, Frack with the Norfolk County executive, Frack with Julia Roberts. My heart raced as I began to read.