Murder Had a Little Lamb (17 page)

“Dinner for
two
at your house,” he corrected me. “And
only
two. So when is it going to happen?”

I pictured a calendar, hoping one of the squares would be filled in with a commitment Nick had made. Sure enough, I remembered that the law firm at which he was spending the summer interning was holding an all-day retreat on Sunday that was scheduled to run late.

“How about Sunday?” I suggested.

“Sunday it is,” he agreed.

“But it has to be early,” I warned. “Like six.”

That way, I thought, I can have him out of there by eight—meaning Nick will never even have to know I’ve been trading moo shu pork for inside information.

“You’re on,” Forrester replied, sounding a little too happy. “I’ll even bring dessert!”

There wasn’t supposed to
be
any dessert, I thought sullenly.

But I’d already come up with a strategy for keeping the evening as short as humanly possible: eating really, really fast.

T
he discovery I’d made at Nathaniel’s house faded into the back of my mind as I rushed off to my first house call of the day. Bosco, a sweet-tempered German short-haired pointer, had been a patient of mine for a long time. Her owner, Mike Monahan, worked from home, doing something mysterious with computers. Mike was also a runner. A tall, lean man in his early thirties, he spent his free time training for marathons, usually with Bosco loping along beside him.

“Hey, Bosco!” I cried, stooping over to scratch her ears when she and Mike came out to my van. She was such a pretty dog, with an alert expression, almondshaped eyes, and smooth brown fur I think of as the color of milk chocolate but which breeders insist on referring to as “liver.”

Simply from talking to Mike on the phone, I was
pretty sure I knew the cause of the skin infection he was concerned about.

Bosco suffered from OCD—obsessive compulsive disorder. While most people have heard of humans having OCD, few realize that it also occurs in animals. It’s especially common in German shepherds, who tend to chase their tails, and Dobermans, who often gnaw at their flanks. With bull terriers, it’s frequently manifested as compulsive spinning.

But it can turn up in any dog that’s bored or under stress. Dogs might dig obsessively, bark for no reason, attack inanimate objects such as their own food dish—or like Bosco, lick themselves. And even though some of the manifestations might seem humorous, the animal can be dangerous to people—or to herself, as in Bosco’s case.

“When did you first notice her skin problems?” I asked Mike after covering the usual questions about Bosco’s general health, weighing her, and taking her temperature.

“About two weeks ago,” Mike replied. “It’s mainly on her belly.”

I bent down to check the area. “Is she taking any medications?”

When Mike shook his head, I added, “Has anything changed in the household, like carpet cleaners or shampoo?”

“Nope.”

I reached into a cabinet and took out a few slides. “I see a spot I’d like to do a cytology on.”

I did an impression smear by picking at a scab with the corner of a slide and pressing it against the skin.

Next, I applied some stain and looked at the slide under the microscope.

“There’s a bit more bacteria than usual,” I told Mike, who was looking on nervously. “It’s hard to put on a topical, since she’ll just lick it off. So I’d like to put her on antibiotics. She weighs sixty-eight pounds, so I’ll put her on 750 milligrams of Cephalexin twice a day for two weeks.”

“It’s because of the OCD, isn’t it?” Mike asked.

“That’s what it looks like,” I replied. “I know we’ve talked about this before, but once again I’m going to suggest that you keep Bosco’s exercise up. OCD is related to anxiety, and getting her to move around as much as possible should offer her some relief.”

Mike grinned. “Good thing I’ve got another race coming up in a few weeks. I’ll make sure Bosco’s in as good a shape as I am.”

As soon as I wrapped up my last call of the day, I headed back to the Worth School for the PTA meeting. As I drove east toward the Bromptons, I experienced a mixture of anticipation and anxiety.

While I was excited about having the opportunity to interact with some of the parents, I was also nervous about whether or not the evening ahead would actually help me further my investigation. And with Dorothy plaguing me with phone calls, I was getting antsy about drawing this episode to a close.

As I drove through the imposing wrought-iron gates at 7:20, I noticed how different the Worth School campus looked at this hour. The sun was easing lower and lower in the sky, casting an oblique light
that made the buildings appear to glow. The trees looked positively mystical, as if somehow the leaves and branches were lit from within.

There’s truly something special about the light on Long Island’s East End. In fact, for over a century, its uniqueness has been a major attraction for artists, starting in the late 1800s when a group called the Tile Club popularized it. About thirty of the best-known painters, sculptors, and architects in New York, including William Merritt Chase, Winslow Homer, and Stanford White, had been meeting regularly to paint tiles and promote American art. When they took a field trip out to the South Fork, they were immediately taken with the area’s beauty, including its distinctive light. They were inspired to create numerous drawings and paintings that were published in a popular magazine. Before long, hordes of people started converging on the area, turning it into a summer resort.

At this hour, the buildings and manicured grounds weren’t the only things that had changed. So had the parking lot.

Whenever I’d parked my van during the day, most of the other spaces had been filled with ordinary vehicles, the kind that had basically been designed to get people to and from work. Middle-of-the-line Toyotas and Nissans, mainly, along with a fair number of American cars. Many of them looked kind of tired, as if they couldn’t wait for the day they’d be traded in and could finally go to that giant parking lot in the sky.

Tonight, however, I felt as if I’d stumbled into a
dealership in Saudi Arabia. Each car was more luxurious than the one parked next to it: BMWs, Mercedeses, Porsches, Ferraris. A few hybrids, including a dark gray Prius and a sleek silver Lexus. I even spotted a couple of Bentleys and, parked off to the side as if to minimize the chance of getting an unsightly scratch or dent, a gleaming white Rolls-Royce.

I actually felt sorry for my trusty but unstylish van. It wasn’t used to being left in such intimidating company.

But I had much more important things on my mind as I headed for the Student Life Community Center, where tonight’s meeting was taking place. Just like everything else at the Worth School, the building was completely over the top. It was made almost entirely of glass, making it look like a giant ice sculpture—or to be more accurate, a sky-high pile of ice cubes that had tumbled out of a multistory drinking glass.

I’d already learned enough about Worth that I wasn’t the least bit surprised to discover that the dining hall wasn’t exactly your average school cafeteria. Rather than being furnished with Formica tables and metal chairs, the expansive room was outfitted with long, solid wood tables and matching chairs that reminded me of photos I’d seen of the dining room at Hearst Castle. The floors weren’t covered in linoleum, either, but tiles. From where I stood, they looked hand-painted.

And the walls weren’t decorated with bulletin boards plastered with the day’s menu or notices about upcoming school activities. Instead, framed paintings decorated the large, airy space, although they didn’t
appear to be of quite the same caliber as those in the administration building. I supposed that was because of the slim possibility that a rogue dollop of ketchup might fly over and mar the surface.

Even though it was barely seven thirty, the room was already filled with well-dressed people. They stood in groups of three or four, sipping the bright red drinks they held in their hands. If I hadn’t known better, I would have thought I’d stumbled upon a cocktail party.

A very exclusive cocktail party, given the number of fancy labels in full view. Many of the men and women wore meticulously tailored business suits, as if they’d come directly from work. But those who were dressed more casually were also decked out in designer duds. In fact, in just the group standing closest to me, I spotted the logos of Chanel, Armani, Fendi, and Prada.

The woman sitting at the table placed right inside the door, however, was dressed in an outfit that looked more like what I had on: the same plain black jeans I’d worn all day and a somewhat wrinkled blue linen blouse I’d thrown over my dark green “Jessica Popper, D.V.M.” polo shirt.

“Thanks for coming out tonight,” she greeted me with a big smile. “Please make yourself a name tag. Oh, and be sure to write your daughter’s name underneath yours to help the other parents identify you.”

“I’m actually one of the teachers,” I explained.

“In that case, just write ‘faculty.’” Still smiling, she added, “Help yourself to some refreshments. And
don’t forget to mingle. Dr. Goodfellow always encourages faculty members to mingle.”

Precisely why I came, I thought.

Once I was inside the dining room, I glanced around nervously. I was hoping to spot a familiar face, someone I could chat with so I wouldn’t have to stand there all alone. When I didn’t see anyone I knew, I instead zeroed in on the long table pushed against the back wall and covered with a tremendous spread. I wandered over, expecting to find something along the lines of caviar and lobster salad.

So I was surprised to see plates piled high with ragged-edged cookies and brownies cut at slightly irregular angles.

These don’t exactly look like parents who spend their Saturday afternoons baking, I mused.

But I was willing to be open-minded. I reached for a chocolate chip cookie lopsided enough that it screamed homemade and bit into it.

“Hey, this is really good!” I remarked to no one in particular.

The woman standing next to me, wearing a chic black pantsuit and carrying a large purse in Burberry’s signature brown plaid, beamed.

“Thank you!” she cooed. “I brought them. They’re homemade!”

“My compliments to the chef,” I said, holding up the cookie.

Still smiling proudly, she replied, “I’ll be sure to pass your comments on to my housekeeper. I’m so lucky to have someone who’s such a star in the kitchen!”

I grabbed a couple more cookies, then picked up one of the pre-poured glasses of red fruit punch. Not surprisingly, the glasses were made of real glass, not plastic. Once I was armed with something that would hopefully keep me from looking as if I was just standing around awkwardly, I moved away from the table, meanwhile doing my best to listen in on other people’s conversations.

“Of course the south of France used to be a great vacation spot,” a woman in wrinkle-free linen commented in an irritatingly high-pitched voice. “But these days it’s so crowded. I’m so glad Thomas bought that sweet little island off the British Virgin Islands …”

“I just got rid of my Hummer,” a businessman in a pinstriped suit told a similarly dressed man. “I was starting to get nervous, with gas prices acting so crazy. So I decided to dump it.” Shrugging, he added, “Frankly, I figured I’d get slammed, but would you believe I actually
made
money on the sale?”

“I really liked what they were doing over at DuralTech,” a man dressed in jeans and a sports jacket told a slender woman in a flowered wrap dress. “So I bought the company.”

The idea that I would ever be able to carry on a conversation with any of these people was seeming increasingly remote. So I was relieved when I heard someone say, “Dr. Popper?”

I turned and found Claude Molter standing next to me, cupping a glass of punch. His head was drawn back just enough that he could look down at me over his beaky nose.

Once again, he was impeccably dressed in a suit and tie, complete with a music-themed tie tack. This one was in the shape of a G clef. I wondered with amusement if his students gave them to him as gifts—and he felt obligated to wear them. Then again, Claude didn’t impress me as someone who felt obligated to do
anything
he didn’t want to do.

“Mr. Molter! How nice to see you again,” I exclaimed. Not only was I glad I’d finally found someone to talk to, the fact that at one time he’d been a close friend of Nathaniel’s doubled my pleasure. After all, I was still hopeful that he’d provide me with some insight into the murder victim’s life, if not some hard information. “It looks as if everyone from the faculty turned out tonight.”

Grimacing, he said, “This is what’s known as a command performance.”

“Still, it must be kind of fun, getting to meet your students’ parents,” I commented. “I’ve been trying to figure out who’s who, but the name tags people are wearing are kind of small.”

“I’d be happy to help you out,” Claude drawled, “except that interacting with the girls’ parents has never been one of my top priorities. I’m completely committed to doing whatever is best for the students at Worth. I’d do anything for those girls! However, one thing my dedication does not include is making mindless small talk with their self-centered mommies and daddies.”

I was about to change the subject to one I found to be of major interest, meaning Nathaniel Stibbins, when Claude did it for me.

“So tell me, Dr. Popper: Is there anything new on the plans for Nathaniel’s memorial service?” he asked. “Not yet,” I replied.

He frowned. “I’ve mentioned the service to several other people, and no one else seems to know anything about it.”

“That’s because it’s still very hush-hush,” I explained. Thinking fast on my feet, I fibbed, “We haven’t had a chance to clear it with his family, so we want to hold off on telling anyone about it until it’s more definite.”

“I see.”

“But I’m sure it’ll be an event that reflects how well loved he was here at the Worth School,” I said. “And in his personal life, too, of course.”