Who's Kitten Who? (13 page)

My second rehearsal with the Port Players went considerably better than the first one. It was actually fun, now that I was starting to get the hang of it. Surprisingly, I managed to wear the beige dancing shoes all evening without developing a single blister. However, prancing around in public in a pink chiffon skirt was definitely going to take some getting used to.

The following morning, I made my first stop of the day the Port Townsend branch of the Bank of Long Island, hoping for a chance to talk to Lacey Croft’s romantic rival. And since Aziza was no longer involved with
She’s Flying High
and wasn’t coming to rehearsals, I had to seek her out on her own turf.

Lacey had used some pretty strong words to describe Aziza Zorn, saying she was a “drama queen” who was “always going ballistic.” Her characterization, along with Sunflower McGee’s claim that she’d overheard Simon arguing with a woman shortly before he was murdered, made me anxious to find out whether Lacey’s claims were valid or merely the result of jealousy. Besides, the police always took a close look at the wife or girlfriend of a man who’d been murdered, so I figured it made sense for me to do the same.

The bank was quiet, with only three other customers. Eight tellers sat behind bars, rows of deposit slips were neatly lined up on counters equipped with pens on curly cords, and, along the back wall, a big banner read,
The Bank of Long Island: Make Your Money Work for You!

I cased the joint, feeling kind of like a bank robber. But I finally spotted my target sitting at one of the half-dozen desks in back, the area in which customers sat down with bank employees to talk one on one about new accounts and loans and other topics of interest to people who were trying to make their money work for them.

Aziza was tucked away in the corner. I was glad her desk had a plaque with her name on it, since it was hard to believe this ordinary-looking woman was the same individual I’d seen dressed like Morticia Addams at the theater and again at Simon’s wake. While that Aziza Zorn had filled the room with her presence, adorning herself with feathers and capes with the same ease most of us wear Nikes and jeans, this Aziza Zorn blended into her surroundings with the finesse of a chameleon.

She was wearing a nondescript dark blue suit and an off-white blouse, and her wild black hair was pulled back into a severe bun. As I got closer, I saw that her eyes were a pale gray-green this morning, rather than the brilliant green I’d noticed the first time I’d seen her. And the only makeup she wore was a slash of dark red lipstick that made her look like a little girl playing dress-up.

Her desk was as neat and as serious-looking as she was. There were two silver picture frames on it, placed at different angles. I could see that one contained a photograph of Simon Wainwright, smiling warmly at whomever was taking the picture.

“Aziza?” I asked hesitantly as I walked toward her desk, exercising the same caution I’d use in approaching a Rottweiler.

“Yes, I’m Aziza Zorn,” she replied, looking puzzled. “Do we know each other?”

“I know you, but there’s no reason for you to know me.”

She blinked. At that point, she was probably trying to decide whether to call security.

“My name is Jessie Popper, and I recently joined the Port Players,” I explained. “It’s kind of a long story, but basically I went to one of the rehearsals with my friend Betty Vandervoort. Even though I’ve never been in a play before, much less a musical, the next thing I knew I was part of the cast.”

“I know Betty,” Aziza replied guardedly. “She’s very nice.”

“Betty’s the best.”

Aziza studied me, frowning. “So you’re in the play? I don’t remember you.”

“I’ve taken over the role of Anita Snook,” I replied. “Elena Brock took over the role of Amelia, so Derek needed someone to play Anita.” I hesitated, then added, “I hope you won’t hold it against me that I’m in the play. Since you didn’t think the production should continue, I mean.”

“Not at all,” she replied stiffly. “I understand that Derek felt the need to go on.” She hesitated before adding, “I don’t happen to agree with him, but he’s entitled to do what he thinks is right.”

She glanced around nervously, as if she’d suddenly remembered she was at work. “Maybe you’d better sit down. I don’t want to get in trouble.”

I lowered myself into one of the two chairs opposite her desk. My new location afforded me a good look at the second silver picture frame on her desk. When I saw the photograph in it, my heart skipped a beat.

“I don’t blame you for not having the heart to continue with the play,” I said. I took a deep breath, wondering how far I dared push this. “But I guess I don’t really understand why you’re so against the production continuing.”

“Simon was killed just days ago!” she exclaimed, her voice tinged with bitterness. “It seems so…so callous to go on as if nothing happened. If Derek and everybody else have any feelings at all, I don’t see how they can continue.”

“I didn’t actually know Simon,” I said. I was trying to keep her from lumping me in with the other Port Players who’d stuck with the production, since she clearly saw them as disloyal. “But it sounds as if a lot of people really cared about him. Admired him too.”

“That’s certainly true. But I’m sure you didn’t come here to talk about Simon or his play,” she said impatiently. She sat up straighter and folded her hands on her desk. “Are you here to open a new account?”

“I’m thinking about it,” I replied, hoping I sounded convincing. “I wanted to get some information about fees and interest rates, things like that. I’m shopping around for a new bank, and I want to visit a few and compare their services.”

“Very wise,” she said, nodding. She opened the top left drawer of her desk and pulled out several glossy booklets. Each one featured pictures of people who were smiling, presumably because they were so delighted to be customers of the Bank of Long Island.

For the next five minutes, I pretended to listen with interest as Aziza explained all the different checking and savings account plans to me. I nodded and said “Uh-huh” a lot, but, frankly, the experience made me glad that I was satisfied with my present bank.

“Thanks for all the information,” I told her when I was pretty sure we’d covered all the options, including the one that would afford me an attractive plastic travel mug with the bank’s logo on it as soon as I signed on the dotted line. “Like I said, I’m going to be looking at a few banks, so I’m not ready to make a decision yet.”

“Of course,” Aziza replied woodenly. “But if I were you, I’d think carefully about the Savvy Savings Plan. It’s perfect for you.”

We’d exhausted the topic I’d been pretending had brought me here in the first place, which meant it was time for me to strike. So after stuffing the pamphlets into my purse, I gestured toward the second photograph on her desk.

“I see you have a cat,” I said in what I hoped was a friendly manner. “Looks like a purebred Persian.”

Aziza’s eyes narrowed. “What about it?”

“I’m always interested in people’s pets,” I replied. “I’m a veterinarian.”

“Really?” For the first time since I’d spotted her, I could see her letting her guard down. “Ophelia is an absolutely amazing cat. She’s so smart. Her vocabulary is incredible. She knows the names of different kinds of food, the names of the different rooms in my apartment—I swear she even knows the days of the week. Monday through Friday, when I have to go to work, she comes into my room at seven to wake me up. But then, on Saturday and Sunday, she waits in the living room or the kitchen until I get up!”

She was smiling as she studied the photograph of her cat. But her expression suddenly tightened. “I should bring her in for a checkup. It’s been almost a year since she’s been to her vet. It’s just so hard when you work a nine-to-five job. I’ve been busy with the Port Players, and of course Simon and I spent every spare minute we could find together.”

“Has Ophelia experienced any health problems?” I asked.

“She’s fine,” Aziza insisted. Then her forehead tensed. “Except for this one thing. I’ve noticed a few white scabs on her skin lately. I suppose it’s just dry skin.”

A warning bell instantly sounded in my head. Ophelia’s white scabs could indicate ringworm, since the condition was particularly common in Persians. Ringworm caused skin lesions, itching, and hair loss, and it was nothing to fool around with. Not only was it difficult to treat in long-haired cats; the fungal infection could easily be transmitted to both other animals and humans.

“Actually, it could be a sign of something more serious,” I told her. “Maybe even ringworm, which is a common problem in Persians.”

“Really?” She sounded alarmed.

Even though I’d reacted to her cat’s skin problem the same way I would have with anyone else, I was secretly pleased that I’d gotten a rise out of her. I was hoping to be invited to Aziza’s home, since it would undoubtedly help me get a better sense of her. I was still disturbed by Lacey’s claim that Simon’s announcement that he was breaking up with Aziza could have driven the woman to violence. Then again, something else might have pushed her over the edge—like learning that Simon was involved with Kyle or Ian or both.

“I’d be happy to take a look at Ophelia,” I volunteered. “I have a mobile services unit—a clinic-on-wheels—instead of a regular office. I make house calls, which saves my clients time and travel. It also makes the treatment much less stressful for the animal. And I’m pretty flexible about hours.”

“Could you really?” Aziza asked, her eyes widening. “I live pretty near here, in Pond Grove. My apartment is only about a half mile off the Expressway. When would you be able to come?”

We agreed on five-thirty that evening, right after she got home from work. I wrote down her address and phone number in my appointment book.

“Thank you so much, Doctor—Pepper, is it?” she said as I stood up to leave.

“It’s Dr. Popper, but you can call me Jessie. And you’re very welcome.” I hesitated, then said, “You know, when I first came in here today, I didn’t recognize you at first.”

She offered me a weak smile. “This isn’t really me. Whenever I’m here, I just pretend I’m in a movie, playing the role of someone who works in a bank. It helps me get through the day.”

Glancing around with a forlorn look on her face, she added, “Sometimes I feel like it’s the best acting I’ve ever done in my life.”

Mission accomplished, I thought with satisfaction as I left the bank, loaded down with pamphlets but, alas, no plastic travel mug. I hoped I would do as well at what would be my second stop of the day related to my investigation of Simon Wainwright’s murder.

I’d planned that one for much later, however. Close to noon, in fact. After studying the schedule Derek Albright had given me when I’d first signed on with the Port Players, I decided that late morning looked like a good time for a freelance cleaning person to descend on Theater One. It was right after a group of high school students would have gathered there to watch a play about drunk driving and a few hours before Jill had scheduled a special choreography rehearsal with the show’s two principals, the actors playing Amelia Earhart and George Putnam. From what I knew about high school students, the gum wrappers alone undoubtedly warranted a thorough cleansing before grown-ups would be able to use the space.

When I stopped by, I found that, as usual, the front door of the theater was open. I walked right in and wasn’t surprised to see someone standing on the stage, sweeping.

Bingo,
I thought.

Then I did a double take. Sunflower McGee wasn’t exactly what I’d imagined when I heard the term
cleaning woman.
She certainly wasn’t the apron-wearing, Windex-wielding type. She was tiny, barely five feet tall, and looked as if she hadn’t yet celebrated her twenty-first birthday. Her outfit consisted of a black T-shirt printed with the words
If You Can Read This, You’re Too Damn Close,
baggy black jeans studded with way too much metal, and a pair of heavy black boots, footwear that, by comparison, made my chukka boots look like ballet slippers.

Not that she was completely without splashes of color. Her short black hair was highlighted with a single brilliant blue streak. She wore it in a deliberately disheveled bed-head style, with bangs that nearly obliterated her eyes. Gold stud earrings curved around her entire left ear like a constellation. They occasionally glinted in the light, as did the silver rings she wore on each finger, including both thumbs.

She didn’t appear to notice that I’d come in. That was probably because a pair of earphones was clamped around her head, with the music turned up loud. So loud, in fact, that even before I reached the stage, I was able to identify the group as the Red Hot Chili Peppers.

I stepped onto the stage and waved until I caught her attention. She immediately pulled off her earphones.

“Sorry about that,” she said with a grin. “Are you looking for somebody?”

“You, I think,” I replied. “Are you Sunflower McGee?”

“Sunny,” she said, grimacing. “Hardly anybody calls me Sunflower.”

“It is kind of an unusual name,” I commented.