Mysteries and Thrillers by Bantam Dell
============================
This week's book:
DEAD CANARIES DON'T SING
By Cynthia Baxter
*New to the book club? Just click on the Missing Read
link below for any emails you may have missed. Go to:
http://www.emailbookclub.com/miss/missbantam.html
To subscribe: http://tinyurl.com/3cck2n
(Today's book starts after the "Dear Reader" column.)
======================================
Dear Reader,
Every other Wednesday, before my housekeeper shows up, somehow I
manage to find a place to hide our messy stuff. After she leaves,
everything looks tidy, the air smells clean and it feels like our
house is just the right size. When I look around I see a quaint,
comfortable, historical home, but as the week progresses, my house
gets smaller and smaller. I pull things out of the drawer, but some
things never make it back. Why keep putting my tennis shoes and hat
back in the closet, when I'm just going to have to retrieve them
again tomorrow morning when I go for my walk? If company were
coming--company who I felt the need to hide the everyday me from--in
thirty minutes, I could have myself hidden away again. But maybe as
long as the house is clean, what's the harm in having the real me,
hanging out--all over--in every room?
Perhaps I should think of the everyday stuff sitting out in the open
around my house, as "family photos." My hat is really a "picture" of
me--I'm just not in it at the moment. The playpen in the middle of
my living room, each time I walk by it I'm reminded of Baby Paul.
Those newspapers haphazardly stacked in the corner, they're a
picture-perfect shot of my husband. He loves to read the "Wall
Street Journal." And the plastic ball with the noisy bell, the next
time I step on it with my bare feet, instead of chastising myself,
"Why the heck don't I keep that thing picked up?" I'll think of
Abby, my gray kitty and how cute she looks when she's batting it
around the floor.
There's a limit to everything and I suppose there's even a limit to
how many "family photos" one house can possess. But for right now,
my little mental ruse is working. When I look around, my house isn't
filled with messy stuff--it's filled with "family photos." "Oh look
at that, my husband let his chili bowl sit out overnight and the
heat from it left a ring on my new end table. What a treat!" It's one
of those "forever" family photos I'll never forget. Now every time I
walk by my brand new end table, the one that took me months to find,
that "picture" will always remind me of my husband, and how much he
loves my chili. Isn't that sweet?
Thanks for reading with me. It's so good to read with friends.
Suzanne Beecher
Suzanne@BookedForBreakfast.com
Missing an email? Go to:
http://www.emailbookclub.com/miss/missbantam.html
=====TODAY'S BOOK=====================
DEAD CANARIES DON'T SING
by Cynthia Baxter (fiction)
Published by Bantam Dell
A Division of Random House, Inc.
ISBN: 9780553586411
Copyright (c) 2004 by Cynthia Baxter
To reference this email: CANARIES (Part 4 of 5)
======================================
(continued from Wednesday)
"Yes, as a matter of fact." Lieutenant Harned paused long enough to
glower back at me. "Put those two mutts on a leash and get 'em out
of here. They've already messed up the crime scene enough."
By that point, my blood was boiling so violently I figured there had
to be steam coming out of my ears.
What 'exactly' were you expecting from the cops? I asked myself. An
engraved thank-you note? A proclamation commending your good
citizenship?
I answered my own question: How about a little civil treatment?
When I heard another set of tires on the rutted road, my stomach
tightened. I didn't know whether to feel relieved or even more
agitated over Nick Burby's arrival on the scene.
How long has it been? I wondered, shielding my eyes from the sun
with my hand as I watched the black Maxima jerk along the uneven
road. Okay, I knew exactly how long it had been. Two months, one
week, and four days. A grand total of seventy-one days.
At least you haven't been calculating the hours, I thought.
I tried stepping out of myself, objectively viewing my reaction as I
watched Nick climb out of his car. The reasonable part of me felt
like shaking me by the shoulders and scolding me over the way my
heart got that weird achy feeling. Not good achy; bad achy.
It was the feeling that makes you realize where the term "broken
heart" comes from.
I took a few deep breaths. It has to be like this, I told myself
firmly. You know perfectly well it's the only way. You made your
decision, and it was a good one. The only one. Now, you've got to
move on.
I repeated these assurances in my head as I watched Nick stroll
across the field, his hands jammed into the front pockets of khaki
pants that would have greatly benefited from five minutes with an
iron. As he walked toward me, he kept his head down. The lock of
dark hair that was always falling into his eyes behaved exactly as
predicted. He pretended he was being careful not to stumble. But I
knew, deep inside, that he was trying not to look at me.
I was determined to ignore my pounding heart and the adrenaline
surging through every cell of my body. In the grand scheme of
things, the fact that I had discovered a dead body less than thirty
minutes earlier was surely much more important than my lurid past.
I decided to act like a mature adult, focusing on the sticky
situation at hand without letting my emotions get in the way, when
Nick demanded, "Okay, Jess. What have you gotten yourself involved
in now?"
Within a nanosecond, my hackles were up. Here I had swallowed my
pride by calling Nick in my time of need, breaking my long silence
to humble myself before his years of expertise with crime. And what
was his response? He was talking to me the way Ricky used to talk to
Lucy.
"I haven't gotten involved in anything," I shot back. "Is it my
fault that some...some 'dead guy' just happened to plant himself
directly in my path?"
"Where is he? The dead guy, I mean."
"Over there." I pointed.
"Not exactly in your path, is he?" Nick observed.
"Okay, then. My 'dogs' path."
Nick shook his head, then sighed. "That's what happens when you go
looking for trouble."
"I was hardly looking for trouble! I happened to be here for a
perfectly legitimate reason. The Athertons called me in a panic,
upset because one of their stallions has a dangerously swollen
throat and can't stop coughing--"
"Then again, maybe some people are just good at having trouble find
them."
I flung my hands in the air. "There's 'no' trouble. 'Forget'
trouble. I'm perfectly fine." At that moment, I regretted having
called Nick Burby more than I'd regretted anything I'd ever done in
my entire life.
As if he'd read my mind, he asked, "In that case, Jess, why did you
call me? It looks like the cops have everything under control."
"My van is stuck in a ditch, and, you know, I guess I thought it
might be helpful to have someone here who knows his way around a
crime scene. Perhaps in my deranged state I actually imagined that a
little moral support might even be forthcoming. Then there's the
fact that while I'm finding this whole thing absolutely horrifying,
it's also incredibly fascinating, and so I just assumed that you'd
be interested, too..."
"Actually, to me it's just sad. That poor guy lying over there,
whoever he is, just saw his life come to a close. He was probably a
good person who just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong
time. But no matter what the circumstances, it's pretty nasty to end
up buried in a field."
"He was buried in the woods, not a field. And there was a canary
that looked as if its neck had been broken buried right next to
him," I announced. I tossed my head arrogantly, wondering if doing
so emphasized the golden glints in my hair.
And hating myself for caring.
"A canary--get it?" I went on. "The symbol of 'singing.' Spilling
the beans. Telling secrets that aren't meant to be told. That leads
me to believe he wasn't exactly a stellar member of the community."
"Jess--"
"And I don't know about you, but the fact that I'm the one who found
him, combined with the fact that there was no doubt something fishy
going on that led to his untimely and undignified demise, makes me
extremely anxious to know who did him in--and why."
Nick cast me a wary look. "Jess, if I were you, I'd answer the
questions the nice homicide cops asked me, take a look at the sick
horse that brought me here in the first place and then do everything
I possibly could to forget all about this."
Before I had a chance to think up a snappy comeback, the cop who was
tall, blond, and, I suddenly decided, quite good-looking sauntered
over to join us.
"I want to apologize again for Pascucci's rudeness before," Officer
Nolan said. "That's just the way some cops are. It probably has
something to do with the bad coffee we're always drinking."
A sense of humor. I liked that.
"Pascucci's here?" Nick glanced at the short, uniformed figure now
standing at the mound of dirt and leaves.
"You know him?" I demanded.
"When you're in the private investigation biz, you get to know the
local cops. Vince is a pretty good guy."
I glared at Nick, making a statement about the fact that we couldn't
seem to agree on anything anymore. 'Vince' was most definitely not a
pretty good guy. 'Vince' was a chauvinistic, obnoxious bore. Then I
smiled at Officer Nolan.
"It looks pretty impressive, the way you guys are handling this." I
had to stop myself from batting my eyelashes. "I guess you know what
you're doing."
"Well, Harned certainly thinks he does."
I laughed loudly, as if Officer Nolan were the funniest, most
charming member of the male gender on earth. As I did, I stole a
glance at Nick.
Even though I felt unspeakably childish, I was pleased to see he was
scowling.
CHAPTER TWO
"Of all the animals, the boy is the most unmanageable."
--Plato
My stomach was still in knots as I drove back home to Joshua's
Hollow later that morning after digging out my van and then treating
Stormy Weather, the Athertons' stallion, with penicillin for what
turned out to be mild 'Streptococcus equi' and instructing Skip to
continue with three injections a day. The worst part about being in
such a state was that I didn't know what was to blame for it:
finding an actual murder victim decomposing in the woods or seeing
Nick Burby again.
There was one thing I did know. I needed a good strong dose of Betty
Vandervoort.
For at least the millionth time, I thanked fate--or my real estate
agent--for finding me my cottage. There are three things about it
that are unique. Number three on the list is its history. Number two
is its beauty. And number one is my landlady, the only person who
shares the sprawling property with me.
I dropped Max and Lou at my cottage, knowing they would be welcome
at Betty's but not wanting the hassle of keeping them from
shattering any valuable antiques. As I trekked toward the Big House,
otherwise known as the Tallmadge mansion, I could hear the opening
bars of "Everythin's up to date in Kansas City" blaring from inside.
I knocked on the front door so hard that my knuckles hurt.
"Jessica! You're just in time!" Betty's sapphire blue eyes twinkled
like Christmas tree lights as she threw open the door. "I'm about to
give my old audition routine a try. You know, the one that got me
into the chorus of 'South Pacific.'"
I stepped inside a foyer that was as big as my entire cottage.
"Don't tell me they're reviving it on Broadway?"
"If they're not, they should. All those ridiculous Andrew Lloyd
Whoever monstrosities they're putting on these days! It's a
disgrace. There's nothing like the classics when it comes to musical
comedy."
With that, Betty shrugged off her pale pink silk kimono. I was about
to avert my eyes when I realized that underneath it she was wearing
a tap-dancing outfit. At least, that was what I surmised it was. The
clingy black scoop-necked top looked like a leotard. Over it, she
wore a short crimson skirt. At the end of her long, graceful legs
were two old-fashioned tap shoes, tied with fat black bows.
I let out a wolf whistle.
"Surprised it fits?" She struck a pose, meanwhile fluffing her
smooth, white hair, carefully styled into a flattering pageboy. "The
old legs still look pretty good, don't they?"
I had to admit that they did. Even at her age, Betty Vandervoort
didn't have legs; she had 'gams.'
As for her age, I estimated it to be seventy-five plus. Although I'd
known her for nearly three years, I never could get a straight
answer about the year Betty was born. I'd tried to trick her into an
admission by casually asking how old she'd been that time she took
the gamble of a lifetime, investing an entire summer's earnings as a
waitress at the Paper Plate Diner in Altoona, Pennsylvania, in a
one-way ticket to New York City.
She hadn't fallen for my ploy. Betty was hard to fool. And today was
no exception.
The twinkle in her eyes faded as she studied me more closely.
"Something's wrong." It was a statement, not a question. "You don't
need a performance. What you need is a cup of tea. A strong one."
She scooped up her silk robe and headed out of the room, with me
trailing after her. It was a long walk, one that took us through an
elegant front parlor decorated with gilt-framed mirrors and
Victorian couches covered in silk brocade. Next came a dining room
featuring a table that could sit fourteen, with a huge crystal vase
of long-stemmed white roses at its center. Then a butler's pantry so
big a butler could actually live in it.
Finally, we reached the kitchen. As I sat meekly at the table, Betty
put the kettle on. She had a firm conviction that water boiled in a
microwave didn't taste as good as water from a kettle. She placed an
empty Limoges teacup in front of me with a bit of a flourish, no
doubt an unconscious move from the old days at the Paper Plate.
"Now tell me." She sat down and fixed her perfectly made-up eyes on
me.
I took a shaky breath. "This morning, I was on my way to see a sick
horse at Atherton Farm when Max and Lou found a body in the woods."
"A body?" Betty frowned. "What kind of body? You mean a deer or an
opossum--?"
"I mean a human body. A murder victim."
"Murder? In Brewster's Neck?" Betty shook her head, which sent her
long gold earrings swaying. "That's the most horrible thing I've
ever heard. Who was the victim?"
"I don't know. The cops made me leave before I had a chance to find
out."
"You must be in shock!" She pushed back her chair. "I think you need
something stronger than tea."
(continued on Friday)
--------------------------------------
Please tell a friend about Booked For Breakfast.
I sure would appreciate it.--Suzanne Beecher
Sign up at: http://tinyurl.com/3cck2n
For more information about DEAD CANARIES DON'T SING go to:
Distributed by: The Bantam Dell Publishing Group, 1745 Broadway,
New York, NY 10019
--------------------------------------
You are currently subscribed to bantam as:
aboone1.sscslp@blogger.com
To unsubscribe send a blank email to leave-bantam-2432959J@book.dearreader.com
0 comments:
Post a Comment