Who's Kitten Who? (2 page)

True, the Port Players was only a local group, run by amateurs. But theater had always held a certain mystique for me, mainly because I couldn’t fathom anyone actually having the guts to go onstage in front of an audience and perform. Personally, I was one of those behind-the-scenes people. Of course, the only real theatrical experience I’d had was in college, when I’d worked backstage at the Bryn Mawr College Junior Show.

Betty and I made our way past a few dressing rooms, stepping carefully over the ropes and cables that littered the wings and, finally, traipsing along the side of the stage. As we walked down the short set of stairs off to one side, I glanced out at the audience. At least twenty-five people were scattered throughout the first four or five rows, some sitting alone and others clustered in small groups.

The lights were low and the air was somber. It seemed fitting that the entire stage was black—not only the floor but also the tremendous backdrops hanging behind the stage.

As Betty and I sat down in red velvet seats, a tall, gangly man rose from the first row and turned to face the audience. He had gaunt features, piercing dark eyes, and curly dark brown hair that was so thick I wondered how he managed to get a comb through it. It kept falling into his eyes and he resolutely kept pushing it back.

He was wearing beige pants and a white turtleneck, an outfit that screamed
Director.
At least to me, who’d learned most of what I knew about the theater from movies.

As if she’d read my thoughts, Betty leaned over and whispered, “That’s Derek Albright. The Port Players’ executive director.”

“This is truly a sad day,” Derek began somberly. “We have lost a man who was more than a member of our troupe. Simon Wainwright was our spiritual leader. Yet even in this time of deep despair, it’s imperative that we continue. The expression
the show must go on
has never been more true. I don’t think any of us doubt that’s exactly what Simon would have wanted. Jonathan, who’s been playing Charles Lindbergh, has agreed to step into the role of Amelia Earhart’s husband, George Putnam. I’m hoping you’ll all agree that the best way we can remember Simon is to bring his work off the page and into this theater. Let’s work together to honor the man who was our friend and mentor by finishing what we started—”

“How
can
you?”

The high-pitched female voice that rose up from the back of the theater startled everyone, cutting through the somber mood. As I craned my neck to see who had spoken, I noticed that everyone else in the audience was doing the exact same thing.

Halfway back, a young woman had stood up. She was dressed entirely in black, wearing a long dress that looked as if it was from another era. Either that or it was one of those bridesmaid’s gowns I’d been wishing Betty would opt for.

Still, there was no way I would have traded my mint-green frock for her getup. Not when the dress was accessorized with a dramatic black velvet cape edged with silver sequins and a black felt hat that swooped down over one eye and was decorated with a huge feather that some poor ostrich was undoubtedly still looking for.

Once I managed to get past her startling outfit, I saw that a cloud of wild and wavy jet-black hair hung halfway down her back. Her features were pretty enough, if not particularly outstanding. That is, except for her green eyes, their striking emerald color no doubt the result of tinted contact lenses. Even though her eyes were ringed in thick black eyeliner, I could see that they burned with fury.

“How
can
you?” she repeated, gliding down the aisle. “How can you possibly go on as if nothing has happened?”

“That’s Aziza Zorn,” Betty whispered. “Simon’s girlfriend. They were very close. At least if the fact that Aziza was always hanging all over him is any indication.”

“Does she always dress like that?” I asked.

“I understand her day job is working at the Port Townsend branch of the Bank of Long Island,” she replied. “I have a feeling their dress code isn’t quite that liberal.”

Aziza had reached the front of the theater. She planted herself firmly next to Derek, and, throwing her arms out dramatically, she cried, “Simon is dead! He’s gone! Some vile person has taken his life. And with that cruel act, he’s taken a part of our lives too! So how can we be expected to proceed as if…as if life could possibly go on in exactly the same way?”

“I agree with Aziza,” a male voice added. I turned in time to see a tall, lean man with sandy-colored hair and blue eyes rise from his seat. “If you ask me, the best way to honor Simon would be to admit that we can’t possibly continue without him.”

Instantly, the entire theater erupted into chaos. People rose to their feet, shouting about what Simon would have wanted and what Simon wouldn’t have wanted. I had to admit, this was turning out to be much more interesting than I’d expected.

“People, please!” Derek finally yelled, his voice loud enough to rise above the racket. “Take your seats. Please, we must discuss this reasonably!”

Once everyone had quieted down, he held up both hands. “I hear what you’re saying, Aziza. Kyle too. When you come right down to it, I think we all have to mourn our loss in our own private way. But for me, that means continuing the work Simon started. He was so excited by this production, and I think it’s vital that we keep it going. Those of you who agree with me, I invite you—no, I
beg
you—to stay. Those of you who don’t, you’re welcome to leave, with no hard feelings.”

Aziza bobbed up from where she’d perched in the front row. “You all know what I think,” she said, turning to address the audience. “I’m just too sickened by what happened to go on. But if you truly believe this is what you have to do, I wish you the best.”

With that, she squared her shoulders and stalked out of the theater, heading up the aisle and disappearing behind the double doors that I surmised led to the lobby.

“Anyone else?” Derek asked.

The room was so still you could have heard one of Gabriella Bertucci’s pins drop.

“Good. Then I suggest that we all go home and try to get over the shock of the terrible news we received this morning,” Derek said firmly. “A wake is being held tomorrow from one to four at Bingham Brothers’ Funeral Parlor in Sandy Point. I urge everyone to stop by, not only to pay their respects but also to try to get some closure. As for our production, we’ll stick to our schedule and meet for our next rehearsal Monday at seven.”

As the cast and production crew stood up and the room buzzed with their conversations, Betty turned to me. “Well?” she asked anxiously. “What did you think?”

I just shook my head. “I’m sorry, Betty. I didn’t get much of a sense of who any of the other members of the company are or what their relationship with Simon was, not enough to even begin to guess who might have wanted him dead.”

“Of course not. How could you?” Betty frowned. “I knew this wouldn’t be an actual rehearsal, but I didn’t think Derek would end it so quickly. Maybe he wouldn’t mind if you came back another time, perhaps even to our next rehearsal on Monday evening. Would you be willing to come?”

“Certainly,” I assured her. I pretended I was simply being polite. Somehow, admitting that I’d found the drama that had just unfolded before me surprisingly entertaining didn’t seem appropriate, given the circumstances. Not to mention that, though I didn’t want to worry Betty, the possibility that one of my dear friend’s castmates was a killer made me more than a little concerned for her safety.

“Oh, thank you, Jessica! Let’s check with Derek to make sure he’s comfortable with having you there.”

We walked over and waited while Derek continued the conversation he’d been having with a slim, forty-something woman.

“We’ve lost our Amelia!” he wailed. “I can’t believe Aziza is doing this to us!”

“We’ll figure something out,” the woman assured him. “Elena Brock is the obvious person to take over the lead. I’ll start working with her right away.”

“Then who’ll take Elena’s role?” he asked, sounding just as woeful. “Who’ll play Anita?”

The question remained unanswered as he let out a loud sigh, then turned and noticed Betty and me.

“Derek,” Betty began, “if you have a moment, I’d like to introduce a friend of mine, Jessica Popper. Jessie is interested in coming to Monday night’s rehearsal—”

I stuck out my hand to shake, expecting him to do the same. Instead, he just stared at me, his face lighting up as if Greta Garbo herself had just walked in.

“Perfect!” he cried.

Something about his sudden burst of enthusiasm made me nervous. “Uh, what’s perfect?”

“You are! You’re perfect for the role of Anita Snook, the aviation pioneer who gave Amelia Earhart her first flying lesson.”

“But I never—”

“I won’t take no for an answer,” Derek insisted. “Whoever you are,
please
say you’ll join the cast!”

Chapter 2

“I love cats because I love my home and after a while they become its visible soul.”

—Jean Cocteau

I
was still trying to reconstruct exactly what had gone on in that theater as I steered my little red Volkswagen off Minnesauke Lane and bumped along the quarter-mile driveway leading to my stone cottage. My tiny hideaway was nestled among the trees that still covered much of the historic Tallmadge estate, a sprawling property that dated back to the early 1800s. The mansion and all the outbuildings had been built by the grandson of Major Benjamin Tallmadge, the head of the Culper Spy Ring, which, during the Revolutionary War, sent George Washington vital information about the British soldiers’ whereabouts. Tallmadge’s grandson had clearly taken to the capitalist system, and his success as a businessman had earned him an estate that was pretty impressive even by today’s standards.

These days, four of us lived on the property. Betty and her fiancé, Winston Farnsworth, lived in the Big House, as I couldn’t resist calling the dignified mansion, with Winston’s dachshund, Frederick. And Nick and my animals and I holed up in the caretaker’s cottage, which made up for its lack of space with enough charm to rate its own show on the Home & Garden Channel.

But coming home to such a cozy little cabin was only partly responsible for the feeling of relief that swept over me as I neared the end of the driveway. I’ve always been a strong believer in that old saying,
Home is where the heart is.
And even more than the softest pillows, the comfiest bed, and a freezer stocked with Ben & Jerry’s, that means my loved ones, both human and animal.

After an afternoon that still had me in a fog, I was even more anxious than usual to surround myself with all the elements in my life that really mattered. I was glad to see that Nick’s car was in the driveway, a sign that he was home from another long Saturday at the library reading up on torts and contracts and whatever other obscure topics law schools drum into the ambitious heads of their first-year students. His black Maxima was parked next to my clinic-on-wheels, the twenty-six-foot white van that served as my office. Blue letters were stenciled on the door, spelling out the words:

REIGNING CATS & DOGS

Mobile Veterinary Services

Large and Small Animals

631–555-PETS

As I let myself into the cottage, I was serenaded by Eric Clapton, thanks to the CD player Nick had no doubt switched on the moment he’d gotten home. That man is positively addicted to classic rock, I thought. I was also instantly smothered in kisses as my two dogs rushed to greet me, both so happy I was home that their claws skittered across the hardwood floor as if they were the Keystone Kops.

“Hey, Louie-Lou!” I cooed, throwing an arm around my one-eyed Dalmatian. Max, my tailless Westie who, like Lou, was a victim of his previous subhuman owner, jumped up and down as if he were a marionette rather than a crazed terrier. “Hello, Maxie-Max. Were you afraid I’d forget to say hello to you?”

As soon as he realized his favorite playmate was now available for fun and games, Max sprang across the living room to retrieve his most treasured toy, a pink rubber poodle that was eternally covered in saliva. He never got tired of chasing after it. I dutifully wrested it from his jaws, then tossed it back to the other end of the room. Both he and Lou scampered after it, their body language communicating,
Don’t you just love playing Slimytoy?
The fact was, I loved it as much as they did.

All this commotion prompted my blue-and-gold macaw, Prometheus, to start squawking his own greeting. “
Awk!
Who’s the pretty birdy?”

I went over to his cage and stuck my hand in so he could climb on.

“Welcome home, Jessie,” he greeted me, mimicking my voice perfectly.
“Awk!”

“I’ve got a special treat for you,” I told him, running my hand along the bright, silky-smooth feathers covering his back. “I’ll get you a piece of apple as soon as I get my bearings.”

“
Awk!
Prometheus loves apple!”

As I put him back in his cage, Catherine the Great, better known as Cat, crept over. My lovely gray kitty was clearly feeling her arthritis. Even so, as she made her way toward me, she carried herself like a
grand dame,
someone along the lines of Queen Elizabeth—or perhaps her namesake, the enlightened empress of Russia during the 1700s.

Cat’s quiet dignity was emphasized by the sudden appearance of the latest addition to my household, Tinkerbell. The spunky orange tiger kitten had joined our family a few months earlier, after Nick found her abandoned in a cardboard box in a field on his university’s campus.

At the time, she’d been so tiny she fit into the palm of my hand. But that hadn’t stopped her from taking over the entire household. And now that she was nearly grown, she had size on her side as well as attitude. I wouldn’t have thought it was possible, but she’d found a way to wield even more power over the other members of my menagerie. The one exception was Cat, whom she seemed to recognize had earned herself a place at the top. The way the two felines managed to cohabitate was by giving each other a wide berth.

“Hey, Cat!” I crooned. “Hi, Tink!” As I stroked them both, I cast a fond glance at the most retiring member of my menagerie, Leilani. Of course, her failure to extend a personal greeting was largely based on the fact that she lived in a glass tank. But I was pretty sure the Jackson’s chameleon Nick and I had smuggled home from Hawaii in a sock gave me a little wink. Not that it was easy to tell, given the fact that her eyes were on opposite sides of her head.

I flopped on the couch with Cat in my lap, basking in the feeling of being home. While most people would have taken this action as a sign of complete exhaustion, Max, being a terrier, decided it meant I was looking to play a few more rounds of Slimytoy. Given his obsession with his pink poodle, it was no surprise I’d had to replace it several times. Fortunately, Max never questioned how its head had been reattached or its squeak had mysteriously returned.

I’d given the poor slimy poodle a few more tosses by the time Nick emerged from the bathroom, drying his dark hair with a white towel. A second towel was wrapped around his waist, giving him a sexy beach-boy look I kind of liked.

“Hey,” he greeted me, turning the volume on the CD player way down. “I didn’t hear you come in.” Tinkerbell meowed loudly, then wound herself through his legs.

“You’re never going to believe what I did today,” I returned, stroking Cat’s fur distractedly.

But from the stricken look on his face, I got the feeling he hadn’t heard me. Not when he clearly had something much more pressing on his mind.

“What’s the matter?” I asked, sitting up straighter. A hundred different possibilities flashed through my head. He’d failed an exam at law school, something terrible had happened to one of his friends…

“It’s my parents,” he announced, picking up Tinkerbell and plopping down on the couch beside me.

“What about them?” I asked cautiously.

He cleared his throat. “You know they’ve been anxious to meet you for a really long time,” he said. “And now that we’re engaged, they can’t wait.”

“I can’t wait to meet them either,” I said sincerely. My own parents had been killed in an automobile accident years earlier. All the more reason I was looking forward to getting to know Nick’s, even though he’d been warning me for years that his mother was—what was the word he always used? Oh, yes—difficult.

“No, they
really
can’t wait,” he continued. “They’re coming here to meet you. All the way from Florida. Soon.”

Something about the way he said the word
soon
made my stomach tighten. “How soon?”

“Monday. The day after tomorrow.”

“The day after tomorrow?”
I squawked, sounding an awful lot like Prometheus.

Nick winced. “I’m afraid so. My parents figure they’ve been waiting so long to meet you that there’s no reason to postpone it any longer. Now that my dad’s retired, he and my mother are constantly looking for ways to fill their time. Apparently they’d been talking about taking a trip to Long Island. Ever since they moved down to that condo in Fort Lauderdale, they’ve been on the go so much they haven’t even had a chance to check out the swimming pool. My dad told me they’re even considering buying an RV so they can travel around the country.”

I was having trouble listening to all these details, since I was still stuck on the day-after-tomorrow part.

“But, Nick, they can’t come that soon!” I protested. “I’ve got a full schedule of appointments this week and…and a
Pet People
segment that’s airing on Friday…and Betty’s wedding is exactly three weeks from today! And you’re in the middle of the spring semester, with classes every day. How on earth are we going to find time to see them?”

“Funny you should bring that up,” Nick replied nervously. “There’s, uh, something else.”

“Which is…?” I prompted.

“They’re planning on staying with us.”

“What?”
Now I really sounded like Prometheus. Especially when he’s got a seed caught in his throat.

“They feel it’s the best way to really get to know you,” Nick explained. “And since they’re coming all that way…”

“Nick, the cottage is barely big enough for you and me, much less Max and Lou and Catherine the Great and…and…” I was so flustered I couldn’t even remember the names of all my pets. “We have exactly one small living room, one tiny bedroom, and a kitchen the size of a linen closet. The bathroom is microscopic, so it doesn’t even count. Where are we supposed to put them?”

He shrugged. “I figured we could give them our room.”

“And where will you and I sleep?” I demanded. “In Lou’s water bowl?”

“The couch folds out,” he said, in that annoyingly cheerful
let’s make the best of this
way of his.

“Now, there’s a good option.” I didn’t even try to keep the sarcasm out of my voice. “Especially if you enjoy sleeping with a metal pole in your back that makes you feel like you’re being tortured by the Spanish Inquisition.”

“It’s only for a few days,” Nick insisted. “We’ll manage.” He cleared his throat before adding, “Even with Mitzi.”

Mitzi? I thought. I couldn’t remember Nick ever mentioning anyone in his family named Mitzi.

“And Mitzi would be…?”

“Mitzi is my mother’s dog,” Nick explained. “A Maltese.”

“Is
that
all?” I was so relieved I actually laughed. “You may have noticed, Nick, that I feel pretty comfortable around dogs. In fact, some of my best friends are dogs.”

He wasn’t laughing. “I know that. But I’m not sure you’re going to take to Mitzi.”

“Relax. I’ve met very few dogs I haven’t liked,” I assured him.

“It’s not actually Mitzi that’s the problem,” Nick went on, frowning. “It’s more…well, you’ll see.” He was clearly anxious to change the subject, because he suddenly asked, “So what was your news, Jess?”

“My news?” I repeated distractedly. At the moment I was too busy trying to digest the fact that my beloved home was about to be invaded by a tribe of barbarians known as the Burbys. I glanced around, trying to picture four adults and six—no,
seven
—animals stuffed into a cottage that would have been too small for the Three Bears.

“When you came in just now,” Nick explained, “you said something like, ‘You won’t believe what happened to me today.’”

“Oh. Right.” I gently placed Cat on the cushion beside me to free up my hands, which I’ve been known to use to emphasize what I’m saying. In fact, I was beginning to realize I possessed somewhat of a theatrical streak myself. “This morning I got some terrible news: A member of Betty’s theater group was murdered. They found his body at Theater One early this morning. His name was Simon Wainwright, and he wrote the show the Port Players have been rehearsing for the last few weeks,
She’s Flying High.
It’s about Amelia Earhart, and it opens in two weeks.

“But the most disturbing part is that Betty is pretty sure that someone in the theater company is the culprit,” I went on breathlessly. “Apparently just about everybody Simon knew was part of that world. Anyway, I agreed to go to this afternoon’s rehearsal with her, and the next thing I knew, I got railroaded into joining the cast so I can help investigate the murder.

“But there’s more. It turns out that Simon wasn’t only the playwright; he was also the lyricist. Because, believe it or not,
She’s Flying High
is a musical. A musical! Do you know what that means, Nick? It means that before I had any idea what I was getting into, I agreed to go onstage and sing and dance in front of a real live audience!”

I was so focused on the horror of what I’d gotten myself into that it took me a few seconds to notice the expression on Nick’s face, which had morphed into a look of utter fury.

“You’re investigating another murder?” he asked in a strained voice.

“That’s right,” I replied, nodding. “I’m doing it for Betty. She’s totally distraught over Simon’s death, and she begged me to look into it, since I have some experience in that area and the police apparently aren’t giving out much information. It’s so important to her that she even asked me to make it my wedding present to her. Of course, I had to say yes.”

“But what about my parents?”

I looked at him and blinked. “Do you think they’d like to help?”

“No, I don’t think they’d like to help! What I meant is that you’re spreading yourself a little thin, aren’t you? Here’s your big chance to spend some quality time with my mother and father, and…and instead of looking forward to getting to know your future in-laws, you’re making plans to traipse around Long Island, trying to solve the murder of someone you don’t even know!”

I had to admit, I hadn’t seen this one coming.

“Nick,” I said, making a point of keeping my voice as calm as if I was talking to a frantic pet owner, “don’t you remember how supportive you were in Hawaii? And how rewarding we both found it solving a murder case together?”

“Yes, but that was different,” he insisted. “We were on vacation—and you were in danger. Now we’re back to real life.”