Hare Today, Dead Tomorrow by Cynthia Baxter Page B

disturbing clarity.
    “Give the girl a gold star!” Forrester replied. I was ready to slug him—with words, since they’re much more stinging than fists—when he added, “It’s probably worth mentioning that the police didn’t find any signs of a forced entry—through the windows, for example—so they figure the killer came through the front door. Either it was open or Cassandra let the person in. There’s a back door, too, but the only fingerprints and footprints that were found in the kitchen were Cassandra’s, so that pretty much lets that out as a point of entry. Anyway, the police think the person who killed her was somebody she knew.”
    “Not surprising,” I commented. “Especially since the North Fork isn’t exactly a hot spot for random killings.”
    “There’s one more really intriguing aspect to this case,” Forrester went on. “Something that wasn’t in the paper.”
    “ ‘Intriguing’?” I repeated. Usually, that was one of my favorite words. But given the situation, just hearing it made me feel like someone had grabbed hold of my heart and was clenching it in his fist.
    “That’s the word I’d use,” he said. “Apparently our murderer left behind a few clues.”
    I hope none of them have Suzanne’s fingerprints on them, I thought.
    Aloud, I asked, “What are you talking about?”
    “Now, listen up, Popper.” Forrester glanced from side to side, as if wanting to make sure no one was listening. “I’m sworn to secrecy on this. I’m about to tell you information the police aren’t releasing to the public. I’ve got a friend in the department who told me this in the strictest confidence, and he made me swear on my BlackBerry that I wouldn’t print anything about it.”
    My heart had begun to pound. Maybe, just maybe, whatever Forrester was about to reveal would get me closer to proving Suzanne innocent by finding the real murderer. “I promise I won’t breathe a word to anyone.”
    “Aha!” He folded his arms across his chest triumphantly. “So I’ve finally got something that Popper wants. Maybe this would be a good time for me to do a little negotiating. I give you what you want, you give me what I want...”
    “Just tell me,” I insisted. “Look, we’re talking about murder—and the fact that one of my closest friends is the primary suspect. If I wanted to flirt, I’d go home to my boyfriend. So let’s hear it.”
    “Whoa.” Forrester actually looked impressed. Which was fine, if it would get me what I wanted. “Okay, then. Here it is. The cops found three objects next to Cassandra’s body. They think it might be the killer’s signature. Or that maybe he or she was leaving some kind of message.”
    “What were they?” I demanded.
    “A paperback novel, a small stuffed bunny rabbit, and a running shoe.”
    I just stared at him, too startled to speak.
    “You’re kidding, right?” I finally managed to say.
    “As a matter of fact, I’m not. Neither the investigators nor the members of Cassandra’s family have been able to figure out what it means either—that is, assuming it means anything at all. There could be several explanations for why those things ended up lying on the floor.”
    “Like...?”
    “Like maybe Cassandra was cleaning up when she was attacked and she was about to put those particular items away. Another theory is that her cat dragged them over.”
    “Yes, I heard she had a cat.”
    “His name is Beau,” Forrester noted. “As in Beaujolais.”
    “Cute. Naming him after a type of wine, I mean.” Frowning, I added, “I suppose the cat could have brought over the stuffed animal, if it was small enough. Especially if it was one of his toys. But a running shoe would be too heavy for most cats. Besides, why would he drag over a sneaker? The same goes for the paperback book. It doesn’t make sense that a cat would be interested in something like that.”
    “One theory is that the cat knocked them off a shelf. You know, with his