Read Online Hare Today, Dead Tomorrow by Cynthia Baxter - Free Book Online Page A

it, how well do any of us really know each other?”
    I had no interest in pursuing that line of discussion. Pointedly, I changed the subject, saying, “Falcone made a rather snotty remark about the possibility of me being of some use because there was an animal involved in the case. I just assumed he meant Beau, Cassandra’s cat. But now I’m wondering if he meant the stuffed bunny.” I couldn’t resist muttering, “That idiot.” Actually, I was thinking of some much more colorful comments I could make about Lieutenant Falcone, including some that used variations on the word stuffed.
    “If I were you,” Forrester said mildly, “I wouldn’t go out of my way to aggravate Falcone.”
    I stared at him in disbelief. “Since when are you the diplomat?”
    “Since always. I’m a reporter, Popper. And one of the first lessons I ever learned is that you don’t get people to help you by pushing their buttons.”
    “But—”
    “I suggest that you stop and ask yourself a very simple question: What matters more, your ego or your friend Suzanne?”
    I had to admit that he had a point.
    “Look, Popper,” he said. “If you want to help your friend, you don’t need Falcone, okay? In the end, it won’t matter whether or not he has witnesses and forensic evidence that put her at the scene of the crime. This is one of those cases that’s not going to be solved with physical evidence. The answer’s going to come from the people who knew Cassandra. If you want my advice on how to clear your friend’s name and find the real murderer, I’d say go ahead and ask as many questions as you want—and meanwhile stay out of Falcone’s way.”
    I jammed my clenched fists deep into the pockets of my polyester fleece jacket, biting my lip and thinking hard. I could tell from how hot my cheeks were that they had turned beet red.
    “Hey, think about it, okay?” Forrester finally said. “That’s all I’m asking. You’ve got a good head on your shoulders. Use it to insinuate your way into Cassandra’s world. Get to know the people she knew. Find out which ones were her true friends—and which ones just pretended to be her friend. And try to re-create, in your mind, exactly what happened on Tuesday. That’s where the answer lies, not in the hairs on her carpets and the fingerprints on her front door.
    “Besides,” he added in a voice that was only half-teasing, “maybe you can help me scoop the other news mongers by finding the real murderer and giving me an exclusive. I’m telling you, this looks like a case you can crack.”

    He turned and began walking back to his own car.
    “Forrester?” I called.
    He glanced back over his shoulder, raising his eyebrows.
    “Thanks.”
    His face melted into a grin. “That’s the spirit, Popper. Later.”
    I stood in front of my car, watching him drive away. The anger that always seemed to arise simply from being in Forrester’s presence was already dissipating—largely because I realized he was right.
    Of course, the fact that the answer to the riddle of who had killed Cassandra Thorndike probably didn’t lie in fingerprints and fibers wouldn’t make it any easier to solve—especially since Suzanne’s were guaranteed to be among them. But at least it didn’t put me at a major disadvantage by not having Lieutenant Anthony Falcone and his staff of forensics experts on my team.
    I glanced up Cliffside Lane one last time, making doubly sure that Forrester was gone. Then I wandered up the front walk, back toward Cassandra’s house. Even with the yellow crime-scene tape, it looked tempting. But at the moment, it wasn’t number 254 I was interested in. It was the charming if somewhat dilapidated house next door, the home of the woman who’d found Cassandra’s body.
    The good news was that someone had painted it a cheery yellow. The bad news was that it looked as if that had happened about thirty years ago—without a single touch-up since. The front porch sagged, the grass