Even though she was clearly trying to sound as if she was a woman in control, I could hear the telltale waver in her voice. I had a feeling this was going to be a long conversation. I put my laptop on the coffee table, replaced it with the first pussycat I spotted, and settled back against the cushions.
“Trouble in paradise?” I asked. “So soon? How can that be?”
“Skittles doesn’t like me,” Suzanne stated simply.
It took me a few seconds to remember who Skittles was—and what a presence she was in Kieran’s life.
Still, while many a dog has ruled the roost the way Skittles apparently did—a situation that I had to admit sounded a lot like my own—I couldn’t believe that she, and not Kieran, had final say when it came to the man’s love life.
“I’m sure Kieran is extremely attached to his dog,” I said. “But surely who he dates isn’t up to—”
“And as far as Kieran’s concerned, she’s the head of the household,” Suzanne insisted. “The queen of the condo. The light of his life. Should I go on?”
Please don’t, I thought.
Especially since I was convinced that she was exaggerating. She had to be. There was no way I was going to believe that a German shepherd was coming between Suzanne and the man that only three days earlier she had interrupted a blueberry muffin-fest to gush about. True, Skittles and Kieran worked together. Lived together too. But that didn’t mean that one could overlook the simple fact that she and Kieran didn’t even belong to the same genus, much less the same species.
“Suzanne, I think you’re blowing this way out of proportion,” I told her, distractedly scratching the head of the gently snoring Westie beside me as I watched Tinkerbell attack a thread that had come loose on my jeans. “Of course Kieran and Skittles are close. They’re partners. They spend the entire day together. They’re . . . they’re the Cagney and Lacey of the New York State Canine Unit! But you’re his girlfriend, for heaven’s sake! How could their relationship, if you can even call it that, interfere with yours?”
“I’ll tell you what,” Suzanne replied petulantly, “I’ll give you a chance to see what goes on for yourself. Why don’t you come to dinner at Kieran’s place Friday night?”
“I’d love to. What time?”
After she’d told me Kieran’s address and given me a rough idea of how to get there, I asked, “Is there anything I can bring?”
She snorted. “If I were you, I’d bring a hostess gift. A Nylabone would be perfect. King-size. Or maybe I should say queen size.”
I hoped I would prove her wrong.
I also hoped the main course wouldn’t be Purina Dog Chow.
I’d barely hung up before my cell phone trilled again. I assumed Suzanne was calling me back, most likely to ask me about what to serve, what time to serve it, whether to use cloth napkins or paper, and every other decision that goes into making dinner for more than one person. But when I glanced at the caller ID screen, I saw that Patti Ardsley, the producer of Pet People, was calling.
“Hi, Jessie!” she said, greeting me with her usual buoyancy. In fact, she sounded as if she’d been getting perkiness pointers from a Jack Russell terrier. “All set for this Friday’s show? I can’t wait to hear what you’ll be talking about!”
“Uh . . .” Not the most intelligent response, I realized, but I’d been busted. While I usually call the station early in the week to let someone know what topic I’ll be discussing on the next show, this week I’d been so busy that I’d forgotten all about my upcoming TV spot. Still, I wasn’t about to admit that any more than I was about to admit that I didn’t have an idea in my head.
I wracked my brain—a brain that happened to be overloaded, thanks to my distress over Betty’s e-mail, Suzanne’s telephone call, and the prospect of my own future as half of a married couple.
“I’m sure you have something wonderful in mind,” Patti prompted pertly.
“As a matter of fact, I thought we’d do something a little different,” I replied, stalling for time.
“Great! I can’t wait to hear what it is!”
Me, either, I thought, fighting off pangs of panic.
And then, before my brain had a chance to take control of what my mouth was doing, words I never thought I’d hear myself utter flew from my lips: “I’m inviting a friend of mine on the show. A veterinarian named Marcus Scruggs.”
“Fabulous!” Patti was practically percolating. “Getting some new blood on the show is a fabulous idea! Jessie, I don’t know where you come up with these brainstorms of yours.”
Low blood sugar? I thought woefully.
“I know,” I agreed, nearly choking on my own words. “Sometimes I’m just too creative for my own good.”
“Marcus Scruggs,” Patti repeated slowly, as if she was writing it down. “Wonderful! I’ll mention his name in the teaser. Something like, ‘This week, in addition to learning from Channel 14’s resident expert, Dr. Jessica Popper, viewers will get a totally different perspective from her accomplished guest, Dr. Marcus Scruggs!’ ”
Accomplished, up for debate. Different, definitely.
But one thing was for sure. The next time someone asked me if I worked well under pressure, I’d be sure to respond with a resounding no.
It wasn’t until late morning on Thursday that I found the time to check out my local branch of Pet Empawrium. While I was curious about Ben Chandler’s new venture, what I was really hoping for was the chance to check out his business partner, Donald Drayton.
“Wow,” I muttered as I turned into the parking lot and took a good look at the one-story brick building that housed Donald and Ben’s enterprise. It was almost as big as a department store. I knew the days of the tiny hole-in-the-wall pet store crammed with leashes, catnip, canned food, and a few budgies and goldfish were pretty much over. But based on size alone, this place elevated shopping for pet supplies to the same level that warehouse stores like Costco had raised food shopping.
I entered through glass doors that automatically slid open at my approach. Instantly some poor unfortunate individual whose work clothes consisted of a dog costume stepped in front of me. The fuzzy orange–red canine bore just enough of a difference from Clifford the Big Red Dog not to get sued, with a Hefty bag–size head, long floppy ears, and at eye level, tiny slits that were barely big enough to keep him from walking into any fire hydrants.
“Arf, arf, welcome to Pet Empawrium,” he greeted me, sounding considerably less enthusiastic than my real dogs did whenever we were reunited.
“Down, boy,” I automatically replied.
It turned out that a talking dog the size of a grizzly bear was just the beginning. Pet Empawrium was not only tremendous in terms of square footage, the fact that it was lit brightly enough to perform surgery gave it an open, airy feeling even though it was packed with endless rows of shelves, tremendous cardboard bins overflowing with merchandise, and enough live animals displayed in cages and tanks to render school trips to the zoo obsolete. Some displays were decorated with bigger-than-life cutouts of the animal the goods were designed for, while others had balloons printed with eyes, ears, and whiskers floating above them. A few featured blinking lights.
An overly cute version of “How Much Is That Doggie in the Window?” blared from hidden speakers. There was even a coffee bar tucked away in one corner, no doubt to rejuvenate tired shoppers enough that they’d have the energy to pile more stuff into their shopping carts. I could imagine Marcus Scruggs drooling at the very sight of all that commerce packed into a single establishment.
Yet despite the overwhelming amount of merchandise, I didn’t spot a single salesperson. In fact, the only people in the store appeared to be a few shoppers who were wandering through the aisles, looking as confused as I was.
Doesn’t anyone work here, I wondered, aside from the Clifford wannabe?
After doing some wandering of my own, I finally spotted three employees, identifiable by bright red shirts with the words Pet Empawrium embroider
ed on the pocket in bright yellow. They had congregated in the back of the store around an eye-catching display of pooper-scoopers.
I walked over and planted myself two feet away from the little group, then stood there for at least thirty seconds hoping that sooner or later one of them would notice me. When I realized that the presence of a mere customer wasn’t enough to stop the chubby thirty-something guy from pontificating about the weaknesses of the latest Xbox video game, I interrupted, “Excuse me, can anyone help me?”
The pudgy gameboy stopped mid-sentence. All three glanced over at me, looking surprised that someone had actually dared to ask them to stop yakking long enough to do their job.
“I’m on break,” announced the only female member of the group, an emaciated teenage girl pierced with so much metal that I hoped she stayed inside during thunderstorms. She immediately stalked off, as if even addressing a customer during her official downtime compromised some moral code.
“I have eight cartons of birdseed to unpack,” insisted a middle-aged man with coffee-colored skin and dead-straight black hair. The name JOSE was embroidered on his shirt, underneath the company logo.
That left the video game guy, whose name tag identified him as Justin. He didn’t look like a Justin. He looked more like a Peabody or a Quincy.
I flashed him my friendliest smile. “Then maybe you can help me.”
He sighed. “If it’s not on the shelves, we’re out of it.”
Except for birdseed, I thought dryly.
“Actually, I’ve never been to this store before,” I said, sounding as chirpy as one of the canaries on display nearby beneath a “Bird Buy of the Week” sign. “I’m having some trouble finding my way around. I mean, this place is so darned big.”
Justin just stared at me with blue eyes so pale that they looked like they’d been colored in with a wet watercolor brush. I noticed then that only one of them was focused on me. The other stared dully into space.
“In fact,” I went on, feeling like a Chatty Cathy doll whose wiring had run amok, “I’m surprised that a store this size has so few employees.”
“Welcome to corporate America,” Justin shot back. “If you want to meet the oppressed underclass, you’ve come to the right place.”
Actually, most people probably came here to buy leashes and chew toys, but I didn’t bother to point that out. At least I’d finally figured out that the way to get Justin’s attention was by appealing to his disgruntlement over being a member of the downtrodden proletariat—even though I’d have bet my autoclave that he owned every single video game ever manufactured for that Xbox of his.
“It sounds as if working at Pet Empawrium doesn’t rank very high on the job satisfaction list,” I said, trying to sound sympathetic.
“Oh, it can be extremely satisfying,” he replied snidely. “That is, if you like working long, grueling hours for minimum wage. With lousy health benefits. And no dental whatsoever.”
“I see.” What I saw, however, was Donald Drayton’s mansion hovering in front of me like a mirage, along with his yacht and his expensive sports car.
“But you probably added the Pet Empawrium to your to-do list for some reason other than discussing its exploitative working conditions,” Justin continued. “What is it you’re interested in adding to your hoard of material possessions today?”
Here goes. I cleared my throat nervously, then said, “I was wondering if you had any exotics. Any unusual exotics.”
Justin’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean by ‘unusual’? Are you talking about, say, giant African land snails?”
Now, there’s a pet that’s always up for a rollicking game of Frisbee, I thought. “Maybe.”
“They’re illegal, you know,” he replied.
“Okay, then maybe something that isn’t illegal but is still interesting. You know, the kind of animal most people don’t have.”
He cast me a skeptical look. “Don’t tell me you’re one of those party girls who likes to bring weird animals to clubs so that everyone will think you’re cool.”
Since when have giant African land snails replaced Fendi bags as the ultimate in trendy accessories? I wondered.
“I just happen to like animals that are kind of different.” Unfortunately, I thought, that penchant doesn’t necessarily extend to people who are kind of different. “What about scorpions?”
“What about scorpions?” Justin asked cautiously.
“Do you carry any?”
“Scorpions make very cool pets,” he said with an approving nod. “But we don’t carry them. Too dangerous.”
No kidding, I thought.
“What if I wanted one anyway?” I persisted.
He stared at me for what seemed like a very long time. “You’d have to talk to Mr. Drayton.”
“Who’s Mr. Drayton?” I asked, putting on my Miss Innocent face.
“The owner of this fine establishment. The entire chain of Pet Empawriums, in fact. Or, if I remember my Latin correctly, Empawria.”
“Ah. The Man.”
“Precisely.” Justin and I were finally communicating.
“And you’re in luck,” he continued. “He happens to be here today. See, he moves around from store to store with the stealth of a tiger. That way, we never know when he’ll be checking up on us. But I caught him sneaking in this morning when I came in.”
“Really?” Both my palms and my armpits were already growing damp.
“In fact, he’s probably watching you right now.”
“Watching me?”
“Our security system.” Justin smiled coldly. “Mr. Drayton’s way of keeping his eye on us. Of course, it means he’s also keeping an eye on the customers. Like you.”
I glanced around nervously.
“Oh, you can’t see him,” he said. “But he can see you. See, that’s the whole idea.”
Justin made shopping for pet supplies sound like breaking into CIA headquarters.
“I’d really like to speak with him,” I said. “Could you find out if that’s possible?”
“We’re here to serve,” Justin replied with a little bow. “Right this way.”
When I followed him up a flight of stairs at the back of the store, I was confronted with a dozen television screens. They lined an entire wall of the first of many rooms that overlooked the selling floor. Each one provided a clear view of a different spot somewhere inside or outside the store. A few metal desks were placed directly underneath them, along with a phone, a mug filled with pens, and other assorted office supplies that made it look as if a secretary or perhaps a security guard sometimes sat here.
“See? This is where Dr. Evil runs his empire,” Justin said in a low voice. “At least at this branch.”
Donald Evil—er, Drayton—certainly believes in keeping track of what’s going on, I thought, gulping. I only hoped I wasn’t getting in over my head.
I trailed after Justin, following him down a long hallway. Interestingly, when he knocked on the door at the very end, I noticed that he slumped his shoulders and ducked his head down. I knew enough about body language to understand that Long Island’s own version of Che Guevara had just gone from courageous to cowed.
I began to understand why as soon as I heard a gruff voice from inside snarl, “Come in!”
“Mr. Drayton?” Justin said softly, opening the door a few inches.
“What?” The single syllable sounded as friendly as a Doberman’s bark. A really peeved Doberman.
“Somebody wants to see you,” Justin replied in a high-pitched voice that made him sound about eight years old. “A customer with some special interests.”
“Fine,” Drayton replied, still sounding annoyed. “Send ’em in.”
As I stepped into Donald Drayton’s hideaway, I saw that his control center looked more like something out of The Office than something from an Austin Powers movie. As for the man himself, I already knew what he looked like, since I’d seen that photograph of him and Nicole taken during the days w
hen the father-and-daughter team still spent their Sundays together.
But I didn’t expect the king-size belly, something that had clearly developed since he’d given up horseback riding. Nor did I expect an expensive suit that looked as if it had missed a few of its regularly scheduled appointments with the dry cleaner. Drayton’s left hand, so pudgy and red that it reminded me of a baked ham, was decorated with a diamond pinky ring. The rock was so huge I wondered if he inadvertently left scratches on glass wherever he went.
“Something I can help you with?” he demanded in the same grouchy voice.
He sounded hurried, so I got right to the point. Taking a deep breath, I said, “I may be interested in purchasing a rare exotic animal.”
He didn’t look the least bit surprised. “Have a seat,” he said, gesturing toward the chair that faced his desk. He studied me for a few seconds before asking, “What kind?”
How about a yellow fat tail scorpion? I thought.
Aloud, I said, “I’m not sure. Something different. You know, the kind of thing that not just anybody owns.”
Once again, Drayton hesitated. “I can probably get you what you want,” he finally said, still staring at me as if he was trying to use his X-ray vision to read my mind. “But you’ll have to be more specific.”
“Maybe you could just tell me what’s available,” I said, doing my best not to squirm.
He shrugged. “Like I said, you need to be specific about what you’re looking for.”
“How about—oh, I don’t know, a gorilla?” I joked.
I expected him to chuckle. Instead, he frowned thoughtfully and said, “Not cheap. But not impossible either.”
I was stunned. Was it possible he was serious? He certainly seemed to think I was.
Remembering Justin’s comment about the latest in outlandish accessories, I casually asked, “How about giant African land snails?”
“A lot easier—and a lot cheaper,” he replied matter-of-factly.
But also illegal, I thought.
“Let me think about it,” I told him. “Now that I know that I can pretty much get what I want, I’ll need some time to consider my options, and how much I want to spend.”
Monkey See, Monkey Die Page 18