an amazing woman. Rumor has it she can tell whether a show is going to be a hit within the first five minutes.” Ruefully, she added, “Or a flop.”
The viewing room was filling up, so after Betty took a few moments to say good-bye to Simon, we nudged our way toward the front room once again.
“I’m sorry, Jessica,” Betty suddenly said. “I know we just got here, but I think I’ve already had enough. Would you mind if we didn’t stay?”
“That’s fine, Betty,” I assured her. “We can go right now if you’re ready.”
I had to admit, I’d pretty much had all I could stand of this mob scene myself. Still, I was glad I’d come. What I’d seen had reinforced that what I’d heard about Simon Wainwright being on the verge of great success hadn’t been an exaggeration.
How sad that he didn’t live to see his dreams realized, I thought. To see his musical staged on Broadway, to listen to the wild applause as he sparkled onstage in a starring role, to hear theatergoers stream down the aisle humming the tunes that had been written to go with his lyrics—what a tragedy.
But at that same time, another thought nagged at me: that maybe the timing of Simon’s demise wasn’t simply a coincidence.
Chapter 5
“Cats regard people as warm-blooded furniture.”
—Jacquelyn Mitchard
T he bleating of my alarm clock early on Monday morning was a harsh reminder that there was more to my life than joining a theater company to investigate a murder. True, the day’s to-do list was filled with bizarre tasks like
Memorize your lines so you don’t make a complete fool of yourself at your first rehearsal tonight
and
Find some footwear other than chukka boots for mastering dance steps
. But I also had a career.
After sending Nick off to law school, I climbed into my van. My veterinary practice consists of driving all over Long Island, treating animals at their owners’ homes or, occasionally, at their workplace. Usually, I love every minute, with only a few minor exceptions like cranky clients or patients that are seriously ill. Yet something hung over me all day like a little black cloud. It was the same feeling I got when I had a dentist appointment coming up, that low-level sense of dread that just wouldn’t go away.
This time, the cause was the imminent arrival of Nick’s parents later in the day.
According to his phone call with them Sunday evening, they expected to arrive around dinnertime. I was determined that every aspect of the Invasion of the Burbarians would go perfectly. My strategy was to wow them with my hospitality, welcoming them into such a warm environment that they’d immediately accept me as their daughter, rather than just their daughter-in-law.
All day, my head was swimming with plans. By the time I let myself into the cottage late Monday afternoon, I actually felt I had the situation under control.
Then I stepped inside and saw what was waiting for me.
“A-a-r-g-gh!” I shrieked.
As I took in the chaotic mess in my living room, my first panicked thought was that DEA agents had mistakenly believed this was the home of a heroin dealer or a crystal-meth factory. A throw pillow had been ripped to shreds and its feathers strewn all over the living room, making it look as if it had snowed while I was traipsing around Long Island, plying my trade. Toilet paper streamers were draped across the floor and furniture like snowdrifts. And bird seed was scattered all over the floor in Prometheus’s corner of the room.
It took me only a second or two to realize it wasn’t federal agents who were responsible for the horrific state of my house. It was my pets.
As Max came rushing over to greet me, I could see a few telltale feathers stuck in his beard—hard evidence that he was the perpetrator who’d pulverized that poor pillow. Tinkerbell had clearly played the role of sidekick, since she was wearing a few feathers of her own. The seeds were the result of Prometheus overturning his seed dish,
The viewing room was filling up, so after Betty took a few moments to say good-bye to Simon, we nudged our way toward the front room once again.
“I’m sorry, Jessica,” Betty suddenly said. “I know we just got here, but I think I’ve already had enough. Would you mind if we didn’t stay?”
“That’s fine, Betty,” I assured her. “We can go right now if you’re ready.”
I had to admit, I’d pretty much had all I could stand of this mob scene myself. Still, I was glad I’d come. What I’d seen had reinforced that what I’d heard about Simon Wainwright being on the verge of great success hadn’t been an exaggeration.
How sad that he didn’t live to see his dreams realized, I thought. To see his musical staged on Broadway, to listen to the wild applause as he sparkled onstage in a starring role, to hear theatergoers stream down the aisle humming the tunes that had been written to go with his lyrics—what a tragedy.
But at that same time, another thought nagged at me: that maybe the timing of Simon’s demise wasn’t simply a coincidence.
Chapter 5
“Cats regard people as warm-blooded furniture.”
—Jacquelyn Mitchard
T he bleating of my alarm clock early on Monday morning was a harsh reminder that there was more to my life than joining a theater company to investigate a murder. True, the day’s to-do list was filled with bizarre tasks like
Memorize your lines so you don’t make a complete fool of yourself at your first rehearsal tonight
and
Find some footwear other than chukka boots for mastering dance steps
. But I also had a career.
After sending Nick off to law school, I climbed into my van. My veterinary practice consists of driving all over Long Island, treating animals at their owners’ homes or, occasionally, at their workplace. Usually, I love every minute, with only a few minor exceptions like cranky clients or patients that are seriously ill. Yet something hung over me all day like a little black cloud. It was the same feeling I got when I had a dentist appointment coming up, that low-level sense of dread that just wouldn’t go away.
This time, the cause was the imminent arrival of Nick’s parents later in the day.
According to his phone call with them Sunday evening, they expected to arrive around dinnertime. I was determined that every aspect of the Invasion of the Burbarians would go perfectly. My strategy was to wow them with my hospitality, welcoming them into such a warm environment that they’d immediately accept me as their daughter, rather than just their daughter-in-law.
All day, my head was swimming with plans. By the time I let myself into the cottage late Monday afternoon, I actually felt I had the situation under control.
Then I stepped inside and saw what was waiting for me.
“A-a-r-g-gh!” I shrieked.
As I took in the chaotic mess in my living room, my first panicked thought was that DEA agents had mistakenly believed this was the home of a heroin dealer or a crystal-meth factory. A throw pillow had been ripped to shreds and its feathers strewn all over the living room, making it look as if it had snowed while I was traipsing around Long Island, plying my trade. Toilet paper streamers were draped across the floor and furniture like snowdrifts. And bird seed was scattered all over the floor in Prometheus’s corner of the room.
It took me only a second or two to realize it wasn’t federal agents who were responsible for the horrific state of my house. It was my pets.
As Max came rushing over to greet me, I could see a few telltale feathers stuck in his beard—hard evidence that he was the perpetrator who’d pulverized that poor pillow. Tinkerbell had clearly played the role of sidekick, since she was wearing a few feathers of her own. The seeds were the result of Prometheus overturning his seed dish,
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