Putting on the Dog Page 2

  I parked in the driveway, gave Max and Lou the usual warning about behaving themselves or else, and tromped across the lawn. As I neared the front door, I jumped, startled by a black cat who suddenly leaped out of the bushes. He snarled at me, then skittered across my path and disappeared into a clump of rhododendrons.

  Not a good sign, I thought grimly, wondering what else could possibly go wrong.

  I rang the bell, suddenly self-conscious. Glancing down, I saw that not only was I covered with muddy streaks; the see-through effect of my wet clothing really did make me look like a competitor in a wet T-shirt contest.

  Given the formal look of the house, I didn’t expect Mr. Wiener to have much of a sense of humor. As I heard someone inside unlock the front door, I prepared an apology.

  I never got to use it.

  “It’s you!” I gasped.

  Standing on the other side of the doorway was the man who was responsible for my appearance in the first place—the person the clerk had insisted was Shawn Elliot.

  “I guess I could say the same.” He didn’t look particularly happy to see me. “You haven’t had second thoughts about calling your lawyer, have you?”

  It took me a few seconds to figure out what he meant. “Oh, that. No, I don’t even have a lawyer. You’ve got nothing to worry about.”

  “Good. You’d be surprised how many people think meeting up with somebody a little bit famous means their big payday.”

  A little bit famous? My eyes drifted past him to the huge movie posters that decorated the entryway. Each one advertised a different Shawn Elliot blockbuster, boxoffice hits that had made him the fantasy love object of a large percentage of the world’s female population.

  He just stood there, looking at me expectantly.

  “I read the note,” I said. “About the key to the guesthouse?”

  He frowned. “Are you associated with Dr. Scruggs?”

  “Didn’t anyone tell you?”

  “Tell me what?”

  “Marcus—Dr. Scruggs—isn’t going to be the veterinarian at the dog show. I am.”

  He just blinked.

  “I’m Jessica Popper. Dr. Jessica Popper.”

  “Oh, boy.” Shawn shook his head. “Now I feel completelyridiculous. Not only did I zap you with mud back at that farm stand, but I’m leaving you standing in the rain because of some administrative glitch nobody bothered to tell me about.”

  “It’s all right. If I could just have the key—”

  “Please, come in. At this point, I’d consider it a personal favor.”

  I only hesitated for a moment before following him into the house. I figured that just getting inside would make me feel more like a human being and less like a water mammal. Instead, the air-conditioning, combined with my sopping wet discount designer outfit, made me so cold I started to shake.

  Shawn noticed immediately. “We have to get you out of those wet clothes.”

  “I’m fine. As soon as I get the key, I’ll—”

  “There’s a guest room at the top of those stairs, with a pool robe hanging behind the door. Why don’t you put it on? You must be so uncomfortable.”

  At that point, the chance to put on something dry was hard to turn down. I climbed up to the second floor and, just as he’d promised, found a bedroom at the top of the stairs. It looked like something out of a design magazine, a perfectly coordinated medley of soothing earth tones and rich, textured fabrics that made me want to curl up and go to sleep.

  Instead, I closed the door and began unbuttoning my blouse. But something felt wrong. Maybe I was simply a little overwhelmed by all the bizarre events of the day, but I had the distinct feeling I was being watched.

  You’re just paranoid, I told myself.

  But I kept glancing around the room nervously as I slipped out of my shirt and pants, then pulled on the white terry-cloth robe I found on a hook. It was as thick as shag carpeting, monogrammed with a swirling “S. E.” on the pocket. As I did, I could have sworn I felt somebody’s eyes on me. I was even convinced I could hear breathing. But there was no one in sight.

  It wasn’t until I opened the door so I could go downstairs that I discovered I’d been right all along. The Peeping Tom who had watched the entire strip show slunk out of his hiding place under the bed, then tried to slip past me without getting caught.

  But I was too smart for a bulldog.

  “Oh, no, you don’t.” I grabbed him by his collar. “Think you’re pretty clever, do you?”

  “Is that Rufus?” Shawn yelled up from the first floor. “Damn! I don’t know how he does it, but every time a woman’s getting undressed around here, he manages to get a front-row seat.”

  “Is that true, you rascal?” I demanded.

  Rufus just looked at me, as innocent as could be. But I was certain I saw a twinkle in the jowly beast’s deep brown eyes before he toddled off, lumbering down the stairs toward the safety of his master’s side.

  “Sorry about that,” Shawn called out. “I swear I had no idea he was up there.”

  “Is anybody else lurking under beds and in dark corners?” I descended the staircase, carrying my wet clothes in a bundle so I wouldn’t drip on the expensive-looking carpeting. “Like maybe Mr. Wiener?”

  “I’m afraid you’re looking at him.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Wiener is my real name. Shawn Elliot Wiener. When I started acting, I was advised to drop the last part.” He grimaced. “Think about it. Can you imagine somebody named ‘Wiener’ doing a love scene in a movie? ‘Mr. Wiener’ sounds more like a high school math teacher— which is probably what I would have become if the acting thing hadn’t worked out.”

  “I see your point,” I said as I followed him into what looked like a den. “By the way, thanks for letting me use your guesthouse.”

  Shawn shrugged. “It’s the least I can do for such a good cause. I’ve been a strong supporter of the SPCA for a long time.

  “Besides,” he added, “I figured it might help Rufus win a blue ribbon. Not that he couldn’t do it on his own. Right, boy?”

  He crouched down in front of the animal at his feet, as squat and sturdy as a footstool, and scratched his neck vigorously.

  “Wuzza, wuzza, wuzza,” he said in a funny low voice that was almost a growl. “Who’s the best boy in the world? Who’s the best boy?”

  I had to admit, it was pretty endearing—not only to me, but also to the fifty-pound lump of dog. Rufus lay with his four short legs splayed out on the Oriental carpet, grunting and wheezing and obviously in a state of ecstasy. Shawn looked pretty happy, too. I suspected this was a side of the Hollywood heartthrob that few people ever got to see.

  “I guess you can tell I’m pretty crazy about this guy.” Shawn glanced up at me, his cheeks flushed. “He’s one of the few individuals I know who likes me for myself.”

  “Or else because you fill his food bowl every night.”

  He laughed. “At least I know he’s not just kissing up to me because he wants to impress his friends with the fact that he knows a real live Hollywood actor. And he never nags me about introducing him to some casting director.”

  “Maybe he should. He’s got real star quality.”

  “You think?” He beamed proudly. “I guess I don’t have it in me to be a pushy stage father. I’d rather protect my loved ones from the heartbreaks of this business. So for now, Rufus is destined to remain just another ordinary house pet.”

  “Except when it comes to the dog show.”

  “Hey, every parent has to show off some time. Maybe I don’t want Rufus’s name in lights, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want him to be appreciated for the glorious creature he truly is.”

  Much to the bulldog’s dismay, Shawn stopped scratching and stood up. “I don’t suppose you have any pull, do you?”

  “Me? Naw. I’m just the hired help.”

  “Too bad. It’d be fun trying to get you on my good side.”

  Now my cheeks were flushed.
I was sure of it. How could I not be, when Shawn Elliot was flashing me the boyish grin that, along with his startlingly blue eyes, had gotten him voted “America’s Sexiest Man” three years running in T.V. Guide’s annual poll?

  I quickly tried to come up with some other topic of conversation.

  “By the way,” I asked, “who was that obnoxious man taking all those pictures of you at the farm stand?”

  “That idiot? Devon Barnett.”

  The expression on my face must have reflected my confusion.

  “You’ve never heard of him?”

  I shook my head.

  “Probably because you have too much sense to read those ridiculous supermarket tabloids.”

  “You mean those rags at the check-out counters with headlines like ‘Alien Eats Milwaukee for Breakfast’? or ‘Hundred-Year-Old Woman Gives Birth to Kittens’? ”

  “Exactly. Or ‘Shawn Elliot Assaults Animal Doctor with $300,000 Car.’ ”

  My eyes grew as big as headlights. “Is that how much your car cost?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “Devon Barnett is one of the sleaziest celebrity photographers—paparazzi—that ever lived,” Shawn went on. “In fact, it’s safe to say he’s one of the most hated men in Hollywood, not to mention a few other places like New York and London. Here, let me show you some of his handiwork.”

  He reached into a desk drawer and pulled out a stack of newspaper clippings. They were all the front pages of supermarket tabloids. Each one sported accusatory headlines, and underneath, there was invariably a photograph that was just as incriminating. In every case, the photo credit “Devon Barnett” was printed in tiny letters.

  “Shawn Fights Battle of the Bottle!” the first headline read. Splashed across the page was a picture of Shawn, dressed in a bathrobe that looked just like the one I was wearing. His eyes were barely open, and he was cradling an armful of empty liquor bottles.

  “The jerk snapped that the morning after I held a huge fund-raiser for the Red Cross,” Shawn explained angrily. “I was taking those out to the recycling bin.”

  “But don’t all those photographers—the paparazzi— do pretty much the same thing?”

  “Up to a point. But Devon Barnett is the absolute worst. He has no sense of fair play, no notion of what it means to respect other people’s boundaries. Here, look at this one.”

  He leafed through the pile, picking out one I’d barely paid attention to. The photograph showed Shawn scowling at a group of crazed fans huddled at the bottom of some steps, frantically thrusting pens and papers in his face.

  “Shawn Elliot: ‘I Have No Time For Foolish Fans!’ ” the headline read.

  “Do you know where that was taken?” he asked.

  I shook my head.

  “No, of course not. That’s the whole point. The answer is, outside a funeral home. I was coming out of my father’s wake, for God’s sake.”

  “I think I’m beginning to understand,” I told him.

  “It’s not even that Barnett captures people at their very worst moments and then twists them into something they’re not,” Shawn continued. “I mean, that’s bad enough. But what’s even more despicable is the fact that he’ll stop at nothing to get a photo. I’ve caught him sleeping in a deck chair beside my pool, waiting for me all night. Once I found him sitting in the backseat of my car at a four-star restaurant. Turns out he’d bribed the parking attendant.

  “Then there was the time I was really sick. I’d been in seclusion for almost two weeks. All kinds of rumors were springing up, since one of my movies had just come out and I was expected to do the usual round of talk shows. Somehow, Barnett got hold of my private number. He called me and told me he’d just hit Rufus with his car, right in front of my house. I raced outside, half-crazed. Rufus was perfectly fine, of course. But Barnett got exactly what he wanted: a picture of me looking like a madman, running across the lawn in my underwear.”

  I took a moment to appreciate the fact that I wasn’t famous or important. I hadn’t realized what an invasion of privacy it was, having someone devote his entire life to capturing your worst moments on film so they could be plastered over every newsstand and supermarket check-out in the country.

  Rufus picked that moment to waddle over to Shawn and nudge him. I guess he’d decided it was his turn to be the focus of his master’s attention again.

  Which made me remember I had some canine lovables of my own.

  “My dogs!” I cried. “I mean, I have two of them, a Westie and a Dalmatian, and right now they’re probably wondering if I’ve deserted them forever. If I could just get the key to the guesthouse—”

  “Sorry. I know I got carried away. Just thinking about that Barnett character makes my blood boil.”

  He got the key, then walked me to the door.

  “Keep that robe as long as you need it. Make yourself comfortable, and let me know if you need anything.”

  “I’m sure I’ll be fine,” I told him.

  “And remember, it’s just me and Rufus, all alone in this big house,” Shawn said. He hit me again with that grin. “Don’t be a stranger, okay?”

  Oh, boy, I thought as I fumbled with the key, trying to figure out the intricacies of the lock on the guesthouse’s front door. My heart was actually fluttering. I felt like the heroine in a Victorian romance novel instead of a serious, hardworking medical professional.

  I glanced down at Max and Lou, who were frolicking beside me, thrilled over the prospect of a brand-new place to smell. As always, they had the power to bring me back to reality. If nothing else, marveling over their unwavering joie de vivre was a truly sobering experience.

  They shot inside the moment I wrestled the door open, darting around like a SWAT team on a mission. I took a more cautious approach, flipping on a light switch and surveying the place before passing judgment.

  The tiny bungalow was charming. From the doorway, I could see a small living room, a kitchenette off to one side, and a single bedroom in back. The cottage had clearly been decorated by a pro, and every inch screamed “Summer House!”

  But the pastel colors, fluffy throw rugs, and white wicker furniture weren’t what were making me feel so light-headed. It was that stupid heart of mine, beating as wildly as if I’d just belted down a double cappuccino.

  It suddenly seemed like a good idea to call Nick.

  I reached for the phone hanging on the kitchen wall, then hesitated. One of the main reasons I’d agreed to fill in for Marcus was that a week in the Bromptons had sounded like the perfect romantic getaway. Nick and I hadn’t been away together for more than nine months, since the previous September—and that trip had been nothing short of a disaster. He’d caught me completely off guard by producing the engagement ring he’d packed along with his 30-SPF sunblock and his rubber flip-flops. True to form, I’d freaked—so badly that our relationship had ended. At least, for a while.

  Since then, we’d decided to try being a couple again— only this time, taking things a little more slowly. So far, so good. The past few months had been blissful.

  But they’d also been busy. Between my veterinary practice and Nick’s job as a private investigator, we’d had to work hard to squeeze in our dinner dates and our weekends together at either my cottage or his apartment. And with Nick starting law school in the fall, it didn’t look as if our schedules were going to lighten up anytime soon. A short vacation on Long Island’s East End sounded ideal—even if it did include spending a few hours at a charity dog show every day.

  Of course, I’d had no idea Nick would back out at the last minute.

  Even though I still hadn’t completely forgiven him, the memory of Shawn Elliot’s blue eyes and irresistible grin prompted me to grab the phone. First I dialed his office. No answer, just the usual recorded message explaining that Nick Burby, private investigator, was not available to take my call.

  I put down the phone long enough to disengage an embroidered hand towel from Lou’s jaws, then tried Nick’s ap
artment in Port Townsend. And got another machine. I tried once more, this time dialing his cell phone. And endured one more recording.

  I was on my own, with nothing to do until the fundraiser’s kick-off dinner this evening. I suddenly felt a stab of loneliness, that hollow feeling that comes from being in a new place where you don’t know a soul.

  Except that I did know a soul. One and only one. Shawn Elliot, who’d made a point of telling me not to be a stranger.

  I suddenly had another good idea: taking a shower. I decided I’d better make it a cold one.

  Chapter 2

  “One hundred people can sit together peacefully, but two dogs in the same place will pick a fight.”

  —Kurdistan Jewish saying

  I was relieved that the organizers of the charity fund-raiser had the foresight to plan an opening-night event to keep us dog-show groupies out of trouble. I also hoped the kick-off party would provide me with my first taste of what the excitement of the Bromptons was all about.

  As I cruised along Ocean Spray Drive in my clinic-on-wheels a few hours later, I wondered how I’d recognize the estate at which tonight’s gala was being held. In this town, mansions were as common as telephone poles. But in the distance, I spotted two towering torches, one on each side of an open gate, glowing invitingly against the darkening sky. I had a pretty good idea I’d reached my destination.

  After checking in with a guard who crossed my name off a list, I drove along a curving driveway. Looming ahead was a huge white tent that was bigger than any I’d ever seen—at least, outside a circus. The house next to it made Shawn Elliot’s place look like a starter home.

  A young man in a uniform flagged me down. He opened the door of my van and peered inside. “A veterinarian, huh?” he asked nervously. “Anything alive in here?”

  “Just me.” I hopped out and handed over the keys. “Take good care of it. It might look like a school bus with an identity crisis to you, but to me it’s a dream come true. Not to mention my livelihood.”