Putting on the Dog Read online

  “Speaking of movies,” I said brightly, “which one’s your favorite?”

  He let out a little sigh. “As you can probably tell, I prefer old films,” he replied. “Especially the classics, like Citizen Kane and The Grapes of Wrath. They sure knew how to make movies in those days. I have tremendous respect for the old-time actors, too. My idols are the truly great ones: Jimmy Stewart, Cary Grant, Orson Welles, Henry Fonda...”

  “Want to hear something I’ve never told anybody before?” The champagne had seriously gone to my head. I didn’t care.

  “I can hardly wait.”

  I smiled dreamily. “Sometimes I pretend I’m Audrey Hepburn.”

  Shawn just nodded, as if it was the most understandable thing in the world. “She was pretty incredible. But you seem more like the Katharine Hepburn type to me.” He pointed at the The African Queen poster.

  “Really? Why?”

  “She was strong. Accomplished. The type of woman who didn’t let anybody push her around.”

  I was still basking in the compliment when he said, “How about if I put on some music?”

  “Sure.”

  The romantic instrumental that filled the room surprised me.

  “Recognize this?” he asked.

  I shook my head.

  “It’s the theme song from one of my movies. Afternoonin Paradise. I don’t suppose you saw it.”

  Twice, I thought. And once more on tape. But I just nodded.

  “Remember the part where I dance with Jennifer Miller?”

  “Sure. The scene where you confess that you’re not really the billionaire’s son; you’re his chauffeur.” But make her fall hopelessly in love with you anyway, I was tempted to add.

  “That’s the one.”

  “I remember that when I saw it, I was struck by what a good dancer you were.”

  “Actually, filming that scene was a breeze. For one thing, I had an excellent dance instructor. One of the best in the business. But it’s pretty simple. Here, I’ll show you.”

  He jumped to his feet, holding out his arms as if he were Clark Gable playing Rhett Butler, daring Scarlett O’Hara to dance with him at the Confederate soldiers’ charity ball.

  But I was no Vivien Leigh.

  “I’m not much of a dancer.” I shrank into the cushions.

  “I find that hard to believe.”

  “No, really. I—”

  “It’s easy. Honest.”

  He pulled me up, keeping one of his hands in mine and encircling my waist with the other. Just like some of America’s best-known film actresses, I suddenly found myself in Shawn Elliot’s arms. I wondered if they’d handled it more coolly—or if, like me, they suddenly found it as difficult to breathe as if a Saint Bernard had plopped down on their chest.

  “Just follow my lead,” Shawn instructed. “It helps if you look into my eyes.”

  Even though I had the horrible feeling my cheeks were bright red, I raised my eyes to meet his. He was only a few inches away, so close I could practically feel myself melting into the warmth of his body.

  “Now relax and move with me. Just let your body follow mine. Use my hips as your guide.”

  Forget Gone With The Wind. The room was spinning so fast, I felt like I was in the opening scene of The Wizardof Oz.

  “I can’t,” I gasped. “Really, I’m not a dancer.”

  “You’re doing great!” Shawn held me tighter. Now I could feel more than the warmth of his body. I could feel his thigh pressing against mine, his chest brushing against my breasts, as gentle as a whisper...

  The sound of someone clearing his throat loudly made me lose my concentration completely. I snapped my head around, then froze—except for my right foot, which somehow managed to crunch down on top of Shawn’s.

  “Nick!” I yelped.

  “Ouch!” Shawn cried.

  Nick didn’t say anything. He just stood in the doorway with his arms folded.

  It took a few seconds for the room to stop spinning. This time, my dizziness had less to do with too much champagne than it did with the sudden appearance of the last person in the world I was expecting.

  “What a surprise!” I finally said.

  “So I gather,” Nick observed dryly.

  I took a giant step backwards, away from Shawn.

  Shawn frowned. “Do you know this guy, Jessie, or should I call for help?”

  “I know him.”

  “That’s a relief,” Nick returned. “That you remember me, I mean.”

  “Shawn, this is my, uh, boyfriend. Nick Burby.”

  A strange look crossed Shawn’s face. “A real pleasure, Mick.”

  “That’s Nick,” I corrected him. “And this is—”

  “I know who he is,” Nick interrupted. “I own a DVD player.”

  “In that case,” Shawn asked evenly, “may I ask why you’re not home watching it instead of breaking into people’s houses?”

  “I didn’t have to break in. The door was wide open.”

  “My fault,” I admitted. “I was the last one in.”

  Shawn glared at Rufus, who lay with his head on his paws, watching the whole scene with his large, woeful eyes. “Some watchdog you are,” he muttered.

  I was struck by the contrast between the two men. Shawn Elliot, looking as cool and sophisticated as James Bond in his custom-tailored tux. Nick Burby, decked out in tattered cutoffs, a scruffy pair of Nikes, and a Led Zeppelin T-shirt so faded that Robert Plant and Jimmy Page looked more like ghosts than aging rock stars.

  I turned to Nick. “I thought you’d decided to stay home.”

  He shrugged. “I changed my mind.”

  “Who’s taking care of Cat and Prometheus and Leilani?” I persisted. An image flashed into my mind of my aging pussycat, my endearing blue-and-gold macaw, and my Jackson’s chameleon languishing in my empty house.

  “Betty,” he replied. “They’re in good hands, and they were all perfectly fine as of two hours ago.”

  “How did you know I was here?”

  “I saw your van parked outside, and I heard the music inside, so I figured I’d knock.”

  “That would have been an excellent idea,” Shawn said.

  “I did knock. Several times. Tried the bell, too. It doesn’t seem to work. Or else you two didn’t hear it because you were so busy doing...what exactly is it you were doing?”

  “Dancing,” I said weakly.

  “Actually, we were reenacting a scene from one of my movies.” Shawn’s cheerfulness sounded forced. For a professional actor, he wasn’t doing very well. “I was trying to take Jessie’s mind off the events of the evening.”

  “What events were those?” Nick pushed back the piece of straight brown hair that was always falling into his eyes. “Or shouldn’t I ask?”

  “A man was killed tonight, right here in East Brompton,” I told him, certain that presenting him with such terrible news would make him realize how ridiculous he was being.

  “Who did it?” Nick asked. “A jealous boyfriend?”

  “Maybe you two should be on your way,” Shawn suggested. “It’s getting late, and I’m sure you want to fill Mick in on what happened.”

  “That’s Nick,” we said in unison.

  “I didn’t mean to spoil your evening.” Nick walked a few steps behind me as I led the way across the lawn. He was carrying the small suitcase he’d retrieved from his car, along with his laptop and a plastic shopping bag that appeared to contain a large portion of his collection of classic rock CD’s. “If I’d known I was going to interrupt—”

  “Here’s the guesthouse,” I said pointedly. “It’s pretty comfortable. It’s got a little kitchen and its own bathroom—”

  “Is there a reason why you’re acting like a tour guide?”

  “Is there a reason why you’re acting like a complete idiot?”

  “Hang on, Jess.” Nick caught up with me right outside the guesthouse and took hold of my shoulders. “Look, I thought it’d be fun to surprise yo
u. I had this crazy idea that it would be really romantic if I just showed up and—”

  He leaned forward and sniffed. “Is that alcohol?”

  “Champagne.”

  Nick dropped his arms to his sides. “You and that Shawn guy were drinking?”

  “No. I mean, yes. But it was because we were upset. About what happened tonight, I mean. So Shawn opened a bottle of champagne.”

  “I’ve heard of calming your nerves with sherry. Or a few shots of whiskey. But never with champagne.”

  “That’s because you’re not a movie star.”

  “You’re right. I’m not.” The hurt look on his face instantly made me regret my flippant comment.

  I opened the cottage door, expecting that Max’s and Lou’s reaction to the reappearance of a man they hadn’t seen for almost twelve hours would give us a temporary break. I was right.

  “At least these guys are happy to see me,” Nick mumbled once the leaping and barking had settled down.

  “They’re probably not in shock, the way I was. Which leads to the obvious question: How come you changed your mind? I thought you were too busy to waste your time with something you characterized as—what was the word? Oh, that’s right. ‘Frivolous.’ ”

  “I missed you. How’s that for a reason? And I guess I just assumed you missed me, too, and that you’d be glad I showed up.”

  “I am glad. It’s just that if I’d had some warning, I would have had the presence of mind to look glad.”

  “You looked glad, all right. It’s just that it seemed like it was Shawn who was making you feel that way.”

  “We were dancing.”

  “I noticed. I also noticed you didn’t waste any time finding male companionship. A movie star, no less.”

  “Oh, right.” My voice was dripping with sarcasm. “I’m the woman of Shawn Elliot’s dreams. He could have any woman in the world, but I’m the one he’s drooling over.”

  “He certainly looked as if he was enjoying himself.”

  “He’s an actor! It’s his job to look happy, even when he’s not!”

  “Actually, I never thought he was a very good actor. Just another bland Hollywood hustler with decent features and a lot of ambition.”

  “Don’t you want to hear about the man who was killed by the falling ice sculpture?” I really was glad that Nick had shown up, and the last thing in the world I wanted was to argue. Besides, I still hadn’t recovered from the fact that I’d just come home from a party at which a man had been killed.

  “I’m much more interested in how you ended up at Shawn Elliot’s house—alone. Dancing, no less. If you can even call it that.”

  “That’s exactly what I’d call it,” I said indignantly. “Surely you don’t think anything else was going on?” I tossed my head and raised one eyebrow. Maybe there was a little Vivien Leigh in me, after all.

  “Why don’t you tell me?” Nick’s voice had changed. Instead of cranky, his tone was more along the lines of pleading. “ Was anything else going on?”

  My prickliness was suddenly gone, too. I snapped my renegade eyebrow back into position. “No, Nick. Of course not.”

  “Good. That’s all the reassurance I need.” His expression softened. “I do trust you, you know.”

  I nestled my head against his shoulder. “Please don’t worry about Shawn Elliot. The only reason I was at his house tonight was that I ran into him at the kick-off party for the dog show. Then this terrible thing happened to the photographer, and the police showed up and we cleared out. We were both pretty shaken up, so we went back to his place to calm down. He’s harmless, Nick. I promise.”

  “Okay.” Nick put his arms around me. “If you say so.”

  I was about to add that if the evening hadn’t been bizarre enough, the police thought Shawn Elliot’s dog might have been partly responsible for the horrific accident that had resulted in a man’s death. But he didn’t give me a chance.

  He was too busy showing me just how much he’d missed me.

  Chapter 4

  “Children and dogs are as necessary to the welfare of the country as Wall Street and the railroads.”

  —Harry S. Truman

  I expected the entire East End to be buzzing about Devon Barnett’s demise and the surprising circumstances that surrounded it. Instead, as Max, Lou, and I headed to East Brompton Green, the location of the first annual Funds for Our Furry Friends Charity Dog Show, I discovered that when it came to dog-lovers, even a bizarre death right in their own backyard couldn’t deter them from their passion.

  The triangle-shaped stretch of grass looked as if a team of experts from the Home and Garden Channel had taken over. Beyond the huge banner out front, multicolored streamers flowed from what looked like two Maypoles on either side of the entrance to the field. Several huge tents had been set up, differentiated by masses of different colored balloons bobbing outside. A courtesy tent was well-stocked with coffee for humans, bottled water for canines, and plenty of edible goodies for both.

  While I was impressed by the magnitude of the operation, I was much more interested in the dogs. I held onto Max’s and Lou’s leashes tightly, since they were at least as intrigued as I was. Max was barking his head off, trying to show the competition who was boss. Lou seemed a bit overwhelmed, his entire body trembling as he took in all the excitement around him. He made a point of standing as close to me as he could.

  Looking around at the competitors, I concluded that although a few regulars had come out for the event, most of the entrants were new to the dog-show world. It was easy to spot the few seasoned canines. They were the ones behaving themselves. It was easy to spot the experienced handlers, too. They were the ones wearing practical shoes.

  Yet all the dogs, even the pros, looked like they were having a blast. Sure, each and every one looked good enough to star in a dog-food commercial: the poodles and Yorkies with perky ribbons in their freshly shampooed fur, the spaniels with their painstakingly fluffed ears, the sleek Rottweilers and greyhounds, their flanks shining from all the brushing that had brought them to such a luminous state.

  But most of the dogs couldn’t help acting like...well, like dogs. They darted about, barking joyfully or, in some cases, angrily. I watched an incensed Chihuahua give a piece of his mind to an Alaskan malamute at least ten times his size. You had to admire his spirit, if not his common sense.

  As for the breeds, I’d expected to see the usual assortment of beagles, cocker spaniels, and pugs. So nothing prepared me for the Who’s Who of exotic specimens prancing around with their proud owners. An impish affenpinscher, a sturdy black little dog whose name means “monkey terrier”—and who has a mug that lives up to it. A Chinese crested dog, completely hairless except for the long, wispy fur on its head, feet, and tail. A Lowchen, or “little lion dog,” that resembles a miniature English sheepdog who’d had his back half-shaved. A sturdy black Schipperke, an imposing breed that looks like the inspiration for the Big Bad Wolf.

  The celebrities on parade were almost as impressive as the dogs. The first familiar face I spotted belonged to Hugo Fontana, his muscles bulging beneath a tightfitting black polo shirt. Strutting alongside the extraordinarily popular actor was an equally muscular specimen I recognized as a Chesapeake Bay retriever.

  Figures, I thought wryly, given the fact that the breed is generally considered the hardiest of the retrievers. Macho guy, macho dog.

  I was pretty sure the owner of the Chinese crested dog was a soap opera star that even I’d heard of, since her career as one of the best-known villains on television spanned three decades. I also recognized a supermodel whose face had become synonymous with an expensive line of cosmetics, striding alongside a sleek, rust-colored vizsla, one of the more imposing members of the pointer family. I was trying to remember the model’s name when I noticed someone hurrying across the field, heading in my direction.

  “There you are, Dr. Pepper!” Celia Cromworthy exclaimed. Her thickly powdered cheeks were flushed with exciteme
nt. Or maybe it was just too much rouge. I noticed that she eyed my outfit for the day with approval. Of course, I was wearing the same official-looking polo shirt embroidered with “Jessica Popper, D.V.M.” that I wore almost every day. But I knew that the crisp khaki shorts I’d paired with today’s forest-green selection gave me a particularly authoritative look—as if I were a game warden on a preserve in the Serengheti, or at least an extra on The Crocodile Hunter. “Thank you so much for agreeing to be part of our little fund-raiser! It was so good of you to fill in for that charming Dr. Scruggs. What a shame he suddenly had a personal emergency to deal with!”

  Calling the “emergency” Marcus was dealing with “personal” was a real understatement, I thought wryly. He’d telephoned me three weeks earlier, explaining that he’d had another offer—one that was too good to turn down. After plying him with questions, I learned that an admirer—a woman he described as “mature”—was desperate for him to accompany her on an all-expenses-paid trip to a tropical island. Frankly, it had taken me a few seconds to get over the shock. While the man was convinced he was God’s gift to the female half of the species, to me he was more like the lump of coal that someone on Santa’s “Naughty” list might find in her Christmas stocking.

  But I wasn’t about to bore Celia Cromworthy with the unsavory details of Marcus Scruggs’ love life. I just smiled politely. “I’m glad I could help. It’s for such a good cause.”

  “Indeed. Now let me show you to your booth....”

  She led me to the tent placed at the far end of the Green. It was lined with tables and booths. In addition to the representatives from local organizations like an East End animal shelter and the Guide Dog Foundation who were standing behind tables, considerably more elaborate displays had been set up by a few major dog-food companies, an “invisible fencing” firm, and a chain retailer specializing in canine-related paraphernalia. When I spotted a six-foot placard emblazoned with a giant deer tick that looked like it was posing for the cover of a Kafka novel, I had a feeling I’d found my home away from home. Sure enough, the banner draped above it read “Ask The Vet!”