Hare Today, Dead Tomorrow by Cynthia Baxter Page A

proud and as graceful as a gazelle.
    She wore a long gown made of rich purple velvet and flowered gold brocade. The theatrical garment gave her the not-quite-of-this-world look of a woman in a pre-Raphaelite painting. The wreath of white and lavender flowers that encircled the crown of her head made her appear even more ephemeral, as if she were a goddess or an angel that some artist with an overly developed sense of drama had conjured up.
    “Can I help you?”
    I whirled around, surprised by the unexpected sound of a sharp voice. I hadn’t realized that anyone else had come into the foyer, probably because I was so absorbed by the painting.
    The man glowering at me looked as if he was in his late sixties or early seventies, with a deeply lined face but a full head of thick silver hair. He appeared to be of medium height, although his slightly stooped posture made it a bit difficult to tell. He was also portly—a word that suited him well, not just because of his slightly rotund build, but also because he seemed as old-fashioned as the word. He was dressed in a well-worn, slightly faded blue plaid flannel shirt that stood in sharp contrast to his pants, a pair of those crisp, brand-new-looking jeans that older men tend to wear even though they emphasize how flat their behinds are.
    “This is a private area,” he added, using the same cross tone.
    “I was looking for the restroom,” I lied, resorting to my favorite fallback excuse.
    He cast me a skeptical look. All right, so maybe it was hard to believe that a grown woman couldn’t tell the difference between a sign that read Employees Only and one that features male and female paper cutouts, the international symbol for people who have to pee.
    “Okay, that’s not exactly true,” I admitted. “The truth is that I noticed this portrait as I was walking by, and I just had to get a better look.”
    “Ah. Well.” That excuse seemed to placate him. He gazed up at the painting, the corners of his mouth drooping and his eyes dampening. “She was beautiful, wasn’t she?”
    “Who is she?” I asked, even though I was pretty sure I already knew, thanks to the photo I’d seen in Newsday.
    “Cassandra Thorndike. Gordon’s daughter.” As if he suddenly remembered that I was nothing more than an intruder, and therefore unlikely to know the people he had named, he added, “Gordon Thorndike founded Thorndike Vineyards.”
    “I see. Are you a member of the Thorndike family?”
    “Me? No. I own Simcox Wineries, right next door.” I guess he figured he’d already told me enough that it was time for an official introduction. “I’m Theodore Simcox,” he said, extending his hand.
    “I’m Jessica Popper,” I replied as we shook hands.
    “I’m actually a very close friend of the entire Thorndike family.” Raising his eyes to the portrait once again, he added, “Cassandra was like a daughter to me. You may have heard about the recent tragedy. She passed away earlier this week—”
    We both jumped a little as the subdued atmosphere of the foyer was broken by the sound of footsteps traveling briskly across the terra cotta–tiled floor. A short, plump woman in a gray wool skirt and a black sweater bustled into the room, closing the doors of one of the offices behind her. Her hair matched her outfit, I noticed, black with gray accents. It was also just as severe, pulled back tightly into a low ponytail.
    “Theodore, I really can’t tell you how much I appreciate you—” She stopped abruptly. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you had a guest.”
    “I’m not a guest,” I explained. “I just stepped in here to get a better look at this painting.”
    The woman drew her lips into a thin, straight line, as if she were trying to maintain her composure. Even so, her eyes filled with tears so quickly that I figured she’d been doing a good deal of crying over the past few days.
    “You really shouldn’t be in here,” she said without much conviction.
    “This is