Free Hare Today, Dead Tomorrow by Cynthia Baxter

yard behind Cassandra’s house, which ended in a sharp drop down to the sea. Ignoring the yellow tape reading Crime Scene—Do Not Cross, he darted inside through the cat door set into the back door.
    “Beau keeps going back to Cassie’s house, even though he’s supposed to be my pussycat now,” the little girl pouted. “There’s a teensy-weensy door in back, just for him, and he goes in and out all day.” With the feline no longer around to distract her, she turned her attention back to me. “Are you a policeman?”
    “No, honey. I’m a doctor. I take care of animals. Cats and dogs, mostly, but also horses and all kinds of other animals.”
    She brightened. “I love animals! Doggies and kitties and bunnies and goldfish . . . but I was never allowed to have a pet before. Mommy works all day, so Grammy takes care of me. And she’s too old to take care of animals. She’s not really my grandma. She’s Mommy’s grandma, so she’s really old.” Pensively, she added, “I hope she lets me keep Beau. ’Cause he doesn’t have anybody else to take care of him. Not since Cassie left.”
    “I hope you can keep him too,” I told her. “I can tell you’re really good at taking care of animals.”
    She accepted the compliment with a shy smile. “What’s your name?” she asked.
    “Jessie. What’s yours?”
    “Maggie Rose.”
    Before I had a chance to reply, a woman’s scratchy voice interrupted, “Come away from there, Maggie Rose! Stop bothering the lady!”
    “She’s not bothering me in the least,” I assured the elderly woman who had just come out to the porch and was making her way down the uneven wooden steps, clutching the rickety wooden railing. “In fact, I’ve been enjoying talking to her.”
    Like the little girl, her caretaker was dressed in clothes that didn’t quite fit and didn’t quite match. A pair of lemon-yellow stretchy pants with an elastic waistband was pulled up high around the woman’s thick torso, the pale blue T-shirt she wore with it carefully tucked in. She also wore a bulky sweater that looked hand-knit, made of puffy salmon-colored yarn and containing an impressive number of different stitches. Like the little girl, her hair was a halo of wisps, although time had turned hers gray. There was one major difference between her and her great-granddaughter: Her eyes were a pale shade of hazel, as if time had faded them as well.
    “You a friend of Cassie’s?” she asked, peering at me over her glasses.
    “Not exactly. It’s more like I know people who knew her.”
    “What’s that?” she asked, squinting at me and leaning her head forward.
    “I said I know some friends of hers,” I repeated, this time more loudly.
    “Terrible thing, isn’t it?” She shook her head slowly. “So young. A person’s not even safe in their own house anymore. Somebody shows up at your front door, and the next thing you know—”
    She stopped herself, glancing at the little girl beside her. Maggie Rose, however, looked much more interested in the butterfly she had just noticed hovering above a shrub.
    “Yes, it’s extremely sad,” I agreed. “By the way, I’m Jessie Popper.”
    “Sorry?” She leaned forward. “I’m afraid I don’t always hear so good these days.”
    “My name is Jessie Popper,” I repeated, speaking up.
    “Pleased to meet you, Jessie. I’m Virginia Krupinski. This here’s my great-granddaughter, Maggie Rose. But I guess you two already met.”
    “We’re practically old friends by now.”
    “I watch her during the week,” Virginia explained. “My granddaughter works up at the big outlet mall in Riverton.” Proudly, she added, “She’s assistant manager at the Liz Claiborne outlet.”
    “I love Liz Claiborne!” Not that you’d ever guess by looking at me, I thought, glancing down at my less-than-stylish black jeans and my polyester fleece jacket in a classic shade of navy blue. Then again, I figured that a woman who still considered the popcorn