Putting on the Dog

by Cynthia Baxter

  “Barnett deserved it!” Kara spat out her words, breathless as she twisted from side to side in a futile attempt at getting away from Hugo. He, meanwhile, looked as if he hadn’t even broken a sweat.

  Lieutenant Falcone looked just as calm as he stepped over to her, holding out the handcuffs once again. “For the third time, you’re under arrest for the murder of Devon Barnett. Anything you do or say may be used against you in a court of law. You have the right— Dr. Popper, you can put that gun down. In fact, why don’t you give it to me?”

  “Let go of me, you stupid, macho brute!” Kara demanded through a clenched jaw.

  “Yeah, right,” Hugo muttered. “In your dreams!”

  Somewhere behind me, I heard a woman sigh. “That Hugo Fontana,” she cooed wistfully. “He’s all man!”

  I struggled to suppress a smile as I handed the gun to Falcone.

  “Jessie? What the hell is going on here?”

  I turned and saw Nick rushing down the aisle, his face tense with confusion and concern.

  “I’m okay,” I assured him. “Everything’s fine—” And then I let out a whoop of joy. Emily had come rushing in behind him with a very squirmy and disheveled Westie in her arms.

  “Jessie, look who we just found!” she exclaimed.

  “Max!” I cried.

  He immediately leaped out of her grasp and into my arms.

  “Oh, my sweet little Maxie-Max!” I cried, tears of joy sliding down my cheeks. They disappeared almost immediately as my beloved Westie covered my face with kisses. I felt as if the giant clamp that had been gripping my heart for the past thirty-six hours had finally been released. “You’re okay! You’re alive!”

  Emily looked puzzled. “What do you mean?” she asked, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose. “Why wouldn’t he be?”

  “How did you ever manage to find him?”

  “I didn’t. Lou did.”

  “ ‘Lou’?” I repeated.

  Emily nodded. “Nick and I were taking a walk along the beach, back behind the house. When we got to the wildlife preserve, Lou started going nuts. At first, I figured he was excited about the birds or some of the other animals that live there. But he headed right toward that storage shed that’s stuck out in the middle of nowhere. It’s this funny little wooden building with a ‘No Trespassing’ sign on it. It’s covered with weeds, and it looks like nobody’s been in it for ages. Anyway, he really went crazy, barking and jumping around, and I finally opened the door to show him there was nothing inside—and there was Max, barking his head off!”

  “Oh, Max,” I cried, burying my face in his soft fur. As he covered my face with dog kisses, I murmured, “I knew you were all right. You had to be! I couldn’t imagine things turning out any other way!”

  I turned to Kara. “Thank you so much for leaving my dog unharmed. I’m glad that at least you had that much compassion—”

  “Compassion had nothing to do with it,” she replied icily. “That little beast was my last bargaining chip. I figured if you ever did manage to make a connection between Barnett’s murder and me, I’d be able to use your dog’s safety as leverage.”

  “So you were holding him hostage,” I said through clenched teeth. “Of all the horrible, despicable—”

  Kara let out a shrill, high-pitched laugh before the two uniformed cops on either side dragged her away, toward the door. Falcone followed a few paces behind, talking on a cell phone. Finally, he hung up, looked around, and headed back in my direction.

  Hugo beat him to the punch.

  “You did okay out there, Dr. Popper,” he said admiringly.

  “You weren’t too bad yourself,” I replied.

  “Hey, Kara’s not the only one who’s trained with the pros,” he replied. “Still, you got great instincts. Good thing you grabbed that gun. That crazy bitch coulda shot me!”

  “I guess we make a pretty good team.”

  “Actually, I probably don’t deserve that much credit. I was just acting out a scene from Pulverizer 2: The Devastation. Maybe you saw it? . . .”

  I shook my head apologetically.

  “You should rent it sometime,” he said casually. “Personally, I think it was one of my best.”

  “Yeah, you did good, Mr. Fontana,” a male voice muttered. “You both did.”

  Lieutenant Falcone had sidled up to us. He stood beside Hugo, looking like his shadow—about ten minutes after high noon.

  “Thanks,” Hugo said, brightening.

  Begrudgingly, Falcone added, “I guess I, uh, owe you an apology, Dr. Popper.”

  “Really?” I asked, offering up my sweetest smile. “An apology for?...”

  “Uh, for not paying attention to what you were trying to tell me,” he said gruffly. “Especially since you turned out to be right about Barnett being murdered, after all.”

  “Apology accepted.” Somehow, the words he had just said were among the sweetest in the English language— aside from “I love you” and “Your pet’s going to be fine.”

  All of a sudden, a crowd gathered around me. People I’d never seen before were solicitously asking if I was all right, congratulating me on my bravery and my cleverness and asking if I had any plans for opening an office on the East End. My sea of admirers included some familiar faces, too—Shawn, Russell Bolger, and even Phyllis Beckwith, all the new friends and acquaintances I’d made in the Bromptons.

  But I couldn’t ignore the impatient tugging on the back of my shirt.

  “With all the excitement, I didn’t get a chance to tell you the good news,” Emily cried. She pulled me a couple of feet away from the crowd. “Dr. Popper, I’m going to live in Paris!”

  “Emily, that’s great!”

  “I’m so excited!” she said breathlessly. “Last night, my mom and dad and I had a long talk on the phone about what they think is best for me, compared to what I think is best for me. And they agreed that I’m old enough to start having some say in how I live my life— which means spending more time with my mom. She told me there’s this really good American school in Paris, where the classes are taught in English. And it’s right near her apartment, so I won’t even have to take the metro.” She giggled. “That’s what they call the subway in Paris.”

  “I guess you’ll be learning a lot of French,” I said. “But I hope we can write to each other and keep in touch through E-mail—in English.”

  “Really? You want me to write to you?”

  “Absolutely! And in about ten years or so, we’ll have to talk about going into practice together.”

  “You mean it?” Emily’s eyes were shining.

  “You have a real way with animals,” I told her. “To tell you the truth, I’d be honored.”

  My enthusiasm faded when I noticed Chess standing alone in the back corner of the theater with a distraught expression on his face. Zsa Zsa stood at his side, glancing up every few seconds to see why, for once, she wasn’t being cradled in his arms.

  “Excuse me,” I told my entourage, realizing that all the attention was starting to make me feel claustrophobic. With Max still cradled protectively in my arms, I edged my way over to him.

  “Are you okay?” I asked, gently putting my hand on his arm.

  “Blackmail!” Chess breathed. “Honestly, Jessie, I had no idea. I never would have thought Nettie was capable of such a thing! And to think that Kara, of all people... I thought she was my friend!”

  “I know. The whole thing is hard to believe.”

  “You know, I once lost a teacher who was close to me. He was also murdered. But in that case, they never found out who did it.” Chess’s eyes filled with tears. “I owe you a lot, Jess. I’ve had to live with my grief over Mr. Sylvester’s death, as well as the unanswered question of who did such a terrible thing. At least now I know who’s responsible for Nettie’s murder.”

  The expression on his face told me he was sincere. Any last lingering doubts about Chess’s involvement in his English teacher’s death vanished. “Do
you think you’re going to be all right, all by yourself?” I asked him earnestly. “If you’d like, I could probably work something out and stay another day....”

  “I’ll be fine,” Chess insisted. “Besides, I won’t be alone. Someone’s offered to see me home and keep me company until I’m feeling better.” I realized he was looking over my shoulder at someone behind me. “Here he is, in fact. If you want to go now, we can. I really don’t have the heart to stay here much longer....”

  “We can leave, if you’d like,” Hugo said, sweeping up behind me. “I’ll drive. You’re probably not feeling up to it.”

  Chess looked at me and shrugged. If he noticed I looked as if you could have knocked me over with a dog hair, he didn’t let on.

  “I guess this is good-bye, then, Jessie,” he said, leaning over and kissing my cheek. “But I hope we’ll keep in touch. You’ve done so much for me. Figuring out who killed Nettie and seeing that justice was done, helping me launch an entirely new chapter of my life as an iced tea entrepreneur...” His eyes filled with tears. “Zsa Zsa and I will miss you. Take care, okay?”

  I was ready to leave, too. I scanned the room, looking for Nick, when I felt a warm hand on my shoulder.

  “Hey, Jess,” Shawn said. “Russell’s still planning to show the documentary as soon as things quiet down. You’re staying, aren’t you?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t think so. All of a sudden, it feels like time to get going.”

  Shawn thrust his hands into his pockets. “Well,” he said, without quite looking me in the eye, “as the old saying goes, it’s been nice knowing you.”

  “Same here,” I told him sincerely.

  “I can honestly say I’ve never met anybody like you.”

  “I’m going to assume you mean that as a compliment,” I teased.

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “Well, if you’re ever...” My eyes drifted past him. “There’s Nick. I’ve been wondering where he’d gone!”

  “So I guess you’re on your way out?”

  “Yup. We’re all packed up and ready to go. By the way, thanks for letting us use the guesthouse—”

  “Do me a favor?” Shawn interrupted, his voice strangely hoarse.

  “Sure.”

  “Tell that boyfriend of yours—Nick—he’s a pretty lucky guy.”

  I watched him walk away, meanwhile giving my Maxie-Max an extra squeeze. He sighed, then nestled against me comfortably with his chin on my shoulder. Nick came up to me, holding onto Lou’s leash with one hand and slinging his free arm over my shoulder.

  “I’m glad you got Max back, safe and sound,” he said. In a tighter voice, he added, “And I’m glad I got you back, safe and sound.”

  “Me, too,” I told him. “On both counts.”

  “So we’re done?”

  I nodded. I was suddenly longing to see Betty and Cat and Prometheus and Leilani, and to settle back into my cozy little cottage—with Nick.

  “Let’s get out of here,” I told him, feeling more contented than I could remember having felt in a long, long time. “It’s time to go home.”

  About the Author

  CYNTHIA BAXTER is a native of Long Island, New York. She currently resides on the North Shore, where she is at work on the next Reigning Cats & Dogs mystery, Lead a Horse to Murder, which Bantam will publish in summer 2005. Visit her on the web at www.cynthiabaxter.com.

  Need to satisfy your animal attraction?

  Dear Reader,

  One of the things I enjoy most about reading is being transported to a world that has always sparked my curiosity. The same holds true for writing. Both Putting On the Dog and the next book in the “Reigning Cats & Dogs” mystery series, Lead a Horse to Murder, give us the chance to live inside worlds that, from afar, always seem glamorous and filled with delicious intrigue.

  Lead a Horse to Murder centers on Long Island’s polo community. The people involved in polo are passionate about it, and their enthusiasm for the sport is contagious. Even if horses aren’t part of your life, I think you’ll enjoy Jessie’s foray into this fascinating world as she encounters a murder victim with a long list of secrets, an eclectic and sometimes surprising group of suspects, and of course, the ever-enthralling mystery of “whodunit.”

  Have fun!

  Read on for an exclusive sneak peek

  at the next Reigning Cats & Dogs mystery,

  Lead a Horse to Murder

  Coming in summer 2005 from

  Bantam Books . . .

  Lead a Horse to Murder

  Cynthia Baxter

  On sale summer 2005

  “A horse is dangerous at both ends and uncomfortable in the middle.”

  —Ian Fleming

  My jeans and chukka boots were splattered with mud, my neck and armpits were coated in sticky sweat, I was practically choking from the pungent smell of manure trapped in the warm, humid air....

  It doesn’t get any better than this, I thought blissfully, closing my eyes and letting the early September sun bake a few more freckles onto my nose and cheeks. There’s nothing like being around horses to make you feel grounded.

  The ear-piercing sound of Max and Lou yapping their heads off snapped me out of my reverie. I turned to see what had sent my Westie and my Dalmatian, two whirling dervishes that masquerade as pets, into such a tizzy.

  And then I spotted him. A few hundred yards away, a lone horseman had cantered onto one of the grassy fields that sprawled across Andrew MacKinnon’s estate. The steed was a magnificent Arabian, pure white with a massive chest and long, sturdy legs. From where I stood, he looked more like something Walt Disney had conjured up than a real animal.

  But it was the rider who captivated my attention. He was clearly in control of both his horse and the mallet he gripped in his hand, exhibiting a combination of power and grace that mesmerized me. His shoulders, so broad they stretched the fabric of his loose-fitting dark blue polo shirt, gave him incredible strength. I watched, fascinated, as he leaned forward to hit the ball, sending it flying across the field.

  Even from a distance, I could see he was extraordinarily handsome. His strong jaw, shadowed with a coarse stubble that gave him a roguish look, was set with determination. His dark eyes blazed as they focused on the ball. Yet a few locks of thick black hair curled beneath his helmet, making him seem charmingly boyish.

  Even though the sight of the accomplished horseman was enthralling, I reminded myself that it wasn’t the joy of spectator sports that had brought me to Heatherfield this morning. The night before, I’d gotten a phone call from Skip Kelly, the manager of Atherton Farm, a horse farm a few miles from my home in Joshua’s Hollow.

  “A friend of mine’s got a horse that needs seein’ to,” Skip had told me. “Guy name of Andrew MacKinnon. He’s over in Old Brookbury, a mile or two from the Meadowlark Polo Club. Sounds like Braveheart’s got a tendon problem. But Mac’s usual veterinarian is in the hospital with a broken leg. Seems one of his patients wasn’t too happy with the service he was getting.”

  “Occupational hazard,” I commented.

  “Mac said he wanted the best, so naturally I thought of you. I gave him your name and number, so I figured I’d let you know they might be givin’ you a call.”

  “Thanks, Skip,” I told him sincerely. That kind of praise means a lot when it comes from someone you respect. Skip has been working for Violet and Oliver Atherton since I first began making house calls with my clinic on wheels. But he’s been involved with horses practically his entire life, growing up around them in Kentucky, then working on various horse farms and even a few racetracks.

  “And, Jessie?” Skip’s voice had grown thick. “I’ve known Mac for years. Braveheart is his favorite horse. In fact, from what I can see, that gelding is the only animal he’s ever really cared about. Take good care of him, will you?”

  “Always,” I assured him, not certain whether “him” meant the man or the horse.

  I took special care to check my supplies and equi
pment before making the drive halfway across Norfolk County early that morning, wanting to be certain I arrived fully ready to treat a highly valued horse. I had a feeling Andrew MacKinnon’s estate wouldn’t exactly turn out to be typical of the suburban homes at which I usually made house calls. But I was completely unprepared for what I found.

  I’d gotten some sense of the world I was about to enter as I maneuvered my twenty-six-foot van along Turkey Hollow Road. This entire section of Long Island’s North Shore was like something out of an F. Scott Fitzgerald novel. In fact, Fitzgerald had written The Great Gatsby while living just a few miles from this very spot during the 1920s, immortalizing the flamboyant and often decadent lifestyle of the area’s ridiculously well-to-do inhabitants.

  In the early 1900s, some of the wealthiest individuals in the nation constructed palaces on Long Island, earning the North Shore the nickname “the Gold Coast.” Frank W. Woolworth, the five-and-dime-store magnate, had built a fantasy estate, Winfield, that shamelessly embraced his passion for the Egyptian occult. Teddy Roosevelt’s rustic house in Oyster Bay, Sagamore Hill, became the Summer White House during his two terms as president.

  J. P. Morgan, William K. Vanderbilt II, and other wealthy industrialists who were the Donald Trumps of their time, except with better hair, also built dream houses along the shores of Long Island Sound. Even the characters in the movie Sabrina—Audrey Hepburn and Humphrey Bogart in the original version, Julia Ormond and Harrison Ford in the remake—lived on Long Island’s Gold Coast.

  While the MacKinnon homestead, Heatherfield, wasn’t on quite as grand a scale, it was definitely of the same ilk. Yet most people who drove along Turkey Hollow Road would never even have noticed its entrance, much less guessed that a sprawling estate lay beyond.

  As I drove through the black wrought-iron gate flanked by two stone pillars, I wondered if I’d made a wrong turn. From the looks of things, I could easily have entered the grounds of a country club or even wandered into the Meadowlark Polo Club. But I’d noticed the name Heatherfield etched on a gold plaque set into one of the pillars.