Who's Kitten Who? (18 page)

“What exactly do you mean by ‘stalking’?” I asked cautiously.

Aziza’s expression darkened. “As soon as Simon came back to me, the woman went absolutely berserk. She started calling him on his cell phone thirty or forty times a day. She constantly followed him in her car, so that wherever he went he’d find her waiting for him when he came out. She also sent him letters.”

“What kind of letters?” I asked, puzzled.

“Threatening letters,” she replied, her emerald-colored eyes growing round. “Letters that were filled with phrases like
I’d rather see you dead than with her
and
One day you’re going to regret what you’ve done.
” She paused, no doubt for dramatic effect. “Then there were the phone messages.”

“What kind of phone messages?”

“The ramblings of a deranged mind,” she replied bitterly. “Simon and I would come home from an evening out together and she would have filled up his answering machine. She’d say things like, ‘I know you’re out with her. I followed you, so I know you went to such-and-such restaurant.’” She shuddered. “It was terrifying.”

“Where are the letters and tapes now?” I asked, my interest piqued.

“Oh, Simon got rid of them.” Once again, she waved her hand in the air in a gesture that was considerably more dramatic than what was called for. “He acted like they were nothing. He never did see her for what she really was. He had such a kind heart that he probably couldn’t even imagine anyone that malicious.”

“So he never went to the police?”

“No.” Shaking her head slowly, she added, “I tried to get him to file a report. Or even to get a restraining order. But he insisted that Lacey was harmless. I considered going to the police myself, but I knew that without his cooperation I wouldn’t get very far.”

“But you must have told the police about Lacey’s harassment after he was…after last weekend.”

“I tried,” Aziza insisted. “But the officer I talked to—an absolutely unctuous man, by the way—didn’t seem very interested. Not when he found out I couldn’t actually produce the letters or the tapes as evidence.” With an indignant toss of her head, she added, “He acted as if I was making the whole thing up.”

As much as I hated to agree with Anthony Falcone on anything, this time around I was leaning toward his way of thinking. There was no proof that Lacey was stalking Simon aside from Aziza’s version of what had gone on. And the fact that it happened to incriminate her rival for Simon’s affections made it extremely questionable.

Then again, Kyle Carlson had also alluded to Lacey’s extreme behavior. At Monday night’s rehearsal, he’d mentioned that Simon had told him a lot about Lacey—“an earful,” was the way I remembered him putting it—over the last few weeks before he was murdered. Enough that Kyle had also concluded that Lacey Croft wasn’t a stable person.

Still, the bottom line was that Aziza was accusing Lacey of killing Simon, while Lacey thought Aziza was most likely the culprit. I supposed that was par for the course in a love triangle that ended in murder.

I would have liked to hear more about Aziza’s take on Lacey’s frightening behavior, but she suddenly put her teacup down on the table. “It’s getting late. I suppose you should take a look at Ophelia. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about what you said all day. Ringworm is pretty awful, isn’t it?”

She was right. Once Aziza and I were in the van, I pulled on a pair of rubber gloves before touching Ophelia. She, meanwhile, stood on the examining table with her muscles tensed and her eyes darting around nervously.

As I palpated the cat’s internal organs, I went through my usual list of questions. “Any change in appetite? Any vomiting or diarrhea? Any coughing or sneezing? Any changes in her water consumption?”

Aziza answered no to all of them. “What about itchy skin?” I tried. “Has Ophelia been scratching a lot?”

“No. The scabs don’t seem to bother her.”

I put Ophelia on the scale and recorded her weight of 8.2 pounds. Then I took her temperature, which was a healthy 101.8 degrees. Next I checked her eyes. After switching off the lights, I examined her skin with a bar of ultraviolet light called a Wood’s lamp, which causes some skin lesions to glow.

But it was when I checked inside her tiny ears with an ear videoscope that things began to make sense.

There on the screen, dramatically magnified and in full color, was the interior of Ophelia’s right ear—complete with the horde of tiny crablike parasites living there.

“She has ear mites,” I informed Aziza. “They can cause bacterial and yeast infections, as well as lesions in the ear. But they can also cause skin lesions on the body. It’s not common, but it’s possible that that’s what we’re dealing with in this instance. I have to treat the ear mites anyway, so for now let’s focus on getting rid of them and assume that they’re responsible for the scabs. If she doesn’t improve, then we’ll start looking for other causes.”

Ophelia patiently allowed me to wipe out her ears with a cleaning fluid called OtiCalm. Then I poured a second liquid into her ears called MilbeMite, a one-shot treatment consisting of a solution of milbemycin oxime that kills ear mites.

“Ophelia should be rechecked in three weeks,” I told her. “She may need a second treatment of milbemycin oxime at that point. In the meantime, I’d like you to clean her ears twice a day with OtiCalm. I’ll show you how. I’m also going to give you some ear drops to help get rid of the ear mites and yeast. It’s an antifungal, an anti-inflammatory, and an antibacterial.

“And continue to keep an eye on her skin lesions. We still haven’t completely ruled out ringworm, so if you see what you think may be a flare-up, either your regular vet or I should have it cultured. That will give you a definitive answer.”

I glanced around my clinic-on-wheels. It suddenly seemed extremely large, mainly because I knew that my next step would be cleaning the entire interior with bleach—a necessary precaution whenever there’s even a suspicion of ringworm.

Maybe Sunny McGee is right, I thought grimly. Maybe I really do need an assistant.

“Thank you so much!” Aziza gushed when we’d finished. “I promise I’ll do everything you say. You’re so good at this!”

I shrugged modestly. To me, taking care of animals is pretty straightforward. Ask the owner some questions, examine the animal, maybe do a few tests. The answers are usually pretty clear.

If only it was that simple dealing with humans—especially the ones whose emotions got so out of hand that they committed murder.

As I jogged across the parking lot of the Bayside Bistro, where I was meeting Nick and his parents for dinner, I glanced at my watch anxiously. I hadn’t paid attention to the time while I was at Aziza’s.

It was only ten minutes to seven. I was early.

Yet when I reached the doorway of the restaurant, Dorothy was already standing inside the foyer. Her arms were folded across her chest, and she looked extremely perturbed. Henry, meanwhile, was lounging on a bench that was pushed against one wall.

“You made it,” she announced in a shrill voice. “Henry and I were getting worried. In fact, we were wondering if we’d have to eat by ourselves.”

I opened my mouth to protest, then snapped it shut. After all, what was the point?

“How was your day?” I asked. “Did you enjoy the wineries?”

“A lot of those places charge for their tastings, you know,” Dorothy replied tartly.

They’re businesses, I thought, gritting my teeth, not charities for tight-fisted tourists.

I tried changing the subject. “Did you enjoy the scenery?”

She shrugged. “I’m not big on fields.”

“How about you, Henry?” I asked, turning my focus to the less offensive half of the Burby duo.

It was only then that I noticed Henry was slumped over in his seat. His eyes were closed and his breathing was raspy.

“Henry?” I cried. “Are you all right?”

“He’s fine,” Dorothy assured me. “Between all those animals in your house and all that…that
nature
out east, his allergies have gone berserk. He took a double dose of Benadryl. As usual, it’s made him a bit drowsy.”

Drowsy! I thought. The man is practically comatose!

“We might as well go inside,” Dorothy muttered. “If they haven’t already given away our table.”

She leaned over Henry’s extremely relaxed body so that her face was next to his ear. “Henry?” she hissed. “Naptime is over.”

“Wha-a-a?” He opened his eyes and sat up abruptly, looking so disoriented I felt like asking him what year it was and who was president. “Where are we?”

“The overpriced restaurant Jessica picked out,” Dorothy informed him. “It’s time for dinner, so up and at ’em.”

As we walked inside with poor Henry shuffling behind us, she glanced around. I did the same, enjoying the restaurant’s sophisticated decor. With its clean lines and subtle use of color, it captured the ambience of an upscale Manhattan eatery.

“Goodness. This place certainly looks…interesting,” Dorothy observed with a look of distaste on her face. “They’re obviously in the middle of renovating. That would explain why everything looks so plain.”

“I can smell the spices,” Henry mumbled.

Grateful for his show of support, I volunteered, “Yes, this place is known for its wonderfully spiced food. In fact—”

“Can’t stand spices.” If he was trying to imitate a zombie, he was doing a darned good job. “At least, my guts can’t. If I eat anything with the least bit of spice in it, it goes right through me.”

I was doing my best not to dwell on that particular image when Dorothy asked, “How exactly did you come to choose this particular place, Jessica?”

“Actually, it was Nick’s idea,” I replied, trying not to sound defensive. “It’s one of our—his—favorite places.”

“I see.” She looked around again before adding, “It seems so…trendy.”

She said “trendy” as if Webster’s Dictionary defined the word as
bizarre, badly decorated, and filthy enough to be closed by the Board of Health.

“Speaking of Nick,” I said through clenched teeth, “I wonder where he is.” For the twentieth time in about thirty seconds, I checked the front door.

“Poor Nicky works so hard,” Dorothy said. “Knowing him, he’s probably so busy studying he lost track of the time. He doesn’t have all that free time that you—”

Fortunately, my fiancé chose that moment to materialize in the doorway of the restaurant.

“Nick!” I cried. “Over here!”

Throw me a life raft! I thought. But having him finally join our chummy little party was the next best thing.

“Hi, everybody,” he greeted us breathlessly. “Sorry I’m late.”

Me too, I thought.

“Not at all!” Dorothy cooed. “You’re right on time. We’re the ones who are early. For some reason, Jessica insisted that we get here way before our reservation time.”

Before I had a chance to protest, he winked at me. “That’s my girl!” he exclaimed. “If it wasn’t for Jessie being so organized, I don’t know how I’d get through a single day.”

“Now, Nicky, you’re extremely organized,” Dorothy insisted. “I remember when you were in the third grade. Every day, you’d come home from school and—”

“I think our table’s ready,” I interrupted, anxious to get this family dinner of ours over as quickly as possible. “Isn’t the maître d’ waving at us?”

Actually, he seemed to be gesturing over something he was telling one of the waiters. But I made a beeline for the only available table in the restaurant, figuring the staff was going to have to use physical force to remove me from my chair if it turned out not to be ours.

Before I’d reached the table, however, the maître d’ came rushing over.

“Excuse me, we have another table for you,” he said, so politely that, at any other time, I would have reacted as if we were having a normal conversation.

But this wasn’t any other time. This was now, when my blood was dangerously close to boiling, thanks to Ma Burby’s supernatural ability to get under my skin and somehow turn up the thermostat.

“I want this table,” I demanded. “I
need
this table.”

“This is the Burby party, isn’t it?” he asked.

Is it ever, I thought. “Yes.”

“The reservation is for six people. You’ll be sitting at that larger table, over in the corner.”

“Our reservation is for four,” I insisted. “I made it myself.”

“But someone called earlier today and added two more.”

“That’s impossible. There must be some mistake.”

I’d barely gotten the words out before a familiar face at the front of the restaurant caught my eye. A lovely warm feeling rushed over me, instantly lowering the temperature of my blood back to normal.

“Betty!” I cried. “What are you doing here?”

I noticed then that Winston was right behind her. “We’ve come to join you for dinner,” he announced as they walked over.

“The more the merrier, right?” Betty added, casting me a conspiratorial look.

I had to resist the urge to hug her right then and there. “Definitely.”

In fact, I was already feeling considerably merrier as our group moved toward our table for six. Unfortunately, it was a round table, one that was small enough for everyone to converse at the same time instead of breaking up into little groups.