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As a veterinarian, she’s more experienced with paw prints than fingerprints. But thanks to her dogged persistence and her knack for landing on her feet, Jessie’s got murder on a very short leash.
The sun is barely up and the day is already going to the dogs. Literally. As Dr. Jessica Popper embarks on a house call to a local horse farm, her one-eyed Dalmatian, Lou, and her tailless Westie, Max, stumble upon something unexpected: a corpse half buried in the woods. As Max happily digs up the dead canary planted near the body, Jessie realizes that this corpse was clearly about to sing. But about what? Or whom?Enlisting the aid of her on-again, off-again lover, PI Nick Burby, Jess applies the stubbornness of a bloodhound and the agile moves of a cat to identify a menagerie of suspects…including one who wants her off the case badly enough to kill again.
- Sales Rank: #1584083 in Books
- Published on: 2004-02-03
- Released on: 2004-02-03
- Original language: English
- Number of items: 1
- Dimensions: 6.88" h x 1.01" w x 4.20" l,
- Binding: Mass Market Paperback
- 400 pages
From the Inside Flap
As a veterinarian, she's more experienced with paw prints than fingerprints. But thanks to her dogged persistence and her knack for landing on her feet, Jessie's got murder on a very short leash.The sun is barely up and the day is already going to the dogs. Literally. As Dr. Jessica Popper embarks on a house call to a local horse farm, her one-eyed Dalmatian, Lou, and her tailless Westie, Max, stumble upon something unexpected: a corpse half buried in the woods. As Max happily digs up the dead canary planted near the body, Jessie realizes that this corpse was clearly about to sing. But about what? Or whom?Enlisting the aid of her on-again, off-again lover, PI Nick Burby, Jess applies the stubbornness of a bloodhound and the agile moves of a cat to identify a menagerie of suspects...including one who wants her off the case badly enough to kill again.
About the Author
Cynthia Baxter is a native of Long Island, New York. She is the author of the Reigning Cats & Dogs mystery series, featuring vet-turned-sleuth Jessie Popper, and the Murder Packs a Suitcase mystery series, featuring travel writer Mallory Marlowe. Baxter currently resides on the North Shore, where she is at work on her next mysteries in both series.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Chapter One
"A bird in the hand makes a bit of a mess."—Anonymous Birdcatcher
If I hadn't forgotten to seal up the package of English muffins, if I hadn't instantly become addicted to The Crocodile Hunter the minute it came on the air, if two of the beasts in my possession hadn't developed a Batman-and-Robin complex, that bleak Tuesday in November would have probably turned out to be just another day.
I had a sense it wasn't off to a good start as soon as I opened my eyes and saw my alarm clock. For normal people, 5:45 is their cue to roll over and go back to sleep.
But that's for normal people. For me, those numbers got the same reaction as if somebody casually mentioned they'd put a boa constrictor in my bed.
I let out a cry that sounded like something a terrified animal would make. Then I leaped out of bed and immediately began hopping around the house, trying to keep warm. Chilly mornings are one of the few negatives of living in a stone cottage built back when Andrew Jackson was president. Meanwhile, I struggled to figure out how I would explain to the folks at Atherton Farm why I was so late for my six a.m. appointment to treat one of their horses for what I suspected would be a serious throat condition called strangles.
My two trusty sidekicks, Lou and Max, were already in high gear. Both thought all this shrieking and leaping was a game. Of course, both think just about everything is a game. You'd think that a three-year-old, one-eyed Dalmatian and a two-year-old Westie with a stub for a tail would have developed some sense along the way. But you'd be wrong.
Their reaction was to do some leaping and shrieking of their own, which prompted my parrot, Prometheus, to put in his two cents. From the living room, he squawked, "Crikey! Crikey! Awk! Crikey!" doing a perfect imitation of the great Croc Hunter himself. If there was anything more annoying than two dogs who acted as if they'd just overdosed at the espresso machine, it was a Blue and Gold Macaw who affected an Australian accent.
"Give me a break, guys," I pleaded. They were the first real words I'd uttered that frigid morning, one lit by a sun that looked as if it were about as awake as I was.
Predictably, they didn't listen. Prometheus moved on to some of his other favorite phrases. "News at eleven! Awk! News at eleven!"
Meanwhile, Max and Lou continued their circus routine, tumbling over each other like, well, like a couple of puppies as they followed me into the kitchen.
As usual, Catherine the Great lay draped across the rag rug in front of the sink, looking like a siren from the silent movies, even with her nicked ear. The cloud of silky gray cat fur glared at us in a way that revealed exactly what she was thinking. I had to agree. Yes, it would make much more sense if we all just turned around and headed back to bed.
I was about to explain that duty called, but I needed coffee before I could attempt to reason with a cat who knew she was superior. So I turned to the coffeepot.
"Damn," I muttered.
That's where my Crocodile Hunter addiction caught up with me. I should have resisted the urge to stay up much too late, watching Steve Irwin play Twister with a seven-foot gator. That way, I would have gotten enough sleep. I would also have remembered to set up the coffee.
Okay, Plan B, I thought, trying to remain calm. The two lords-a-leaping at my feet didn't exactly help me focus. I groped for the tea. As long as I had something caffeinated and an English muffin, my usual way of fueling up just enough to get me out the door . . . And that was when I noticed that the sole surviving muffin was exposed to the air, thanks to an insufficiently zipped Ziploc bag. I didn't even have to touch it to know that during the night the powerful forces of nature had transformed it into a hockey puck.
With no caffeine and no edible English muffin, I had no choice but to turn to Plan C: grabbing breakfast in the outside world.
I tore back into the bedroom and threw on my version of business dress: black jeans, a forest green polo shirt embroidered with "Jessica Popper, D.V.M.," a zippered polyester fleece jacket, and a pair of chukka boots from L.L. Bean. I fastened a ponytail band around my hair, once blond but ever since I'd turned thirty much closer to dirty blond.
On my way out of the bedroom, I glanced into a mirror. A tired-looking woman stared back at me through watery green eyes.
"You go, girl," I sighed.
Max and Lou were already hanging out near the back door. They liked being part of the mobile veterinary services business even more than I did. They got to travel all around Long Island, meet interesting animals and enjoy a fascinating range of smells. And all it took to motivate them were the magic words, "Want to go for a ride?" Who says it's hard to get good help?
As I raced along the quarter-mile driveway that connects my tiny cottage with Minnesauke Lane, I could practically taste Dairy Delight's 99-cent breakfast. A cup of scalding coffee, a toasted muffin dripping with butter . . . and thanks to drive-through, it was all mine without even leaving the driver's seat. It doesn't take much to make me happy.
Of course, the downside was that the detour took me out of the way, making me even later. Fortunately, I knew a short cut to Atherton Farm that led to the back entrance to their 44 acres. The back road to the barn was more like a dirt path that had been cut into the field, the result of other drivers who, like me, were too lazy or too far behind schedule to drive around to the real entrance.
I gritted my teeth as I bumped along, praying my suspension was faring better than my internal organs. I was just considering turning around and opting for the easier, more sensible route when my van abruptly lurched sideways and stopped dead.
"Great," I told Max and Lou, who'd both been thrown about three feet but didn't seem the least bit perturbed. "Now we're stuck."
As I swung open the door to check the damage, Max and Lou jumped past me. I would have anticipated their escape if I hadn't been so distracted by my traumatized van.
I now had two problems to deal with: my unhappy vehicle and my AWOL animals.
"Max! Lou!" I cried, watching them take off across the field, totally crazed over their newfound freedom. Not surprisingly, they ignored me.
So I turned to the more immediate problem. I checked out my custom-built vehicle, a 26-foot white van with blue letters stenciled on the door:
Reigning cats & dogs
Mobile Veterinary Services
Large and Small Animal
631-555-PETS
The good news was that the tires were all intact. The bad news was that one of them had just dropped into a hole at least a foot deep.
But it wasn't that bad. I figured I could dig out the front of the hole, creating a slope instead of a cliff, and drive the van out.
I was about to start excavating when hysterical barking cut through the silence. I spun around, dropping the shovel.
I know my dogs' barks the way a mother knows her baby's cry. What sounded like nothing but noise to the untrained ear in fact clearly communicated hunger, a need for attention, or a diaper that needed changing. Or danger.
Something was very wrong. The seriousness of Max's and Lou's tone instantly got my adrenaline going.
I spotted them a few hundred yards away. Both stood near a clump of trees at the edge of the field where a dense wooded area began. I could see from their stances that every one of their muscles was tense.
I jogged across the field, the soles of my boots occasionally slipping against the dirt, still wet from the drenching rain we'd had two nights earlier. I was panting when I reached the two dogs and the oddly shaped mound that had caught their interest.
The first thing I saw that was out of the ordinary was a pair of shoes that appeared to have been abandoned in the woods. I didn't know much about men's shoes, especially those fancy wing-tipped jobbies favored by conservatively dressed businessmen. But from what I could tell, this was one expensive pair. As my eyes traveled beyond them, I made out a matching set of legs, two inert protrusions that could have passed for logs if it hadn't been for the high-quality leather at one end.
The fact that I'd stumbled across a partially buried body didn't hit me for a few seconds.
Once it did, my response was to do what any other self-respecting professional woman who had spent four years in college and four years in veterinary school, learning to cope with life and death on a daily basis, would have done.
I shrieked.
Max and Lou instantly stopped barking, no doubt impressed that the leader of their pack was capable of making a sound even more piercing than what they were capable of. Whether I'd simply stunned them or won a new level of respect, I didn't know. And I didn't care.
At the moment, I was too busy struggling to remember what a rational person was supposed to do at a moment like this.
Cell phone. Somehow, the thought cut through my panic.
"Stay!" I told Max and Lou, wanting to mark the precise location of the wing-tipped shoes and the human body that was attached to them.
For once, they actually obeyed. I dashed back to the van, praying I'd taken better care of my Nokia than I had my English muffins. I grabbed it off the driver's seat, yelped with relief when I saw it was still half-charged and dialed 911.
"Officer Johnston, Eighth Precinct. Where's the emergency?"
"Atherton Farm. Brewster's Neck, off Green Fields Road." The shakiness in my voice surprised me. "This is Dr. Jessica Popper. I'm a veterinarian. I came out here on a call and found a dead man in the woods."
"How do you know the person is dead?"
"Not moving, lyi...
Most helpful customer reviews
4 of 4 people found the following review helpful.
Fun to read and not so easy to solve
By Patricia Tryon
Cynthia Baxter weaves together the disparate worlds of veterinary science, public relations, and Long Island history in a fast-paced, enjoyable mystery that I did not solve until the last chapter. The characters build a constellation of interesting suspects, all of whom look fascinatingly and particularly unattractive as their stories come to light for the amateur sleuth and us.
There's a multitude of minor characters, which might put one off except that nearly every one advances the plot by inches or yards and each, the reader feels, could well become the subject of another investigation. The protagonist's sharp and witty observations, whether attending a funeral or taking a furtive peek at a shrine to an ex-husband, make the many settings memorably distinct. Her descriptions of interacting with her clients (the real clients, not the ones who simply pay the bill) and her own household menagerie caused this decidedly animal-phobic reader to laugh out loud and reconsider her prejudices.
Humor, suspense of several kinds, and information on arcane topics engage readers on almost every page. This is less a mystery to solve than a book simply to enjoy. Unusually, I plan to re-read it before passing it along.
14 of 15 people found the following review helpful.
Flawed but an enjoyable read nevertheless
By M. C. Crammer
This is one of those books that you understand as you're reading it that it's really not very good in some respects but you keep on reading it anyway because it's not so bad, either, and entertaining. But -- the characters are stereotyped, the detective-heroine is not so much spunky as reckless to the point of stupidity (refusing to take seriously the numerous signs that she's making a murderer very unhappy with her), there are some technical errors in the veterinary part (which really are extraneous to the plot anyway), and it's all so improbable.
But -- Baxter is a skillful enough writer that it's a pleasant read -- great for an airplane -- escape reading. The plotting is fairly good, but the series of interviews detective method is improbable and the main character has virtually no reason to get involved in finding the killer. When citizens get involved in murder investigations, I think it works best when there is a plausible reason why (like brother has been falsely accused, that sort of thing).
The plot involves Dr. Jessie Popper, mobile veterinarian (she has a traveling vet clinic), who discovers a body on her way to make a house call on a horse. There's a dead canary beside the body. For reasons that never are clear, Jessie decides to solve the murder and proceeds to do so by presenting herself (using various lies) to anyone she can find who knew the deceased. Her ex-boyfriend is a private investigator, although all he does is try to protect her. There's a fair amount of romance and a couple of very amusing scenes involving the men in Jessie's life.
There's also a lot that should have been edited out, like all the stuff about her landlord neighbor, which never quite works, and the vet visits, which have nothing to do with the plot. Given the way she uses her vet status to lie her way into interviews, Dr. Popper should be worried about losing her license.
I think Baxter has some good writing skills, but this mystery is clearly a first. I hope she will improve over time.
0 of 0 people found the following review helpful.
Not an objective reviewer...
By Massimo Pigliucci
Well yes, full disclosure here, I am a friend of the author, so I doubt I will be entirely objective. Still, I downloaded the book on my Kindle to show Cynthia how the Kindle works, then I started reading the book and I found it difficult to put down. This isn't Conan Doyle or Agatha Christie, if you are into that sort of mystery novels (I am!), but it is several notches above some stuff I've read by contemporary authors. There is a good plot that unfolds at a nice pace; there are side plots that give depth to the main characters; there is a love story that is certainly not of the cheesy kind; and of course there is a surprising twist at the end. Really, what else would you want in a mystery novel?
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