That was true enough. But it was probably because I didn’t generally classify character traits like an inability to raise one’s eyes above a woman’s chest long enough to make eye contact as “sweet.”
“Suzanne,” I said, trying to be delicate, “slow down. Are you sure you’re reading him right? I’ve known Marcus for a few years now, and he’s kind of a ... womanizer.”
“Oh, he told me all about that after you and Nick left last night. We stayed at the Stable for a second cup of cappuccino.”
That explained why sleep didn’t seem to have been on the schedule for either of them.
“All that wild stuff is all in the past,” she went on breezily. “The women, the outrageous parties, the kinky stuff...”
My eyebrows shot up. Please, please don’t say any more, I begged silently. Especially about the kinky stuff.
“I’m glad it’s working out so well,” I said quickly, anxious to cut her off. “I wish the two of you the best.”
Once I finally managed to get her off the phone, I remained on the couch, fondling Lou’s ears distractedly and trying not to let myself feel overwhelmed. Even though my head felt like the Long Island Rail Road was rumbling right through the middle of it, I forced myself to think.
Before, I’d felt pressured by the fact that I had only one day left to figure out who had murdered Devon Barnett. Now, I had that same pathetically small number of hours to find Max. I was convinced Barnett’s murderer had taken my beloved dog as a last-ditch effort at scaring me off the case. Unless I figured out who that person was, I might never see my sweet little Westie again.
The thought was unimaginable. I had to get myself into fourth gear—fast. And that meant coffee.
As Lou and I drove to the Pampered Pantry in search of caffeine, the clock in my head was louder than ever. Instinctively, I reached down to touch the hard piece of metal in my pocket. I’d taken to carrying the key with me at all times so I’d be ready to sneak into Devon Barnett’s basement whenever the opportunity arose. Now, with Max missing and finding the murderer my only chance for getting my dog back—hopefully unharmed—the need to find out what Barnett was so determined to keep hidden was more important than ever.
But I knew, deep down, that I’d never get that chance unless I figured out a way to set it up. The question was, how on earth would I manage to pull it off?
I was still wracking my brain, trying to come up with an answer, as I dragged myself into the Pampered Pantry. Lou, held captive in the van, whimpered loudly, reminding me to hurry. And I had every intention of getting in and out of there as fast as I could.
But when I stepped inside, I encountered a long line. While the Pampered Pantry had been nearly empty early on weekday mornings, the place was hopping on a Saturday. As I waited, I kept myself occupied by watching the frazzled young woman behind the counter, a girl who didn’t look much older than Emily, struggle to keep the orders straight.
“Let me make sure I got this right,” she said, frowning with concentration. “That was one decaf latte, one cappuccino with extra foam, one tea, and two chais?”
“For the third time,” huffed a man in lime-green Bermuda shorts and an olive-green polo shirt embroidered with “Bromptons Golf Club,” “that was a regular latte with skim milk, a decaf cappuccino with extra foam, and three chais. I thought you people were supposed to be professionals!”
By the time I reached the front of the line, I was almost as exasperated as she was. Still, I made a point of being polite to the flustered coffee girl. “Two coffees, please. Just regular old coffee.”
“Excuse me,” a woman who appeared from out of nowhere snapped. “I believe I was next. I need three cappuccinos and two lattes.”
The young woman behind the counter cast me an apologetic look. I just shrugged and stepped aside to make way for the customer whose caffeine addiction appeared to be even more serious than mine. But the crazed atmosphere of the place was starting to get to me. As I waited amid more frothing and foaming and mixing and pouring, the tiny spark of anxiety I’d started carrying around with me wherever I went began escalating into panic.
I now had less than thirty hours before I left the Bromptons. And I still didn’t have a plan for sneaking into Devon Barnett’s basement.
I was agonizing over how I’d solve this seemingly un-surmountable problem when I was interrupted by a high-pitched voice calling, “Miss? Miss? Did you say you wanted tea or coffee?”
“Coffee,” I replied, focusing on the girl behind the counter. “Not tea.”
But saying those words had a remarkable effect on me. In fact, a lightbulb had just gone on somewhere in my brain—one that had the word “tea” written on it.
Inspiration! I thought, a sudden burst of optimism sending my heart pounding. If I can only get it to work.... I hurried back to my van as quickly as I dared, given the fact that I was juggling two cups of dangerously hot coffee and a couple of croissants so light they were in danger of floating away.
As soon as I settled into the driver’s seat and smothered Lou with enough affection to return him to relatively calm state, I pulled the business card Phyllis Beckwith had given me out of my wallet and dialed the number of Foodies, Inc.
“Please be there,” I muttered as I waited for an answer. “Saturday morning has got to be one of the busiest times in the catering business. . . .”
“Foodies,” a voice answered cheerfully.
“Phyllis Beckwith,” I said, doing my best to sound important. “Just tell her Dr. Popper is calling.”
I held my breath as I waited to see if I’d get her on the line. As soon as I heard, “Dr. Popper! How nice to hear from you!” I started breathing again.
“I’m glad you remember me,” I said. I’d been counting on the fact that she’d seen dollar signs when she’d pictured that vegetarian buffet for an entire conference of veterinarians.
“Of course I remember you,” Phyllis replied, her voice as sugary-sweet as Foodies’ Mocha Crème Brûlée with Chocolate Almond Drizzle. “How could I forget a veterinarian who’s capable of appreciating really fine cuisine? Now, what can I do for you?”
“Actually,” I drawled, hoping against hope that my little scheme would work, “it’s more a question of what I can do for you.”
The good news was that Phyllis Beckwith took the bait. The bad news was that I was going to have to wait almost twelve hours before I’d have a chance to sneak into Devon Barnett’s basement undetected. And that was assuming I managed to carry off the other details of my plan without a hitch.
As I opened the door to the guesthouse and heard the water running in the shower, I remembered Betty’s assignment.
As if I didn’t already have enough to deal with, I thought, my stomach fluttering with anxiety. But deep down, I felt guilty for shortchanging Nick. After all, this was supposed to be a vacation, a chance for the two of us to be together. Yet we’d ended up spending so little time together—and so much of it arguing.
Of course, since Max had vanished, nothing felt right.
Nick sauntered out of the bathroom, a large white towel wrapped around his waist. “Hi,” he said, blinking. “You’re back.”
As I put breakfast on the kitchen table, I shook my head tiredly. “I feel so overwhelmed, Nick. I have to find Max. I feel like a piece of string that’s been pulled tighter and tighter....”
“Let’s get out of here for a few hours,” he suggested. “I know the perfect spot.”
“But—”
“We’ve got the police looking for him, and I made a few calls around town while you were out.” He came over and wrapped his arms around me. “I’m afraid there’s nothing else for us to do right now, Jess. And I don’t want that piece of string to snap.”
I nodded, then buried my face in his shoulder.
We drove in silence to the stretch of beach we’d found the other night. Nick was right; it was the perfect spot. I knew we’d never manage to recapture the feeling of freedom and fun we’d
experienced there before. But I was already looking forward to the chance to stretch out on the sand, enveloped by the warmth of the summer sun.
Even Lou relaxed, sunning himself on the edge of our towel as if he didn’t dare go back home without working on his tan. Nick had brought his portable CD player, and his entourage of classic rock legends, everyone from Jimi Hendrix to Jimmy Page, kept us company.
The only one missing was Max. But I allowed myself to feel at least a little bit heartened for the first time since his disappearance. I now had a plan, and all the pieces were in place. All that remained was for me to pull the whole thing off without a hitch.
By late afternoon, we were famished. We drove around, looking for something to eat, passing up the chic restaurants until we found the right spot. Skipper’s was right on the water, a ramshackle fish-and-chips establishment with weatherworn shingles that looked as if it was patronized by locals rather than Manhattan’s A-list. We sat on the deck, shaded by a faded umbrella with a tired-looking fringe, scarfing down the best fried clams and fries we’d ever encountered. Lou loped around the sand, barking at the seagulls, but sounding more playful than threatening.
As we watched the sun head toward the water’s edge, I forced myself to stop worrying about Max long enough to start making a mental list of the things that made Nick Burby special, all the little idiosyncrasies I’d observed throughout the day. The way that unruly lock of dead-straight hair kept falling into his eyes—and the nonchalant way he brushed it away. The way he hummed his favorite songs without even realizing he was doing it. The way he automatically took my hand whenever we walked side by side, as if touching me was as natural to him as breathing. The way he didn’t mind that I reached over and picked French fries off his plate.
The list kept getting longer. In fact, I wasn’t sure I’d be able to remember all of it by the time I saw Betty. But I realized that her intention hadn’t been for me to tell her. It had been for me to tell myself.
As we got back to the guesthouse, I began checking my watch, counting the minutes until it was time for me to go to Chess and Devon’s house.
I sank onto the couch, silently reviewing my strategy. Nick dropped down next to me. “So what are we doing tonight?” he asked.
“Tonight?” I repeated, surprised. Despite all the planning I’d done, I’d forgotten to include Nick in the equation.
“It is our last night in the Bromptons, after all. I was thinking you and I should do something special. Go to a really fancy restaurant, maybe, or take a moonlit walk on the beach. I know you can’t stop worrying about Max, but...”
“There’s, uh, something important I have to do tonight.”
Nick shifted slightly, just enough that we were no longer pressed against each other.
“I don’t suppose this has anything to do with that Shawn guy.”
“No, it has to do with getting Max back.” I twisted around so that I faced him. “Nick, I’ve got to solve Devon Barnett’s murder. Don’t you see, it’s my only chance of getting Max back? I’m convinced that whoever killed Barnett took Max as a threat, a warning that I should butt out.”
I braced myself for an argument. Instead, he nodded.
“What are you planning?”
“Something . . . important.”
“ ‘Important.’ ” He frowned. “Does that mean ‘dangerous,’ by any chance?”
“Actually, it just means ‘nosy.’ I’ll be fine. Promise. ”
I was prepared to argue my case further. So I was dumbfounded when Nick said, “Anything I can do to help?”
I felt as if my heart were melting. I knew perfectly well how Nick felt about me investigating murders. The simple fact was that he was worried sick about me getting hurt—or worse.
Even though his disapproval irritated me to no end, in calmer, more logical moments, I was able to appreciate the sentiment behind it. But this time, Nick had gone beyond his instinctive concern for me. He knew exactly what was at stake here: Max. And knowing how much I loved my Westie, and how important it was for me to do whatever I could to get him back, he was willing to put his own fears aside to support me in what he knew really mattered to me.
“Thanks, Nick. I don’t think so. But just asking is enough.”
Okay, Betty, I thought. You’ve made your point. The playful lock of hair, the passion for classic rock . . . that’s all well and good. Those endearing traits are what first attracted me to Nick.
But the fact that, deep down, Nick really understands me—and accepts me for who I am—is the thing that’s really rare. That’s what keeps us together.
I had a feeling I’d just earned myself an “A.”
“Jessie! What a nice surprise!” Chess greeted me a few minutes later, standing in the doorway with Zsa Zsa in his arms.
He was dressed in a purple silk robe, as if he’d settled in for the evening. I experienced my first pangs of self-doubt since I’d come up with my plan for getting him out of the house. But I didn’t let on.
“Chess, you’ll never believe what happened this morning!” I gurgled as I barged inside. “I had a brainstorm, and . . . well, I hope you don’t mind, but I set up a meeting for you with Phyllis Beckwith.”
His eyes grew wide. “Phyllis Beckwith . . . of Foodies?”
I nodded. “I told her all about your spectacular iced tea and how much everyone just loves it, and suggested that she sample it herself. She’s expecting you at her office at nine. She apologized for making it so late, but she couldn’t fit you in until after she set up a dinner party for two hundred somewhere in Drooping Harbor. Anyway, I told her I couldn’t promise, but I thought you might be willing to give her exclusive rights to your fabulous iced tea all summer—until you go national with it. Of course, I hinted about there being some serious competition.” I named three of the other East End caterers I’d seen listed in the Guide to the Bromptons, including one whose ad had included a gushing quote from Gourmet magazine.
“Oh, my God!” Chess’s hands flew to his cheeks. “I’m...I’m shaking all over, Jessie! You are such a dear! I never would have thought of something like that, but you’re right: It is a brainstorm. I could become the talk of this town with my iced tea. And if someone with Phyllis Beckwith’s reputation began featuring it at her affairs, there’s no telling where it could go! Mrs. Fields, move over!”
“And this is the perfect time to strike, Chess,” I added, urging him on. “You’ve already got the media calling you on the phone...even People and USA Today.”
Chess jeté’d over to the refrigerator. “Fortunately, I made a fresh pitcher a few hours ago. It’s probably just cold enough.” He took out the pitcher, wrapped both hands around it, and closed his eyes reverently. “Yes, yes...that feels about right. Oh, I hope I added just the right amount of mint. The worst thing I could do would be to make it too minty....”
“Let me taste it,” I offered, my mind clicking away.
Chess poured me a tall glass from the large pitcher, then watched anxiously as I raised it to my lips.
“Perfect!” I pronounced.
“Oh, good!” Relief washed over his face. Still grasping the pitcher, he glanced around the kitchen. “Now what can I put this in? Something attractive, yet not too showy...”
Suddenly, he froze. “Oh, my God. Jessie, I just had the perfect idea for a name!”
I looked at him expectantly.
“Chess-Tea!”
Within ten minutes, Chess had found just the right container for his iced tea, changed his clothes, and doused his hair and body with a variety of scented products. As I watched him bustle around excitedly, sipping my tea slowly, I was pleased that in doing something to further my own cause, I’d also managed to do something good for Chess.
I had to remind myself that he might be a murderer.
“How do I look?” he asked, skipping into the kitchen. I surveyed his stylishly spiky hair, his bright Hawaiian shirt, and the hot pink Thermos he clutched possessively in his hands.
“Of course,” he agreed. “Enjoy! And now I’m off. Oh, I’m a nervous wreck! Wish me luck...”
As soon as he left, I gulped down the rest of my iced tea and hurried over to the basement door. My heartbeat was racing, and the caffeine I’d just consumed had nothing to do with it.
Please work, I instructed the key I’d pulled from deep inside my pocket, suddenly afraid it had lost its magical ability to gain me entrance into Devon Barnett’s secret world. I could feel the blood throbbing in my temples as I put the key into the lock and gave it a turn. The tumblers moved without hesitation, and the knob turned easily in my hand.
There. I’d done it. Now all that remained was to venture into Devon Barnett’s private space to see what he’d been so determined to keep hidden from the rest of the world.
I opened the door wide and glanced at the small white Havanese who’d been watching me curiously. “Want to come, Zsa Zsa?”
She immediately backed away, making little whimpering sounds. Not a good sign, I decided.
I forged ahead anyway. I began creeping down the stairs, treading carefully in the dark and feeling my way by running my hand along the wall.
There has to be a light here somewhere, I thought, wondering why all those Nancy Drew mysteries I’d read hadn’t taught me to carry a flashlight at all times.
Despite my growing frustration over not finding a switch, when my fingers finally brushed against one, my heart stopped. Horrifying images of what I might find locked away in Devon Barnett’s basement flashed through my mind. Stacks of bodies, a windowless dungeon outfitted with iron shackles and chains...the climax from every horror movie I’d ever seen, from Psycho to Silence of the Lambs, replayed through my head.
You’ve come this far, I told myself firmly. You can’t back down now.
Putting on the Dog Page 30