Putting on the Dog

by Cynthia Baxter

  —Colette

  I stopped at the guesthouse to pick up Max and Lou be-fore heading over to Kara’s, figuring that a “playdate” with Anastasia would do them good. They were strangely subdued, as if they sensed how distraught I was, not only over the most recent addition to the threats someone was making, but by Falcone’s refusal to take them—or me—seriously.

  Ten minutes later, the three of us drove along Sand Dune Road, peering at house numbers. I rolled down the car windows so we could breathe in the fresh sea air. When I spotted the address that matched the one she’d written down for me, I was surprised. I’d expected Kara Liebling’s summer retreat to be just like its owner: cool, sophisticated, and extraordinarily pretty. Yet the section that faced the street was nothing more than a solid wall of rough-hewn wood, with few windows. In fact, the most remarkable thing about it was how unremarkable it was.

  “Kind of modest, don’t you think?” I asked Max and Lou, who were sitting on the seat beside me.

  But the smell of the salty sea air had energized them. They were already shifting into higher gear in anticipation of another romp at the beach. I was beginning to worry that they were getting spoiled. Of course, that was the danger of being in the Bromptons. Just being amid such wealth and privilege exposed you to a lifestyle more luxurious than anything you’d ever dreamed of. At first, it was startling. But it sure didn’t take long to get used to it.

  It wasn’t until I pulled my van up alongside the house that I understood the appeal of Kara’s oceanside hideaway. The multileveled structure, a Chinese puzzle of decks and balconies, sat right on the beach, offering a view of the Atlantic and a stretch of pearl-white sand that literally made me gasp. And the back and sides of the building were made almost entirely of glass, so that the spectacular view was actually part of the décor.

  I opened the car door to climb out—and nearly fell out as Max and Lou pushed their way ahead of me. They leaped around the driveway, barking wildly.

  “Quiet, Lou!” I commanded. “Max, calm down!”

  They just ignored me, sniffing every surface within reach. And then I saw the cause of their temporary insanity: a large white Abyssinian, draped across the top of a low stone fence, surveying the canine interlopers with distrust.

  “Come on, you two,” I said impatiently, grabbing their collars and dragging them away. “I don’t think that cat is interested in making any new friends today.”

  As we neared the house, the dogs strained toward a path that ran alongside it, leading to the beach. This time, I let them run free. They loped toward the endless stretch of sand, still barking their heads off. I was pleased to see they were taking full advantage of our seaside visit.

  “Knock, knock!” I yelled as I tromped up a wooden staircase. It led to a deck that swept across the entire back of the house. “Anybody home?”

  The sliding glass doors opened and Kara poked her head out. “You made it! Come on up, Jessie.”

  As Kara stepped out onto the porch, I saw that she was still dressed in the same casual outfit she’d been wearing in the supermarket parking lot. But even in loose-fitting capris, a simple tank top, and canvas sneakers that looked as if they’d taken a few too many trips around the block, she managed to look as if she’d just stepped off a magazine cover—or off the poster for one of her blockbuster movies. An ocean breeze blew a strand of pale blonde hair across her face, and her eyes were as blue as the sea. Her delicate features and pale, perfect skin gave her the look of a porcelain doll. It was no wonder half the men in America were in love with her.

  Anastasia came bounding out from behind her, scurrying down the wooden steps with amazing agility. She headed toward Max and Lou, barking her greeting. Within seconds the three of them were running around in circles on the sand, yelping excitedly as they played a canine version of tag.

  Kara smiled. Gesturing in their direction, she said, “Want to join them for an invigorating game of Frisbee?”

  “Thanks, but right now, Frisbee sounds a little strenuous.” I didn’t bother to explain that I’d had what most people would characterize as a trying day. “I think I’d just like to sit in one of those deck chairs and take in this incredible view.”

  She smiled. “It is nice, isn’t it? It’s the main reason I bought the house. These huge windows make me feel as if I’m actually part of all this, instead of just some bystander. If it weren’t for the time I spend here during the summer, I don’t know how I’d cope with all the stress of the other nine or ten months of the year. I think of this beach house as my own personal spa. Just being here is magical.” As if to demonstrate, Kara lowered herself gracefully onto the wooden lounge chair next to me. With a dramatic sigh, she stretched out her long legs and leaned back.

  “You’re filming a new movie in the fall, aren’t you?”

  “Day of the Unicorn. I’ll be playing Catherine the Great. Do you know much about her?”

  “As a matter of fact, I have a cat named after her. But I don’t know all that much, aside from the fact that she was one of the strongest, most powerful women in history.”

  “It’s truly the role of a lifetime. I still can’t believe I got the part.” Grimacing, she added, “Of course, that’s the upside. The downside is that I’m ridiculously nervous about how it’s going to be received. My plan is to spend the next couple of months relaxing so I can really focus on the role when I go back to California in September.”

  I nodded. “My boyfriend’s doing the exact same thing. He’s starting law school in the fall, and he plans to take a few weeks off in August to relax before jumping in with both feet.”

  “You mean he’s not a veterinarian, like you?”

  “He’s a private investigator.”

  “How fascinating!” Kara exclaimed. “What does he investigate?”

  “He handles all kinds of cases. Missing persons, background checks on employees, insurance fraud...A lot of his cases are domestic: trying to find out if a spouse who’s been acting suspiciously is having an affair, that kind of thing.”

  “That must be interesting.”

  “Actually, it’s not nearly as exciting as they make it look in the movies. Most of what he does is pretty routine. Which is one of the main reasons he’s going back to school. He wants to do something more challenging.”

  “He seems to have a good head on his shoulders.”

  “Yeah,” I said thoughtfully. “Nick’s pretty great.”

  “Then you’re very lucky.”

  “How about you, Kara? If you don’t mind me asking, I mean.”

  She hesitated before replying, “There’s no one special in my life. At least, not now. Not since Shawn.” Her tone had become wistful. “For almost a year, Shawn and I were practically the poster children for romance. Our pictures were everywhere: holding hands at the Academy Awards, kissing at Spago ... We were America’s darlings. Except, instead of it just being for the sake of publicity, it was real. At least, I thought so. I still think it was real— at least, up until the end. We were madly, desperately in love, and I was convinced I’d finally found my soul mate. I believed he felt the same way. That’s certainly what he told me at the time.”

  She paused, as if she were picturing it all in her mind. I sat in silence, knowing that there was a great big “but” coming.

  “But then...then he changed. He started acting different. Showing up late, not picking up the phone when I called, even though I was positive he was home . . . I was beside myself. I could feel him growing more and more distant, and I just assumed I was doing something to make him react that way. I tried being more affectionate, I tried giving him more space . . . but nothing I did seemed to make any difference.” Her voice choked with pain, she added, “I knew I was losing him, but I couldn’t understand why.”

  She lapsed into silence. I was trying to think of something sympathetic to say, when she said, “It was Devon Barnett who solved the puzzle for me.”

  I sat up straighter at the mention of the paparazz
o’s name. “Devon Barnett?”

  Kara nodded. “It’s hard to believe anyone could owe that man anything, isn’t it? But thanks to him, I finally found out what was going on—along with everybody else who reads the tabloids. I was clued in the week of the Cannes Film Festival, when Shawn flew to Europe to promote his new movie. I was making an independent film, so I stayed behind. Three days after he left, there it was, right on the front page of the Stargazer: a photograph of Shawn and . . . and another woman, lying on the beach at Cannes. She was wearing this teensy little bikini, and his hands were all over her, and his tongue was halfway down her throat. . . .” Her voice broke off with a choking sound.

  “Oh, Kara,” I said, my voice nearly a whisper. “How awful for you. And what a way to find out!”

  “Like I said, I really owed Barnett. If it weren’t for him, I would have made an even bigger fool of myself by letting Shawn two-time me indefinitely.” She looked over at me, her eyes clouded. “And that’s the story of Kara Liebling’s broken heart. One more reason I was so looking forward to a quiet summer here at the beach house. At least, that was the plan. But it seems as if I can’t get away from my past. Wherever I go, I run into Shawn.”

  “It does seem like it’s an awfully small world out here,” I commented sympathetically. “Everybody seems to know everybody else.” And to have some past entanglement with them, I thought.

  Kara had become silent again. It seemed like the perfect time to do a little digging—digging that had nothing to do with all the sand stretching out before me. “Speaking of Devon Barnettt,” I said, trying to sound casual, “I know you’re close to Chess, but what about Dev? Did you know him well, too?”

  Kara thought for a few seconds, her perfectly smooth forehead wrinkling pensively. “I never got to know Devon as well as I would have liked. He was away so much of the time—or at least, busy with other things. The man had unlimited energy, and he was on the go constantly. In fact, that’s the main reason Chess and I became such good friends. We were both alone, so naturally we just gravitated toward each other. But Devon was always a bit of a mystery to me.”

  She smiled sadly. “It’s hard to understand why someone would choose to make a living that way: following celebrities around, waiting endlessly outside clubs and in parking garages, hoping to snap a few pictures... Frankly, it sounds like a boring, lonely way to spend your time. Even worse than sitting around, waiting for your boyfriend to come home from film festivals.”

  Kara sat up abruptly. “Will you listen to me, going on like this? I’m sure you didn’t come over so you could listen to me cry on your shoulder. And I just realized that I never even offered you something to drink. What would you like, Jessie? I’ve got lemonade, orange juice. . . .”

  The rest of our visit was considerably more upbeat. Kara entertained me by telling me stories about shooting on location in remote spots where the insects were as big as birds, filming scenes in a winter coat and mittens even though the temperature topped 110, and getting up at four A.M. to endure two excruciating hours of hair and makeup. My short stay in the Bromptons was certainly making me appreciate my own life.

  As Lou and I drove away, I mulled over the different impression I’d gotten of Kara, now that I’d had the chance to spend some time with her. It stood in such sharp contrast to the chilling report Shawn had given me. He’d insisted that she was unstable, going so far as to describe her as a “nutcase.”

  Does that other side of Kara Liebling really exist? I wondered. Or was Shawn just portraying her that way to convince me that she wasn’t as sweet—or as stable—as she seemed? And if that’s the case, why?

  The possibility that Shawn was trying to create doubts in my mind about Kara Liebling’s stability could have had more to do with him than with Kara. I found myself wondering if he was simply trying to make her look like a suspect in order to divert suspicion away from himself.

  “No new developments?” I asked Nick anxiously as soon as I got back to the guesthouse.

  The despondent look on his face gave me my answer.

  This much was clear: while the person I believed to be Devon Barnett’s killer was trying damned hard to scare me off the case, even going so far as to kill innocent animals, I’d only become even more determined than ever to see this thing through. My mind was running on fast-forward. Tomorrow, Friday, was the last day of the dog show. I had a lot of ground to cover, and I wouldn’t be able to do it if I was standing next to a giant tick, answering questions about heartworm. It was time to call in the reserves.

  I dialed the familiar number on my cell phone.

  “Scruggs here.”

  “Marcus! I’m so glad I got you!” Words I never thought I’d utter. “I need a favor.”

  “Wait a minute. I thought coming to meet your friend for dinner tomorrow night was the favor.”

  “Yes, but this one’s more of a favor to you. It’s your big chance to meet those actresses and supermodels you’ve been obsessing about.”

  “Supermodels?”

  I’d clearly gotten his attention. “Tomorrow’s the last day of the dog show, and I need a stand-in at the ‘Ask The Vet’ booth. You were already planning to come out to the East End. Besides, you’ll meet more gorgeous, attention-starved females than you’ll know what to do with.” You may meet a few of their owners, too, I thought.

  “Okay, okay. I guess I owe it to the SPCA.”

  Not to mention your elevated testosterone level. “Thanks. You won’t regret it. And Marcus? There’s one woman in particular you should look out for. I have a feeling she’s exactly your type, and that you two are really going to hit it off.”

  “Yeah?” I could hear the optimism in his voice. “What’s her name?”

  “Celia Cromworthy.”

  I didn’t sleep very well that night. I tossed and turned as I struggled to make sense of the information I’d collected about the people who had known Devon Barnett— and who may have wanted him dead. An entire cast of characters starred in my ruminations. I pictured them all standing in a lineup, then focused on each of them, one at a time.

  First of all, there was Chess. He occupied the number one spot. Not only were there signs of major conflict in his relationship with his lover, but he had a major skeleton in his closet—a skeleton that had once belonged to his teacher and very special friend.

  Next came Hugo Fontana, whose career would have been destroyed if Barnett went public with the fact that the macho movie star was gay. Standing right next to him was Russell Bolger, whose movie production company was likely to fold if the Pulverizer was ever outed. Phyllis Beckwith was wedged in there, too. She was loyal to Bolger because he had helped her get her start in the catering business. If Barnett had been on the verge of telling the world Hugo’s secret, how far would she have gone to protect Bolger and his baby, North Star Studios?

  Sydney Hornsby Barnett, a.k.a. Sizzle, came next. She stood to inherit a huge amount of money if Barnett died while he was still married to her. But if he’d been successful in getting the annulment he was seeking, she’d have been spit out of the marriage without a cent. On top of that was the fact that she had lied to me about being out in the Bromptons the very night he was murdered.

  Then there was Shawn, who was part of my lineup simply because he had hated Barnett so much. And I couldn’t forget that Rufus had been near the scene of the crime—even if I knew he couldn’t have been responsible for Barnett’s demise. Even Hilda was a suspect—mainly because of the way she crept around his house in her gigantic Nikes, a mysterious presence who always seemed to be looming in the background.

  Of course, I also had to consider everyone else I’d met in the Bromptons. Even someone like Gary Frye could have had a vendetta against Barnett—and he certainly had the access and know-how to use an ice sculpture as a murder weapon. But there were also hundreds of other people who had known and hated Barnett, victims of his merciless lens who might have been at the party that night—and who could have iced the unethi
cal paparazzo.

  As I lay in the dark, I also examined the bits and pieces of information I’d acquired about Barnett himself. His secret rendezvous a few nights before his murder, his sudden plans to buy a vacation house in the South of France, the shoebox full of cash he kept stashed in his closet...I was convinced he’d been involved in something besides snapping photographs of celebrities and selling them to tabloids. I was becoming increasingly certain that the basement he was so meticulous about keeping locked was a very good place to find out what that “something” was.

  I was also aware that I was running out of time. Sunday afternoon’s luncheon and video screening marked the end of the dog show. After that, I’d be on my way home to Joshua’s Hollow and back to my usual busy schedule. Investigating Barnett’s death while I was in the Bromptons had been difficult enough. Once I was an hour and a half away, continuing would be close to impossible. If I was going to identify the murderer and gather enough evidence to convince Lieutenant Falcone that I’d solved the crime, I had a little more than two days left to do it.

  It was no wonder I couldn’t sleep.

  First thing the next morning, even before Nick was awake, I left the dogs nestled against him in bed and headed over to Ice Castles. I was anxious to talk to Gary Frye again, to see if he had learned anything new about Devon Barnett’s death. As I pulled my van into his parking lot, I was struck by the fact that something felt different this time. Only two or three cars were parked outside, and the area had the desolate feeling of a ghost town.

  I knocked on the door, meanwhile peering through the small window. I saw Gary inside, sitting at his desk and talking on the phone. He gestured for me to come inside.

  “Yes, Mrs. Donner, I understand that you’re concerned. But let me assure you that—cancel? Well, it’s a little late for that. If you look at the contract you signed when you first engaged Ice Castles’ services for Brittany’s birthday party . . . Yes, there is a cancellation clause, but if you look at the date, I believe you’ll see that it’s already passed.... Mrs. Donner? Hello, Mrs. Donner? . . .”