Putting on the Dog Read online

  At that moment, as I turned away and focused on the schnauzer with the bum leg, I remembered exactly why I loved Nick Burby.

  The morning passed quickly. While I’d expected things to be quiet, a steady stream of pet owners stopped by the “Ask The Vet” booth, looking for information or advice. I discussed flea collars with the owner of a black Lab and advised a pug owner on how to help her overweight dog slim down. One woman with a Scottie wanted me to look at her dog’s ears, which were constantly getting infected. A nervous young man was all atwitter about the safety of the chemicals in dog shampoos and the preservatives in food. I reminded him that just because something claims to be all-natural, that doesn’t guarantee that it’s safe.

  Lyme disease was a popular topic. Deer are as abundant on eastern Long Island as tourists—and as hard to control. They’re everywhere, even in people’s backyards, eating their flower beds. That means deer ticks are everywhere, and deer ticks mean Lyme disease. While it’s as much a problem for people as it is for animals, today’s crowd was much more focused on their dogs’ health than their own. The grotesque deer tick next to my booth turned out to be the biggest draw of the event. At least, after the booth selling collars studded with giant faux jewels and crocodile-skin leashes.

  After a long, intense hour of fielding questions, I decided to take a short break. I left Emily in charge of both my dogs and the booth, assuring her that I’d be back soon to deal with anything complicated that came up.

  I had to admit, the excitement was getting to me. Being exiled to the edge of the action, watching the dogs and their owners parade in and out of the tents from afar without being able to see what was going on inside, was making me restless. True, Funds for Our Furry Friends was what’s called a “fun match.” Official dog shows provide the chance to compete for points that can lead to the title of Champion—which, aside from bolstering both human and canine egos, yields cash prizes and increases a dog’s value for breeding purposes. But that doesn’t mean a fun match isn’t as entertaining to watch, not to mention a lot more relaxing.

  Both matches and shows are all about conformation—meaning how well each dog conforms to the standards for that particular breed. The American Kennel Club determines the breed standard, which includes all kinds of physical characteristics like the shape of the ears, the size of the feet, and even the texture of the dog’s coat or how much his tail curves. While I always appreciate seeing a really stellar example of any breed, when you come right down to it, I just like being around all those happy, healthy dogs.

  My first stop was the “Information” table, where I picked up a show catalog. I scanned the Judging Schedule and saw I was in luck. The wire fox terriers were on for ten-thirty in Ring Number Two of the Red Tent, and I was just in time.

  I stepped inside the huge tent festooned with crimson flags. More than half the space had been divided into two show rings. Dogs and their hopeful owners, sporting bright blue armbands printed with a number, were packed into the rest of it, awaiting their turn in the ring. I was amazed at all the paraphernalia the owners had dragged along. Even though the temperature had already topped 90 and the air was heavy with humidity, they’d lugged giant metal crates, portable grooming tables, folding chairs, ice chests, and huge tote bags stuffed with brushes, shampoos, favorite toys, water bowls, towels, and dog treats across East Brompton Green. It made carrying my medical practice around in a van look easy.

  Yet while the humans looked a little droopy, the dogs couldn’t have been perkier.

  “Hey, fella!” I greeted a spunky fox terrier who stood on a grooming table. Although his eyes were bright and his posture was alert, he was exhibiting remarkable patience. For a dog that had been bred to hunt foxes, chasing them down relentlessly and then digging them out of their holes with paws powerful enough to burrow through an Oriental carpet, standing still for more than twenty seconds was an unfathomable hardship.

  His owner, however, didn’t seem the least bit appreciative of his cooperativeness. The heavyset woman, decked out in a yellow appliquéd blouse and a bright red skirt printed with tiny fox terriers, sniffed and sighed in frustration as she pulled a wire brush through his coarse fur.

  “Freddie, you’re being such a naughty boy today,” she hissed. “You know how important this is to Mommy! I need you to do this for me. Do you think you can calm down long enough to win Mommy a blue ribbon?”

  I made a mental note to give Max, a fellow terrier with the same frisky temperament, a special dog treat the instant I saw him. An extra hug, too.

  “What a beautiful dog,” I commented.

  She looked at me with surprise. “You have no idea what the competition is like out there,” she replied tartly. “And Freddie gets so tense at these things!”

  The owner next to her appeared to be having a much better time—maybe because his dog’s breed wasn’t on the schedule until that afternoon. The lean, middle-aged man was engaged in an energetic game of tug-of-war with his sleek, white miniature bull terrier. The dog’s muscular, squarely built physique made him look as if he were taking the whole thing very seriously. And he was certainly growling ferociously enough. But his mischievous expression, especially the glint in his eyes, gave away the fact that he was enjoying the moment as much as his master.

  As I strolled by, he let go of the rubber toy and looked over at me expectantly, wagging his tail.

  “Mind if I pet him?” I asked his owner.

  “Go right ahead,” he answered congenially. “Just don’t be surprised when Marshmallow tries to follow you home.”

  An announcement came over the sound system, cutting through the din: “The wire fox terriers are now competing for Best of Breed in Ring Number Two.”

  The mood around me instantly shifted as a half-dozen terrier aficionados prepared for competition. I was delighted by the sight of one healthy, meticulously groomed fox terrier after another streaming into the ring. Even though only six dogs were competing, the scene reminded me of a merry-go-round—one made with spunky canines instead of horses.

  The owners busily set about posing their dogs in the required position, known as “stacking.” I zeroed in on Freddie, who seemed to be doing just fine. His “Mommy,” however, was beet-red. I was tempted to rush over to her with a bowl of water, smoothing her ears and telling her to calm down.

  The judge, an earnest-looking older gentleman in a blue-and-white striped seersucker suit and an old-fashioned straw hat, motioned for the first dog to be presented. His owner, a prim-looking young woman whose straight dark brown hair was held back from her face with a white velvet headband, leaped into action. She deftly lifted her terrier onto the table by placing one hand under his chin and the other under his tail, a strategy I knew helped avoid undoing the rigorous grooming process the dog had just undergone.

  I held my breath as I watched the judge begin his hands-on examination. The anxiety in the tent was contagious. He ran his fingers over the animal, much as I was in the habit of doing. But instead of checking for irregularities like growths or enlarged organs, he was getting a feel for the dog’s body structure. Next he looked into his mouth, counting his teeth and checking his bite. As he moved toward the back to check the dog’s testicles, the dog’s owner slipped him a snack to distract him. I made a mental note to try that little trick in my own practice.

  But dog shows were like life in that appearance only got you so far. After the judge had examined each of the competitors, he instructed, “Take the dogs around.”

  The owners gaited the spirited terriers, trotting them around the ring in a circle as the judge looked on. Freddie’s owner looked a little more relaxed, at least if her face returning to its normal color was any indication. Still, she gripped the leash tightly and her mouth was drawn into a straight line. As for Freddie, he looked as if he were having a blast. I was glad he hadn’t succumbed to the neuroses of his pushy stage mother.

  And then, just like that, it was over. The dogs stood by patiently, as if they understo
od the importance of what was going on as they waited for the judge to make his decision. The owners weren’t doing nearly as well. They all looked nervous.

  The judge pointed to the winner. Freddie! I let out a sigh of relief, pleased that he’d come through. I hoped his owner would finally give him a hug and play a few rounds of Frisbee or tennis ball with him, now that the hard part was over. He’d earned it.

  It wasn’t until I stepped outside the tent and was heading back to my booth that I realized my palms were sweaty. I’d gotten more emotionally involved in watching the competition than I’d realized.

  This dog-show business is murder, I thought.

  For some reason, having that particular turn of phrase pop into my head made me uncomfortable. But I decided I was just reacting to all the tension in the air that was the result of everyone else’s dog-show jitters. I put the thought out of my head as I strode across Brompton Green, back toward the “Ask The Vet” booth.

  Chapter 5

  “I love a dog. He does nothing for political reasons.”

  —Will Rogers

  Noon rolled around quickly. Emily headed over to the refreshment tent for the hour-long lunch break, but I had a house call to make.

  As my dogs and I headed across East Brompton Green, toward my van, the two of them bounced along ecstatically. The mere prospect of any activity whatsoever that has something to do with a vehicle tends to have that effect on them. As we drew closer, Max pulled on his leash so hard that he started to choke. As for Lou, he pranced around gleefully, as if the phrase “high on life” had been created with him in mind.

  Once we reached the van, I made a point of giving them each a bowl of water. During the summer, hyperthermia—heat stroke—is always something to watch out for in dogs. They can’t resist running around when they’re outside, and high temperatures can cause them to become dehydrated. Max and Lou lapped up the water eagerly, and we got on our way.

  I’d driven through the village of East Brompton before, visiting the few clients I had out here. But I’d usually been in a hurry—or else scanning the street signs, trying to locate a particular address. This time, I drank in my surroundings, wanting to get a sense of exactly what made the Bromptons such a desirable place for the rich and famous. The charming little town had a rich history. By the mid-1600s, British colonists had already figured out that eastern Long Island was a pretty congenial place. In addition to settling in Massachusetts and Virginia, they also built several communities here on the South Fork, naming them after their hometown of Brompton, England.

  When I reached the intersection of Main Street and the village’s major cross street, Brompton Road, I squinted, trying to imagine how this area looked to those early residents. The midday sun cast a golden glow over the landscape, and I had to admit the quaint little town looked magical.

  Still, East Brompton had changed quite a bit since its early days. True, a few historic houses, churches, and wooden windmills still remained, thanks to the preservation efforts of local historical societies. And much of the area retained its casual, countrified feeling, partly because of the rustic landscape and partly because of the shabby-chic look the summer residents cultivated. But these days, the buildings lining the two intersecting streets that constituted downtown housed swanky designer clothing boutiques, restaurants that featured local produce and seafood, a few basic necessities like the public library and Town Hall, and a seemingly endless supply of real-estate brokers.

  Max, Lou, and I drove to the edge of town, where the natty shops and sprawling estates gave way to a cluster of undistinguished industrial buildings. I found the Ice Castles ice sculpture studio wedged between a T-shirt embroidery establishment and a hot tub wholesaler. I was struck by the contrast between the squat, gray concrete building and the glamorous parties at which the dramatic ice sculptures produced inside were showcased.

  For Max and Lou, arriving at a destination—any destination—was as exciting as driving there. Predictably, they shot out of the van the moment I opened the door.

  “Be-have!” I commanded, fully aware that I sounded like I was doing a bad Austin Powers imitation.

  I held on to their leashes tightly as my rambunctious mutts and I headed toward the front door. I tried the knob and found it was locked, so I buzzed. Peering through the small window, I saw someone moving through what looked like a front office. Still, I jumped when the door opened. The man standing on the other side was brandishing a chain saw.

  I took a few steps backwards. “Is, uh, Gary Frye here?”

  “Yeah. Come on in.”

  I followed him inside, keeping my distance. I’d shrieked through enough slasher films during my wild and crazy teenage years to know the cardinal rule about never trusting anyone carrying a chain saw. Still, this guy seemed okay. He led me through the front office, a boxy room that contained little more than a gray metal desk, matching file cabinets, and a phone. The only sign of life was a contented white cat stretched out on the sill of the sole window in the room, basking in the warmth of whatever sunlight made it through the thick pane of frosted glass. I left Max and Lou in her charge, figuring she looked self-possessed enough to keep them in line.

  The real action, I quickly realized, was in back.

  A large open warehouse stretched beyond the front office, cool and damp but not nearly as cold as I’d expected. One area was walled off, and through its large windows I could see two men working. One was busy transforming a block of ice into a clown, while the other used sweeping strokes to create the outline of a polar bear. Both used chain saws as their magic wands. Chips flew everywhere, and the noise from the powerful tools was deafening.

  Another man, casually transporting a towering ice lighthouse on a dolly, didn’t seem to notice the noise. He rolled the sculpture across the concrete floor, taking it as far as a large, imposing door. It opened into a freezer. I peeked inside and saw a statue of Neptune, a baby grand piano, and a golfer, all carved from tremendous blocks of ice.

  “Gary?” my escort yelled over the noise. “Yo, Gar-ry!”

  I barely recognized the man who came out from behind a partition.

  It was Gary, all right, the man I’d met at the party the night before. But today, he looked so distraught that he’d practically turned into a different person. His expression was stricken, and the dark rings under his eyes gave him a haunted look.

  “Gary?” I asked.

  “Dr. Popper. I forgot you were coming,” he said apologetically. “Let’s talk in the other room. It’s quieter there.”

  Back in the front office, he didn’t bother to turn on the lights. The only illumination came from the small window, his cat’s choice for her noontime nap. The somber ambiance seemed to fit Gary’s mood perfectly.

  He sank into the chair behind the desk.

  “Are you all right?” I asked.

  “No.” He laughed bitterly. “How can I be all right when I’m probably looking at a multimillion-dollar lawsuit—not to mention being accused of causing someone’s death? All because some nut decides to use one of my ice sculptures as a murder weapon.”

  I felt as if I’d been slapped. “Murder? Is that what you think happened?”

  “There’s no doubt in my mind.”

  My heartbeat raced. I could scarcely believe what I was hearing. Sure, it had occurred to me that Devon Barnett’s death might not have been an accident, given his widespread unpopularity. But I’d chalked that idea up to my overly active imagination. Now, hearing Gary voice what I’d thought was nothing more than my own far-fetched rumination chilled me to the bone.

  It also set off a little bell in my head. Murder was a subject I happened to find fascinating. I’d even put my intellectual interest into practice a few months earlier when I’d found myself smack in the middle of a murder investigation just a mile or two from my home in Joshua’s Hollow. But long before that, I’d found the process of finding answers to seemingly unanswerable questions intriguing. In fact, Nick had once accused
me of being more interested in the cases he handled in his private-investigation practice than he was. He’d compared me to Nancy Drew—and I had to admit that he hadn’t been far off base.

  “Look, I’ve been in this business for eighteen years,” Gary went on, shaking his head in disgust. “I’ve done parties for the governor and for U.S. Senators and even presidential candidates who were campaigning out here in the Bromptons. I’ve done events for the biggest companies you can think of—and the richest, most important, most litigious people imaginable. Don’t you think that by now I’ve figured out I have to do everything I possibly can to protect myself?

  “Last night,” he continued, “after you left the gazebo, I did exactly what I told you I was going to do: secure the sculptures so they wouldn’t fall. Even though Phyllis insisted it would look bad and forbade me to do it, I stretched strips of wire behind the dogs and tied them to the gazebo’s columns. They were solid—strong enough that even a Saint Bernard couldn’t have shaken one of my ice sculptures loose, much less a fifty-pound bulldog.

  “After that waitress started screaming and all hell broke loose, I ran back to the gazebo as fast as I could. Those strips of wire were gone, man. Like they’d never even existed. Somebody must have cut them down.”

  “What about your helper? Couldn’t he—or she—have taken them down?”

  Gary looked at me quizzically. “ ‘Helper’?”

  “Your assistant, or whoever was cleaning up in the gazebo.”

  “I didn’t have anybody else from Ice Castles with me last night, if that’s what you mean. I was working alone.”

  I decided not to mention that I’d seen somebody lurking behind the ice sculptures after everyone else had moved into the tent. At least, not yet. My thoughts were still too muddled as I tried to sift through everything Gary was telling me, and I wasn’t about to complicate things even further. “In that case, is there any chance Phyllis removed them?”