Putting on the Dog

by Cynthia Baxter

  I looked back over my shoulder and, as soon as I saw the landscaper turn away, let go of Max’s leash. That first taste of freedom put an end to his barking. He was too busy running after Lou, following his scent with the determination of a bloodhound.

  I headed around back, quickly discovering that while the house was impressive, the grounds stretching behind it were even more sensational. The last time I’d been here, I’d been so entranced by the view that I hadn’t even noticed the huge swimming pool, edged with bright blue and yellow tile. The same color scheme was picked up in the row of cabanas that ran along one side. The back lawn was also outfitted with tennis courts and a roller-skating rink, a perfectly flat oval made of concrete. At the water’s edge, a wooden dock jutted out into the water. Tied to it were a rowboat, a canoe, a Sunfish, and a small motorboat. Dotting the endless stretch of lawn were several outbuildings, including a string of garages, several storage sheds, and a guest cottage that was at least twice as big as Shawn’s.

  At the moment, however, the only building I was interested in was the gazebo. I glanced around, anxious to make sure none of the landscapers was watching. From what I could tell, I’d gotten far enough behind the house that I was out of their line of sight. Next, I checked the windows and doors of the house, looking for a face or even a shadow. I knew that if all that barking had woken up Emily—and if she glanced out the window and saw Lou and Max—she’d be outside in a flash. But so far, there were no signs of life. As for the dogs, I spotted them in the distance, busily sniffing every square inch of the grounds, clearly ecstatic over having a brand-new place to scope out.

  As far as I could tell, I was free to snoop around the grounds. But I had to act fast. I made a beeline for the gazebo. The early morning sun, still low in the sky, cast a golden glow over the ornate white building. It also illuminated the grassy area directly behind it—the focus of my exploration.

  I felt like Lou or Max as I examined the ground, crouching down to get as good a look as possible. I would have stuck my nose in the grass if I’d possessed a fraction of their sense of smell. I vaguely recalled Nick telling me that scrutinizing a crime scene this carefully had a name. A “fingertip search.” Inspired by the memory, I ran my fingers lightly over the ground.

  It didn’t take long for me to make contact with something. Immediately my heartbeat quickened. I leaned closer to get a better look—and saw that it was a cigarette butt, nestled deep in the grass.

  I picked it up gingerly and studied it. Probably Barnett’s. Not only had I seen him smoking back here on Sunday night, but as far as I could tell, that was the reason he’d snuck behind the gazebo in the first place.

  I debated whether to take it with me or leave it, then decided to put it back where I’d found it. I resumed my search, quickly locating two more cigarette butts.

  So Barnett had developed quite a habit, I thought wryly. But it wasn’t lung cancer that got him, so...

  I froze at the sound of Lou’s shrill bark.

  Damn! I thought. I knew I had to move fast, but I desperately wanted to cover the entire area.

  I stood up and surveyed the property. Sure enough, I spotted Lou on the dock, howling at seagulls. If I didn’t quiet him down—pronto—he was going to blow my cover.

  I glanced back at the grassy spot behind the gazebo longingly. So much grass, so little time...

  Lou’s relentless yapping cut through me as if someone were jabbing me in the ribs with their finger. I knew I had to shut him up before he woke the whole household and I suddenly had to explain to Russell and Emily Bolger what I was doing prowling around their property at seven-thirty in the morning. My eyes darted around the stretch of grass frantically as I looked for something, anything, that would turn out to be helpful.

  And then, just as I was about to give up and go running after my frenzied Dalmatian, I saw something glinting in the early morning sunlight. At first, I thought it might just be a few drops of dew. But the pattern was too distinctive: a gentle arch, just a few inches long...

  “Woof! Woof!” I was all too aware of Lou’s incessant yelps as he did his best to rid the world of bothersome seagulls. I glanced over my shoulder, half of me feeling compelled to dash over to quiet him down and the other half unwilling to abandon my search—especially since my stomach was doing flip-flops over the possibility that I’d actually found something. I crouched down to get a better look—and let out a loud gasp.

  With trembling hands, I picked up the thin piece of wire that had been half-hidden by the dense grass.

  “Oh, my God!” I cried breathlessly. “Gary was telling the truth!”

  My head was spinning as Max, Lou, and I sped away from Ocean Spray Drive. My two sidekicks were growling and nipping at each other, positively giddy after their exhilarating adventure at the Bolger estate, but I was too deep in thought to let them distract me. The possibility that Devon Barnett had been murdered was getting more and more difficult to ignore—especially with my conversation with Gary Frye resonating through my head, and the scrap of wire I’d found still clutched in my hand.

  Then, of course, there was the inescapable fact that the number one occupational hazard of Devon Barnett’s chosen profession was making enemies.

  I couldn’t just let it go—and my innate inability to resist poking my head in where it didn’t necessarily belong was only one reason. The torrents of adrenaline surging through my body were also a reaction to the horrible injustice of Gary Frye possibly being blamed for Barnett’s death. An accusation like that had the potential to destroy him both personally and financially.

  Someone else had been unfairly accused, as well: Rufus. Maybe Shawn was being overly sensitive about the fact that his dog’s name was suddenly mud in this town, but the possibility that Shawn could become involved in a lawsuit on the basis of that claim, even one that would be next to impossible to prove, couldn’t be completely discounted. Frivolous lawsuits were a fact of life these days—especially where someone who was known to have exceptionally deep pockets was concerned.

  Most compelling of all, and most responsible for my agitation, was the idea that there could be a killer out there—someone who was literally about to get away with murder. Yet the police weren’t inclined to investigate any further because they were convinced Barnett’s death had been an accident.

  I simply had to know more. And the first place to start was by learning everything I could about Devon Barnett. As I pulled my van into a parking spot on East Brompton’s Main Street, I was more anxious than ever to read his obituary.

  “Stay,” I instructed my dogs, ignoring their forlorn whining as I headed toward the Pampered Pantry. Maybe I couldn’t afford the gourmet grocery’s lobster salad, but I could certainly spring for the latest edition of The East Brompton Banner. A cup of coffee wasn’t out of the question, either—especially since I was as desperate for a caffeine fix as all the other coffee addicts lined up inside.

  I grabbed a copy of The Banner as soon as I got close enough to the stack piled neatly on the counter. My suspicion about the newsworthiness of Devon Barnett’s death had been correct. He’d made the front page.

  “Devon Barnett Killed By Freak Accident!” the headline screamed.

  The irony wasn’t wasted on me. Even though the paparazzo had been merciless when it came to revealing other people’s secrets, he had been secretive about his own life. But this time—this one final time—it was his name that was featured in the headlines, and his face that was splashed across the front page.

  I dropped three quarters onto the counter and hurried back to my van with the newspaper. As soon as my butt hit the front seat, I began devouring the article.

  Famed paparazzo Devon Barnett has taken his last picture. On Sunday evening, the 34-year-old celebrity photographer was killed in a bizarre occurrence that the East Brompton Police and the Norfolk County Medical Examiner have determined was accidental.

  The fatal incident occurred at a fund-raiser for the East End Chapter of
the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals (SPCA), held at 206 Ocean Spray Road, the home of North Star Studios President Russell Bolger. At approximately 8:45 P.M., as most of the guests listened to speeches under a tent on the lawn, an ice sculpture of a well-known canine cartoon personality fell from the side of a gazebo.

  According to Sergeant Wallace Bangs of the East Brompton Town Police Department, the block of ice dropped directly onto Barnett, who is believed to have been smoking in the vicinity. The sculpture is estimated to have weighed 250 to 275 pounds.

  “We do not suspect foul play at this time,” Sergeant Bangs said. “Unfortunately, accidents happen. This was just one of those freak things. We expect that the season will continue, just as it does every year. There’s no reason for something like this to have any effect on summer tourism.”

  For eighteen years, Barnett was an integral part of the celebrity scene, photographing actors, musical performers, and politicians for tabloids like the Stargazer and the Gossip Gazette.

  A native of Crockettsville, Louisiana, Barnett moved to New York City at age 17 and began working as a news photographer. He started at local papers in Queens and the Bronx, using his real name, Daniel Barnes. Next, he worked as a free-lancer for the New York Post, legally changing his name to Devon Barnett. He built his reputation by taking pictures of celebrities.

  Barnett soon branched off on his own, selling photographs to popular tabloids. He quickly became known as one of the most creative paparazzi in the business, as well as one of the most determined.

  “It was a terrible shock,” commented Celia Cromworthy of Brompton Harbor, president of the East End Chapter of the SPCA and chair of the weeklong event, Funds for Our Furry Friends. “It’s a tragedy when anyone at a party is killed—even though Mr. Barnett wasn’t actually an invited guest.”

  Phyllis Beckwith, whose Dering Shores-based company, Foodies, Inc., catered the fund-raising dinner, said, “We are all saddened by Devon Barnett’s passing. The only good thing about it was that it happened out of view, so none of the guests had to witness anything distasteful.” Beckwith added, “I’d like to assure everyone that we donated all the leftover food to a local soup kitchen. That includes our signature dessert, Mocha Crème Brûlée with Chocolate Almond Drizzle, made only with farm fresh eggs and real cream—last year’s Grand Prize winner in Bromptons Magazine’s Dessert Olympics.”

  Russell Bolger, on whose estate the fund-raising dinner was held, observed, “Devon Barnett was practically an institution here on the East End. His presence was an integral part of the summer experience—like humidity and mosquitoes.”

  Barnett is survived by his wife, photographer Sydney Hornsby Barnett, who resides in Cuttituck.

  “Devon Barnett was married?” I cried aloud.

  I reread the final line of the obituary half a dozen times, wanting to make sure my eyes weren’t playing tricks on me. Now there was a lead worth following up on.

  Then I went back and read the entire article again, pondering each paragraph and taking in the details of Barnett’s life. It was clearer to me than ever that I still had a lot to learn—and that the only way I’d accomplish my goal was by being at least as creative as Barnett.

  But he and I had something in common: We were both resourceful.

  I picked up the Guide to the Bromptons I’d grabbed at the Pampered Pantry the day before and tossed on the floor of my van. If I was going to start poking around in the Bromptons, where I had very few ties, I was going to need some help. And the best place to start was by enlisting the aid of another veterinarian. I turned to the V’s, holding my breath as I read the listings, wondering how I’d ever be able to convince a total stranger to help me investigate an incident that even the police had decided wasn’t worth their time. Vegan Restaurants, Vegetable and Fruit Purveyors, Vegetarian Restaurants, Veterinarians...

  I let out a shriek when, there among the three or four listings of veterinarians with offices in the area, I saw a name I recognized. It hadn’t even occurred to me that I might come across someone I knew. As if that wasn’t enough of a shock, this vet happened to be one of the last people I ever expected to end up on Long Island.

  I was practically jumping up and down with excitement as I glanced at my watch. It was barely eight o’clock, meaning I still had over an hour before Day Two of the dog show got underway. More than enough time to pay a surprise visit—and to rekindle an old and valued friendship.

  I double-checked the address in the Guide, started up the van, and headed east toward Poxabogue.

  Poxabogue was a sleepy community that straddled Sunset Highway, its business district consisting of half a dozen shops housed in weatherworn freestanding buildings. I spotted a health-food store, an espresso bar, and a nursery that featured kitsch garden sculptures of giant chess pieces and dinosaurs in addition to the usual azaleas and rhododendrons. Beyond the road, tucked away from view, there were scores of palatial estates that served as summer homes. The houses north of the highway were interspersed with scenic farms that hadn’t changed much since the area’s original settlers planted the first seeds back in the 1600s. The houses to the south, meanwhile, tended toward the mansion variety, overlooking gentle sand dunes and, just beyond, the pounding surf of the Atlantic.

  But I wasn’t here for the real estate.

  I braked when I spotted the bright yellow sign jutting above the greenery: Suzanne Fox, D.V.M. Just looking at it made me grin. As I pulled into the parking lot, I imagined what Suzanne’s reaction was going to be when she saw what the cat dragged in.

  While the front door was unlocked, the waiting room was empty. Too early for office hours. Even the receptionist hadn’t come in yet. I ventured farther inside, with Max and Lou trailing after me, looking for signs of life.

  I spotted Suzanne in the surgery room. She stood with her back to me, bending over a German shepherd and finishing up what looked like a routine spaying. A second woman, another vet or maybe a technician, stood at her side. Even though I hadn’t seen Suzanne for years, there was no doubt in my mind that I’d found her. True, she no longer wore her hair in a long braid down her back. Instead, it was twisted into a complicated knot and held in place with a plastic clip. But its color—a fiery orange-red—hadn’t changed a bit.

  She turned slightly, and I saw the familiar sprinkle of freckles across her nose. And she was still what my grandmother used to call “pleasingly plump.”

  I didn’t say hello. Instead, I stood in the doorway, threw open my arms, and cried, “Anassa kata, kalo, kale...”

  “Ia, ia, ia, nike!” Suzanne finished, turning around. When she saw it was her college lab partner and long-lost friend, her face lit up like a sky full of fireworks, and she let out a squeal. “Oh, my God! Jessie, is that really you ?”

  “It’s me, all right!”

  She pulled off her surgical gloves and sprinted over to me. We threw our arms around each other, laughing and hugging.

  “How long has it been?” she cried breathlessly when she finally pulled away.

  “College graduation—a good ten years.”

  Her large blue eyes, the color of cornflowers, were shining. “I can’t believe it. Jessie Popper, after all this time!”

  Suzanne and I had met at Bryn Mawr, a small women’s college in Pennsylvania that was so rooted in the traditions of classical education that its school cheer was in ancient Greek. While dozens of young women in our freshman class had been premed students, Suzanne Fox and I made up the entire prevet population. So it was hardly surprising that we’d bonded as soon as we met in our Chemistry 101 lab. Both of us were thrilled that we’d found another Mawrtyr hell-bent on getting into vet school and spending the rest of her life caring for animals.

  Together, Suzanne and I had endured more allnighters than I cared to remember, agonizing over lab reports fueled with Diet Coke, really bad pizza, and an unflagging sense of camaraderie. Of course, we’d managed to squeeze in a little fun, too. Stealing into Philadelphia on rain
y Saturday afternoons to see two movies in a row, throwing ourselves into making our class’s Junior Show the best one in the college’s one-hundred-year-plus history, even double-dating a few times.

  Our senior year, we had literally held each other’s hands as we opened the long-awaited letters that would determine how we’d each live the rest of our lives. When both turned out to be acceptances—mine from Cornell University’s College of Veterinary Medicine in upstate New York and hers from Purdue, in her home state of Indiana—we were as thrilled for each other as we were for ourselves.

  After graduation, we’d kept in touch for a while. But we’d only managed a few phone calls and E-mails before the demands of veterinary school got in the way.

  “I’m still in shock!” Suzanne exclaimed. Her rounded cheeks were punctuated with two big dimples as she said, “Shelley, this is Jessie Popper, one of my best friends ever—even though we haven’t seen each other for ages. Jess, this is Shelley Howard, my technician.”

  After Shelley and I said the requisite “Hello, nice to meet you’s” and I’d introduced Max and Lou to everyone, Suzanne demanded, “How in the world did you find me?”

  “One of those free booklets they put in all the stores,” I replied. “Guide to the Bromptons or something.”

  “But what are you doing on Long Island?”

  “I live here.”

  “Get out of here! Since when?”

  “Since finishing vet school. How about you?”

  “I moved here last summer. It never even occurred to me that you might be living on Long Island!”

  “You wouldn’t have found me. I’m listed as ‘Reigning Cats and Dogs.’ ”

  “Where’s your practice?”

  “All over the Island. I have a mobile services unit. But I live in a place called Joshua’s Hollow, on the North Shore. I rent a cottage on a big estate. It’s small but incredibly cute, and the lovely woman who owns it has become one of my best friends.”

  Suzanne grinned. “So you’re the competition.”