I got out of my van, bringing Max and Lou with me as I gave in to the temptation to investigate at closer range. About twenty feet beyond the mutilated rawhide, alongside the house, I spotted something yellow. When I got closer, I saw it was a rubber banana, chewed almost beyond recognition.
When I saw what lay another thirty feet beyond, I gasped. I’d seen my share of doghouses in my day, but never anything like this. Even though I knew I was trespassing—probably risking arrest in a town like this—I couldn’t resist crossing the grass.
The lucky canine who resided with Devon Barnett lived in a house that was an exact replica of his master’s mansion. The architecture was precisely the same, down to the wooden shutters. The paint job was also identical. I got down on all fours to get a better look, not even caring about the inevitable grass stains.
“Jessie?”
I jumped up at the unexpected sound of my own name. I was even more surprised when I turned and saw Chess LaMont standing on the lawn. He was dressed only in a black bathing suit the size of a G-string. His muscular body, including his perfectly hairless chest, had been slathered in oil, giving his skin a disconcerting sheen.
Two distinctive accessories complemented his outfit. One of them, a gold nipple ring that matched his eyebrow ring, made me cringe. I found it much easier to focus on the other one. The perky Havanese tucked under his arm was as well-groomed as he was, her hair brushed to an impressive state of fluffiness. She, too, was dressed in black, although her tiny garments took the form of a satin ribbon tied around her neck and a matching bow atop her head that kept her fur out of her eyes.
“Chess! What a surprise!”
I was about to ask him what he was doing there when he crouched down beside the doghouse. Max and Lou immediately introduced themselves to the pretty pup. There was so much tail-wagging it created a breeze.
“Isn’t it wonderful?” he cooed. “The exterior is an exact replica of the main house. We even had it painted the same colors. See, the front door is Sweet Pea Pink and the shutters are Bimini Blue.”
“It’s amazing,” I said sincerely. “I’ve seen dogs with some pretty luxurious digs in my day, but I’ve never seen anything quite like this.”
Chess beamed. “I got the idea when Nettie and I were in Key West.”
“ ‘Nettie’?” Of course, I’d heard him refer to his lover as “Nettie” before. I just hadn’t bothered to think about how it fit into the grand scheme of things.
“My pet name for Devon Barnett; Nettie...get it?”
I blinked. “You and Devon Barnett are—partners?”
“We were. Until that stupid ice sculpture of Lady fell on him and the cruel randomness of Fate took him away from me.” Chess scooped up the Havanese and hugged her close against his bare chest, his eyes filling with tears. “And now Zsa Zsa and I are all alone. Aren’t we, precious? All because of Shawn Elliot’s clumsy bulldog. It’s just you and me against the cold, cruel world.”
I glanced around at the ostentatious estate. Chess and Zsa Zsa may have been left alone, but from the looks of things, they weren’t exactly Ragged Dick and Little Orphan Annie.
“Anyway,” Chess continued bravely, “while we were down in the Keys, Nettie dragged me on a tour of Hemingway’s house. I thought I’d be bored silly, but it turns out that Ernest was a true animal lover. He had something like sixty cats. And he loved them so much that he had a cute little cat house built for them that was a replica of his house.”
He nuzzled the white mop draped across his arm. “And Zsa Zsa deserves the very best, don’t you? Oh, yes, you do. Yes, you do-o-o.”
He stopped suddenly, as if he’d just remembered I was there. “If you didn’t know Nettie and I were a couple, how did you know you’d find me here?”
“I—I didn’t.” I struggled to do some fast thinking. “I, uh, just happened to be driving by—well, it wasn’t entirely a coincidence, since I was curious about where Devon Barnett lived. I mean, I did know him, at least a little, so of course I’m upset about what happened. Anyway, I saw the doghouse, and I couldn’t resist stopping to get a better look.”
“Actually, I’m glad you’re here, Jessie.” Chess sounded miserable. “Maybe I look like I’m handling all this pretty well, but the truth is, I’m still in shock. I deserve an Oscar for managing to act in control enough to arrange his cremation this morning.”
“Are you planning a funeral or a memorial service?” I asked gently.
“Just the cremation. I thought I’d scatter his ashes right here in the backyard, since he loved this house so much. Zsa Zsa and I will do it together.” By way of explanation, he added, “Nettie didn’t have a lot of friends.”
“What about his family?”
“Disowned him.” Bitterly, he added, “It turns out his family in Crockettsville, Louisiana, is no more open-minded than my relatives back in Crabapple, Iowa.”
His expression softened. “Come inside and have some iced tea. I make it with fresh mint I grow myself, right here in my garden. I throw in a couple of secret ingredients, too, but I’ll never tell.” He bit his lip, his eyes once again filling with tears. “My iced tea was Nettie’s favorite. He used to call me his ‘Happy Homemaker.’ ”
“Thanks, Chess. I’d be happy to.” I hesitated. “Is it okay if I bring these two monsters?”
“Of course. If this place isn’t dog-friendly, I don’t know what is.”
The inside of the house that Devon Barnett had shared with his lover was as striking as the outside. The same bright colors were everywhere, splashed on the walls, in the fabrics, and in the endless clutter that gave the house a cheerful, lived-in look. I was particularly captivated by a framed picture hanging on the living room wall that featured extraordinarily bold colors.
“I have that poster, too,” I observed.
“Oh, that’s not a poster,” Chess replied matter-of-factly. “That’s the original. Don’t you just love David Hockney? We have a Renoir, too. Nettie had excellent taste.”
“I’ll say,” I muttered.
My dogs and I followed Chess and Zsa Zsa into the kitchen, taking in the granite counters, Sub-Zero freezer, and every other desirable accountrement I’d ever seen on the Home and Garden Channel. I paused in front of a shelf lined with unusual cookie jars.
Chess noticed me studying them. “Part of Andy Warhol’s collection,” he informed me.
Up until that point, it never would have occurred to me there could be so much money in stalking celebrities. I was beginning to understand the motivation behind Devon Barnett’s relentlessness.
“This is a fabulous place,” I told him sincerely as I sat down at the kitchen table. I was relieved that after Chess placed Zsa Zsa on the floor, he took a bright Hawaiian shirt off the back of a chair and pulled it on. Just looking at that nipple ring made me shudder.
“Isn’t it fun?” Chess took a pitcher of iced tea out of the refrigerator. “I tried to talk Nettie into getting a photographer from one of the design magazines in here, but he wouldn’t hear of it. It’s funny; he was a very private person.”
“Yet he made his living publicizing the comings and goings of other people.”
I was simply thinking out loud. But Chess set his lips firmly in a straight line.
“And look at the thanks he got.” His tone was icier than the pitcher of frosty mint tea he held in his hands. “You’d think all those celebrities had never heard the saying, ‘There’s no such thing as bad publicity’—which I happen to believe is true ninety-nine percent of the time. You’d think they would have been thrilled with the coverage he got them. They should have kissed his feet. Instead, they treated him like something you’d find under a rock.”
He sniffed indignantly. “Everybody complains about the paparazzi, but nobody acknowledges how popular their work is. I mean, look at the tabloids like the Stargazer and the Gossip Gazette. Why do you think they even exist in the first place? Because the public— you and me, Mr. and Mrs. Joe Average—can’t get en
ough of the movie stars and the TV personalities and the other celebrities we all treat like gods!
“Those papers sell millions of copies every single week. And do you think they’d fly off the newsstands if they were full of factual tidbits about what Brad Pitt eats for breakfast? Of course not! People want drama! They want sensation! Most of all, they want reassurance that, when you come right down to it, the celebrities we’ve all put on a pedestal aren’t any better—or happier—than the rest of us.”
Chess kept talking as he poured us each a tall glass of iced tea. “Take Kara Liebling. We’ve all seen a million pictures of her looking like a fashion model. And we all know somebody spent two hours on her hair, giving it that flyaway look, and somebody else spent two hours on her makeup, making her look like she’s not wearing any, and somebody else took some five-thousand-dollar designer gown and fit it to her like it was her own skin. But we don’t think about that. We just think about her perfection. We yearn for it for ourselves, but we know that never in a million years will we come even close to tasting it in our lives.
“So isn’t it reassuring to see a picture of her screaming at some autograph hound who’s been hassling her, with her hair sticking out all over the place and a big stain on her shirt, and maybe, if we’re really lucky, a big zit in the middle of her forehead? I love Kara like a sister, and I’m the first to admit that she can be made to look like an absolute princess. But the reality is that sometimes, she’s just as tired and frustrated and miserable as the rest of us!”
Chess’s passion startled me.
“It’s not as if Nettie didn’t work his butt off,” he went on in the same bitter tone. “And it wasn’t just standing out in the rain and the snow or sleeping in people’s backyards. A lot of times he had to be extraordinarily creative. Nobody ever gave him credit for that.
“Like he came up with this really clever way of getting a person’s address. He’d call up somebody who knew them and tell them that, by mistake, he’d gotten a piece of mail delivered to his house that was in their name. He’d ask for the correct address, saying he wanted to send it to them. And if they wouldn’t give it out, he’d give them a little nudge by saying it looked like it was a check. At that point, they always changed their tune.”
“Clever,” I said. Devious, I thought.
Chess glanced at the pitcher of iced tea in his hands, as if he had just remembered he was holding it. He turned and put it back in the refrigerator. “Sorry if I got a little carried away. This happens to be a subject I feel very strongly about.”
“Of course you do,” I said soothingly. “Devon Barnett was someone who really mattered to you.”
“I loved him,” he said simply. “I still do. And I always will.”
He bent over and scooped up Zsa Zsa. “Come here, my precious little princess. Daddy needs a great big hug.”
Suddenly, he stiffened. Noticing that his eyes were fixed on something behind me, I turned to look.
Standing in the doorway was a woman the size and shape of a telephone booth. Even though she was carrying a plastic bucket overflowing with every cleaning product ever invented, she was wearing a dress. The fabric was a solemn shade of blue, and it was completely unadorned. Its high neck was surprisingly modest, especially given the warmth of the June day. The same went for the sleeves that hung below her elbows. She also wore a flowered apron, its bright oranges and yellows a jarring contrast to the rest of her outfit. Thick, dark beige pantyhose were stretched over her barrel-shaped calves, bunching up at her ankles like the skin on a shar-pei. On her feet, she wore a pair of padded black Nikes.
Her graying hair was pulled back into a tight bun. The expression on her face matched its severity. Small, light-colored eyes peered out at me from narrowed slits. Her mouth was also a narrow slit, thin lips drawn into a tight straight line.
Lou immediately retreated under the table. Max, meanwhile, let out a low growl. I scooped him up and held his tense body in my arms.
“Hello,” I said cheerfully.
“I am Hilda,” she barked. “I clean.”
Her accent struck me as Eastern European. “Nice to meet you, Hilda.”
She appeared to have finished with the pleasantries. Turning to Chess and scowling, she said, “Dogs bring dirt in house.”
“That’s just silly.” He clasped the mass of white fur even more tightly to his chest. “Especially Zsa Zsa. She’s immaculate. Besides, she’s so light on her feet that her paws barely touch the ground.”
“Dog carry germs,” she insisted. “I clean kitchen now.”
“Hilda, we’re talking in here. Do you think you could work somewhere else?” Covering his mouth so only I could hear, he muttered, “Like Iceland?”
Hilda didn’t budge. “I clean living room. I clean dining room. Now I clean kitchen.”
“Oh, just go do the bathrooms or something. Surely you can find some of those germs you’re always chasing after in some other part of the house!”
She cast him a look capable of taking the varnish off a table. Then, still clutching her plastic bucket, she stomped out of the room.
“I hate her,” Chess hissed the moment she was gone. “Nettie insisted that we keep the house absolutely immaculate. And once he found that battle-ax, no one else would do.” He shuddered. “He had a thing about dirt.”
Ironic, I thought, considering he made his living reveling in it.
“I’m getting rid of her,” Chess continued petulantly. “As soon as I get my bearings, I’m going to fire that monster. But for now, I’ll just do what I’ve always done: disappear the minute she gets here. Go hang out at some restaurant like the Sand Bar or the beach or something.”
The Sand Bar. I made a mental note to scope it out the first chance I got.
“If she does a good job of keeping this place clean, she’s probably worth holding on to,” I commented. “It’s a big house.”
“It’s a huge house,” Chess corrected me. “Speaking of which, would you like to see the rest of it?”
“I’d love to.”
I left Max and Lou in the kitchen with Zsa Zsa, not wanting any stray dog hairs to incur Hilda’s wrath. Chess placated the three of them with a few gourmet brand Milk-Bones, doled out from one of Andy Warhol’s cookie jars. Then he took me on the grand tour, pointing out the highlights along the way.
“And this is the guest room. The silk wall coverings are from France; the chandelier is Venetian glass—”
“Did you decorate it yourself?”
He looked pleased. “How did you know?”
“Just a hunch. Are you a professional?”
“Oh, Jessie, you are pulling me right out of the doldrums. You’re better than an illegal substance. No, honey, I’m not a professional. Not that I didn’t train for it. That, and about a thousand other occupations.”
He sighed. “When I moved to New York from that pit of a hometown of mine, I didn’t have a single marketable skill. I skipped around from job to job, each one drearier than the last. But when I met Nettie, he insisted on helping me improve myself. He paid tuition at all kinds of different schools while I tried to ‘find myself.’ I started out in hairdressing school, but it turned out I was allergic to hair spray. Then I tried cosmetology. I thought I was a natural, but the teacher said I made everybody look like a drag queen. Then came cooking school, but we won’t even go there. Decorating was next, but most people didn’t share my taste.” He grimaced. “The instructor told me I should get a job designing brothels. How’s that for encouraging America’s youth?
“Still,” he went on wistfully, “it was such a happy time in my life. I was so glad to have gotten myself out of Crabapple. Still am. Every day of my life, I thank God for Greyhound buses. I’ll never forget how ecstatic I was when I first moved to New York. I was like a kid on Christmas morning. I couldn’t believe I was really there. Ever since I’d first seen it, back when I was sixteen, I just knew I had to find a way to get myself there.” He sighed. “I felt like Dorothy,
finally getting to the Emerald City.”
“You came to New York when you were sixteen?”
He nodded. “School trip. Something I’ll never forget. And once I saw the Big City, I couldn’t wait to move there. So that’s exactly what I did, the day after my high school graduation.”
By that point, we’d walked the entire house, except for the master bedroom. We found Hilda there, oblivious to us as she attacked the carpet with the vacuum cleaner. Chess just rolled his eyes, then walked right by.
On our way back to the kitchen, I noticed a closed door.
“What’s this?” I asked.
“That leads to the basement. It’s always kept locked.”
“Ghosts?” I suggested. “Or just dust bunnies?”
“That is—was—Dev’s photo studio.” He stopped, his eyes filling with tears again. Then he shook his head hard, as if forcing himself to go on. “He—he developed his own negatives down there. He used a digital camera some of the time, but he still preferred the old-fashioned way. I think he loved the process of working with the film and the chemicals, seeing the pictures appear right before his eyes. Having control over the whole process. Besides, you can’t alter real photographs the way you can play around with digital photos, so there’s no doubt that whatever you see in the picture is real.”
“Could I see his studio?”
“Heavens no!” Chess looked horrified. “Absolutely nobody was allowed in there! Nettie’s studio was his sacred place. We need to respect that, even now. He practically had a phobia about anybody ever going into his workroom!”
His vehemence piqued my interest. A locked room that Barnett didn’t allow anyone to enter—not even his lover?
I was still studying the door, scoping out the lock to see how formidable it looked, as Chess prattled on. “He was crazed about so many things. I used to call him ‘Nervous Nettie.’ Of course, that about drove him up the wall.”
The tour led us back to the kitchen. The dogs, still chomping on their high-priced doggie treats, barely noticed our return.
Putting on the Dog Page 9