Putting on the Dog

by Cynthia Baxter

  “Sounds like a kind of ‘scary’ that most of us would give our eye teeth for.”

  “What about you?”

  Shawn shrugged. Gazing out at the horizon, he said, “I’m pretty much on my own these days.”

  “That’s not the impression I’ve gotten! I’ve seen the headlines from People and the tabloids at the supermarket. Your name’s been linked with at least half a dozen actresses in the past year. Lily James, Heather McBane, Beebee Montez, Kara Liebling—”

  “Beebee and I are ‘just good friends.’ ”

  “Aha!” I cried triumphantly. “So you were involved with the others!”

  “That depends on how you define ‘involved,’ ” Shawn replied lightly. “Some of them were just dates for highprofile events, like opening nights or fund-raisers for charity. Usually, my public relations firm set them up. Some of the others, I really did take out a few times.”

  “Which category did Kara Liebling fall into?” I asked, trying to sound casual.

  He hesitated. “That one was real.”

  A crushing feeling immediately washed over me, a reaction that felt dangerously like jealousy.

  “But she turned out to be kind of a nutcase,” Shawn added.

  I started at his use of such a strong word. “What do you mean?”

  “She was incredibly ambitious. You know the type. Whenever she’s looking deep into your eyes, you can’t help feeling she’s checking out her own reflection in your contact lenses.”

  He shrugged. “The problem is, most of the people I meet are more interested in themselves than they are in anybody else. There aren’t a lot of real people in the world I travel in. Everybody wants something.”

  “Speaking as somebody who happens to live in the ‘real’ world,” I interjected, “I can assure you that finding someone who truly cares about you—and loves you for yourself—isn’t that easy out here, either.”

  “What about Nick? Does he fit into that category?”

  “Yes.” I answered quickly. So quickly, in fact, that I questioned my own motives. Especially since something about Shawn’s tone had told me he was asking a trick question.

  I decided it was time to change the subject. “What about Devon Barnett?”

  Shawn looked startled. “What about him?”

  “What do you suppose he wanted?”

  He laughed coldly. “You mean, besides destroying people’s lives?”

  “Even if that was his goal, there had to be something in it for him.”

  “Besides satisfying his vicious streak, you mean.”

  “That could have been his main motivation, if he really was just a mean guy who liked to make trouble,” I said thoughtfully. “But somehow, I get the feeling there was more to it.”

  “Then you’re a much more generous person than I am.”

  “There’s so much I don’t know about him,” I said, sounding as frustrated as I felt. “I’ve become pretty friendly with his partner, Chess LaMont. But it’s almost as if the more I learn about Dev—about both of them, actually—the harder it seems to figure out who wanted him dead badly enough to do him in. I’ve even hoped that being inside his house would help provide me with some clues, but so far, it’s gotten me nowhere.”

  “You’ve been inside?” Shawn asked. “I always thought that place looked like something out of Ripley’s Believe It Or Not. What’s it like?”

  “Very nicely decorated, as a matter of fact. It’s not garish at all. There are a few fun touches, but for the most part it’s pretty tasteful.” I sighed. “I guess the only thing I’ve learned from being inside is that Devon Barnett was pretty wealthy. Making money was clearly a priority in his life. He’s got an actual Renoir...and a David Hockney. Can you imagine?”

  Gently, Shawn said, “I know a lot of people who own valuable artwork. Rembrandts, El Greco’s, Van Gogh’s—”

  “I own a few of those, too,” I teased. “Of course, they’re in postcard form. And they’re stuck to my refrigerator with magnets from the gas company.”

  Shawn grinned. “I’d love to see your collection some time.”

  I chose to ignore that comment. “But something about the possessions Devon chose to surround himself with tell me that he was also starstruck.”

  “I find that hard to believe. I mean, if that were true, wouldn’t he have had a little respect for celebrities?”

  I shrugged. “Could be that it’s something else, then. Envy, maybe. But he has so many valuable things that have ties to the rich and famous. Like Andy Warhol’s cookie jars. He kept a few pieces from the collection on display in his kitchen.”

  “So you’re saying that poor old Devon Barnett may have just been a wannabe,” Shawn mused. “Somebody who was so enthralled with fame that he spent his life trying to be part of it in whatever meager, pathetic way he could.”

  “It’s just a theory.”

  “Personally, the theory I subscribe to is that he was nothing more than a greedy bastard.”

  “Maybe.”

  Shawn suddenly stopped walking. He put his hand on my arm and drew me closer. “Hey, Jess?” His voice suddenly sounded different. Tight, somehow, as if he were having trouble getting the words out. The expression on his face was also one I hadn’t seen before. His blue eyes glowed with such intensity I found it difficult not to look away.

  I was suddenly very aware of the fact that the two of us were still standing ankle-deep in sea foam. The sun was hovering just above the horizon, fading to a pale yellow that complemented the streaks of pink and lavender that filled the sky. The effect was spectacular, as if someone with a very large brush and a few tubs of watercolor paints had gone wild. No one else was around. The only sounds were the crashing of the waves against the shore and the seagulls, screeching overhead.

  “I think what you’re doing is terrific,” Shawn went on in the same husky voice. “In fact, I think you’re terrific.”

  He was suddenly holding me in a gentle embrace, his eyes burning into mine. His face was only inches away from mine, yet I saw him drawing even closer....

  I knew where this was heading. I’d seen this movie before.

  “I’d better get back,” I said brusquely, looking away. “It’s getting late, and Nick is probably home by now.”

  “Nick.” Shawn gave a sharp little laugh, then dropped his arms to his sides. “Right. We wouldn’t want to keep old Nick waiting, would we?”

  We were both silent as we started back to the Jeep. As I walked barefoot through the waves, I noticed for the first time that the water was uncomfortably cold. We also kept ourselves at least two feet apart, so there was no chance we’d bump into each other.

  “Shawn,” I said, trying to break the awkwardness, “I—”

  “It’s okay, Jess,” Shawn said evenly. “I guess that old saying about timing being everything is really true.”

  As I crossed the lawn to the guesthouse, I was still dazed over what had just happened at the beach. I felt confused— not by Shawn as much as by my own reaction. I hated to admit it, even to myself, but I’d wanted to kiss him. Maybe it was curiosity, maybe it was genuine attraction, and maybe it was just who he was: a gorgeous star of the big screen who also starred in a lot of women’s fantasies.

  I half-hoped Nick hadn’t come back yet. Not now, when facing him after my unexpected interlude with Shawn seemed like more than I could handle. I was thinking that it was probably time to put another call in to Betty Vandervoort as I neared the guesthouse.

  “Yeow!” I let out a yelp as I came close to stepping on a misshapen mound of dark gray fur lying in the middle of the front porch.

  It took me a few seconds to realize that it was a rat. A dead rat, placed in the same spot as the mouse I’d encountered the day before.

  My stomach lurched as I leaned over to examine the animal more closely. I noticed that once again, it had been killed by a neck injury. But this time, its windpipe had been cut. The wound was a straight incision. No blood, no teeth marks, no raw fl
esh in the poor dead animal’s neck. Instead, the wound looked as if a human had inflicted it, using a sharp metallic tool like a razor or a knife.

  My mind raced and the tightening in my stomach had let loose into a series of cartwheels. When I’d encountered the dead mouse the day before, I’d just assumed it was the handiwork of Lucifer, the stray cat that had adopted Shawn’s estate as its territory. This time around, I sensed that whoever had left me this little gift wasn’t any four-legged animal. It was much more likely that the perpetrator was the two-legged variety.

  I pulled off my sweatshirt, using it to wrap the dead animal and move it to the side of the guesthouse, beneath some shrubs. My mouth had become uncomfortably dry, and the pounding of my heart was making me feel light-headed. Someone had been watching my comings and goings—and that someone wasn’t happy about it.

  “Nick? Nick?” I cried, storming inside the cottage. I was suddenly desperate not to be alone. But while I was hoping to find Nick and the dogs home, I wasn’t at all prepared for what I encountered.

  The front rooms of the guesthouse were aglow in candlelight. The tables, the counters, and even the windowsills were lined with white votives, their flickering flames drenching the living room and the kitchen in soft light. A bottle of champagne and two long-stemmed glasses sat on the coffee table. The kitchen table was set for two, with a tablecloth, a circle of candles, and, in the middle, a huge vase of yellow roses.

  Nick stood in the doorway, searching my face for a reaction. Max stood on one side of him and Lou on the other, wearing the same expectant looks—as if the three of them had cooked this up together.

  “What’s all this?” I asked, blinking.

  “My way of saying ‘I’m sorry,’ ” Nick replied. “I’ve decided that I’ve been acting childish. My jealousy over that Shawn guy is just dumb. I know you don’t give a hoot about him.”

  “Oh, Nick,” I said in a breathless voice. “This is all so . . . so unexpected.”

  “I can tell by the look on your face!”

  “I—I just need a minute to catch my breath.”

  “You look flushed,” he observed. “I didn’t mean to catch you off guard like this.”

  I wasn’t about to tell him that the real reason I was so flustered was a dead rat, not a live boyfriend. I stood woodenly as he came over and took me in his arms.

  “Can you forgive me for being an idiot?” he asked gently. “Is it enough to tell you that I’m sorry?”

  Don’t say it, a voice inside my head insisted. Don’t start, Jess....

  “Don’t you owe me a second apology?” I suddenly heard myself saying, as if I’d lost the ability to control what came out of my mouth.

  I felt Nick stiffen. “For what?”

  “For giving me such a hard time about investigating Devon Barnett’s murder.”

  “Wait a sec.” He pulled away, his hands still around me, but suddenly in what seemed like an awkward embrace. “This murder business is something else entirely.”

  “Not really,” I said lightly. “I thought we’d reached an agreement that time we had lunch at the Sand Bar. We decided that my fascination with murder investigations and your decision to become a lawyer weren’t that different.”

  “That may be true on some intellectual level,” Nick countered. “But the fact of the matter is, that what you’re doing is just plain dangerous! When you start poking your nose around in places where it doesn’t belong—”

  “Who are you to tell me where my nose belongs?”

  “Who am I? Who am I?”

  Our voices had gotten so loud that someone who didn’t know any better might have concluded that we were fighting. In fact, Max had begun barking, as if saying, “Cut it out, you two!” Lou ducked under the coffee table, never very comfortable with disagreement. Frankly, I wasn’t that good at it, either. By this point, I’d decided to deprive Nick of the knowledge that some unknown individual had gotten in the habit of sneaking dead animals onto my porch when no one was looking. If he wasn’t going to support me, then I could manage without him.

  “Jess, you’re just being stubborn,” Nick insisted. “You took it upon yourself to find out who murdered Devon Barnett. Well, guess what? You haven’t been able to do it! The poor guy was probably nothing more than the victim of a freak accident, anyway. But would you ever admit that? Would you ever back down and say you’d been wrong?”

  “I’m not wrong!” I shot back. “He was murdered, and I’m going to find out who did it!”

  “Even if pigheadedly insisting on doing it ruins our entire vacation?”

  “The only thing that’s ruining our vacation is your mood swings—and your insistence that you know more about what’s good for me than I do!”

  “If that’s how you feel, then fine,” Nick shouted.

  “Fine!” I countered.

  He started toward the front door. I knew this conversation was over.

  “Aren’t you going to blow out all these candles?” I called after him. “You could start a fire!”

  “I thought I could,” he answered, “but I guess I was wrong.”

  He slammed the door hard, making the entire guesthouse shake. Lou began to whimper, while Max went into a frenzy as he tried to climb up to the window to watch him leave.

  So much for kissing and making up, I thought sullenly.

  I scooped Max into my arms so the two of us could stand in front of the window and watch Nick storm toward his car and drive off. Instead of feeling triumphant or even angry, I suddenly felt empty.

  I also doubted my own motives.

  Was I really angry that Nick wasn’t crazy about me playing detective during our romantic little getaway? I wondered, blinking hard to keep my eyes from stinging. Or was this argument the result of my own insecurities, my compulsion to find a new and complicated way of pushing him away?

  One thing was for certain. If Devon Barnett hadn’t gotten himself murdered the first night I was on the East End, Nick and I would have spent an idyllic week together, splashing in the waves and pigging out on seafood. In a way, this whole thing was Devon Barnett’s fault.

  At least, I hoped it was. After all, the dead paparazzo was a much better fall guy than Shawn.

  Chapter 12

  “Women and cats will do as they please, and men and dogs should relax and get used to the idea.”

  —Robert A. Heinlein

  Some time after midnight, I heard Nick come in. Max, Lou, and I all lay in bed, our muscles tensed and our ears pricked as we listened to him move around the living room. My two dogs kept their eyes on me, wagging their tails as they silently begged for permission to run out and give Nick the royal welcome.

  “Don’t even think about it!” I whispered, feeling slightly bruised by how easily they could shift loyalties.

  My heart pounded as I waited to see what would happen with Nick next: an apology followed by a real session of kissing-and-making-up ... or a standoff.

  The creaking of the wicker couch gave me my answer.

  I didn’t sleep very well, so I was glad when the clock finally told me it was a respectable time to get up. I pulled on some clothes, brushed my teeth, and tiptoed out with Max in my arms and Lou at my side. A cat burglar couldn’t have made less noise. As I opened the door, I glanced back at Nick. He lay sprawled across the couch, wearing nothing but the ridiculous boxer shorts I’d bought him for Valentine’s Day, neon yellow covered with red hearts and pink pigs. He was fast asleep. Or at least pretending to be.

  Arriving at the dog show on Thursday morning was a relief. Even Max and Lou seemed to feel it. As the three of us headed toward the “Ask The Vet” booth, they pranced around gleefully, barking and nipping at each others’ butts and having a grand old time.

  When they spotted Emily, they strained at the leash so hard that I let go. They raced across the field. As soon as they reached her, Lou jumped up, pushing his paws against her shoulders and nearly knocking her over. Max kept leaping into the air, his body twisting
into a different formation every time he came down.

  “Hey, doggies!” Emily cried, obviously delighted by their no-holds-barred greeting. “I sure missed you guys!”

  She glanced up, her hazel eyes sparkling. “I missed you, too,” she said, quickly adding, “and coming here, of course. I had nothing to do yesterday.”

  I pictured the swimming pool, the tennis courts, the roller-skating rink, and the boats that were all right in Emily’s backyard. I was about to protest when I realized that none of them would be much fun without someone to enjoy them with.

  “Looks like we’re going to make up for it today,” I commented, nodding toward a man making a beeline in our direction. He had no fewer than five dogs in tow, ranging in size from a toy poodle to a Saint Bernard. He also had an extremely determined look on his face.

  “That’s why we’re here,” Emily replied proudly. “To help people. We’re the experts, right?”

  The man with the eclectic taste in breeds turned out to be just one in a series of dog owners who were anxious to talk to us “experts.” As I answered their questions and examined their dogs, Emily handed out brochures, gave directions to the “Refreshments” tent, and admired the animals so enthusiastically that most of their owners left our booth with big smiles on their faces.

  The independent filmmaker Shawn had mentioned also wandered by. From what I could see, the intense young man never stopped looking at the world through the lens of his video camera. I made a point of ignoring him as he shot some footage of Emily and me talking to one of the dog-owners, not wanting to ruin the cinema verité effect. I didn’t even look up when he leaned over to place a sheet of yellow paper on our table. When I finally glanced at it, I saw it was an invitation to the screening of his documentary at Russell Bolger’s estate at one o’clock on Sunday.