Putting on the Dog Page 8

  “No way. I made a point of keeping my eyes on her the rest of the time—until just before disaster struck, anyway. I made sure she didn’t go near the ice sculpture display because I had a feeling she’d go nuts if she saw what I’d done.”

  “How about someone on her staff?”

  “I kept an eye on the gazebo until the cocktail hour was over. I’m positive nobody messed with it. I watched while the caterers cleaned up the hors d’oeuvres. They took everything away except the ice sculptures. It was my job to get rid of them, and I figured I’d wait until dinner was underway.”

  Gary looked at me earnestly. “But once everybody was out of there, I went back to my truck to get some paperwork I needed to leave behind with Mr. Bolger. I swear on my life that the only way that ice sculpture could have fallen over is if somebody wanted it to fall over. Somebody had to have pushed it over the side of the gazebo. There’s no other way it could have fallen.”

  “What about the police’s theory that Rufus—Shawn Elliot’s bulldog—was responsible?”

  Gary shook his head. “Highly unlikely if not impossible. I’m telling you, those wires held the sculptures firmly in place.”

  “Have you heard from any lawyers?” I asked, struggling to sound matter-of-fact. “Or the police?”

  “Not yet. But I’m sure it’s only a matter of time.” He sighed. “But, hey, you didn’t come here to listen to me complain, did you?”

  I blinked in confusion.

  “Lulu? Her conjunctivitis?”

  “Oh, right.” For a moment, I’d forgotten all about the profession I’d spent nearly a decade of my life training for. I was too busy thinking about Gary’s startling contention that Devon Barnett hadn’t been the victim of a freak accident, after all, but that his death had been deliberate.

  “So let’s have a look at Lulu,” I suggested, determined to focus on his cat—at least for now.

  He retrieved the sleek white feline from the windowsill. She didn’t seem happy about giving up her primo spot.

  With Max and Lou in tow, I led Gary and Lulu out to my van and set the cat on the examining table. While Gary filled out some paperwork, I ran my hands along her spine, then palpated her internal organs to make sure everything was in order. She seemed just fine. Then I checked her eyes. Lulu appeared to have a superficial ocular infection.

  “Your diagnosis was right on target,” I told him. “I’m going to give you this oxytetracycline HCL ointment. You need to put it right on the eyeball itself, twice a day. I’ll show you how. Do it for two weeks, to be safe. I’m also giving Lulu a course of doxycycline. There’s a chance it could be chlamydia, which could become a chronic problem, so I’d like you to give her fifty milligrams twice a day for fourteen days. Just make sure you give it to her when there’s food in her stomach.”

  “Whatever you say, Doc.”

  “I see she hasn’t had a rabies shot in a while,” I said, checking her tag. “What vaccines does she normally get, just upper respiratory?”

  “She got her regular shots about a year ago. That was the last time I brought her in.”

  “Any adverse reaction?”

  “Not that I remember.”

  “I have to give her a rabies shot, by law, and she’s due for her distemper and upper respiratory booster,” I told him. “That’s something we can do right now. I’ll give her the rabies in her right hind leg. If you notice that a small lump develops in about a week, don’t be upset. It’ll go away by itself in a month. Call your regular vet if it doesn’t.”

  I inoculated Lulu against rabies, then gave her a feline distemper booster in her right shoulder. She was surprisingly cooperative. “I’m going to give you a new rabies tag, too. They’re a different color and shape every year, so if she’s ever outside and bites somebody, they can see that she’s had her rabies vaccine.”

  “Thanks,” Gary said, scooping up his cat and fondling her ears. “I really appreciate this—even though I probably seem pretty crabby. This isn’t exactly the best day of my life. Send me a bill, okay? I really am grateful that you came by today.”

  After I’d given him a quick lesson in how to apply the medicine, he grunted his thanks and turned to leave. He was halfway out the door of my van when I called, “Gary?”

  “Yeah?” He barely turned, instead looking back at me over his shoulder.

  “I believe you. That Devon Barnett may have been murdered, I mean.”

  “Great,” he said sourly. “Now all you have to do is convince the police, the insurance company, the newspaper, the guy’s family, and anybody else who’s the least bit interested.”

  I didn’t tell him that exact same thought had already occurred to me.

  As soon as Gary was out of earshot, I dialed the Town of East Brompton Police on my cell phone. It wasn’t easy. The first obstacle was the crazed Westie in my lap, repeatedly thrusting his four spiky paws into my thighs with the force of a jackhammer as he policed the flock of birds that dared to perch in the tree right outside the window. The second was the whiny Dalmatian who was also trying to crawl into my lap, no doubt convinced he deserved some cuddling, too.

  “Come on, you guys,” I pleaded. “Can’t you—”

  “East Brompton Police,” a woman’s voice answered crisply.

  I immediately switched to a more professional tone. “Good morning. My name is Dr. Jessica Popper, and I believe I may have been a witness to a crime. Last night, I was at Russell Bolger’s estate when Devon Barnett was killed by the falling ice sculpture, and—”

  “You mean the accident, right?”

  I hesitated. “I’m not so sure it was an accident. I’ve spoken to the—”

  “I’ll have to take your name and number,” the woman interrupted me, sounding about as interested in what I had to say as if I was a telemarketer. “There’s nobody here who can talk to you right now. That was Dr. Pepper, right?”

  “Popper,” I corrected her patiently. “P-O-P-P-E-R.” No relation to the soft drink, I was tempted to add. Instead, I gave her my cell phone number, repeating it three times before she got it right.

  I felt an odd mixture of excitement and dread as I tucked away my cell phone and turned the key in the ignition. Murder was a subject I found absolutely fascinating, and it was beginning to look like one might have occurred right under my nose.

  I checked my watch and saw I didn’t have much time before I was due back at the dog show. By that point, my stomach was growling loudly enough that Lou kept staring at it, cocking his head and growling back. I decided to grab something to go.

  I cruised along Main Street, hoping to find a place whose prices weren’t too shocking. Nothing looked promising. I turned down a side street, wondering if I’d be lucky to find an eatery the locals frequented.

  After spotting a couple of possibilities, I pulled into the first parking space I found that was sufficiently shaded. I locked Max and Lou in the van once again, pouring cool water into a bowl for them and being sure to leave the windows open. As usual, I apologized profusely for leaving them alone and assured them I’d be back ASAP.

  I decided to start with the small gourmet shop on the corner, the Pampered Pantry. As soon as I stepped inside, I saw from the posted price list that this place was way out of my league. Forget the lobster salad and the caviar plate. Even a tuna on rye would have required taking on a second job. Still, stopping in wasn’t a complete waste. I bought a copy of the local newspaper, The East Brompton Banner, even though it only came out weekly and was dated the previous Tuesday. And on my way out, I noticed a stack of booklets titled Guide to the Bromptons.The sign above read, “Free! Take One!” I did.

  The Lucky Shamrock, half a block farther down, tucked between a video store and a dry cleaner, was a much better bet. Inside, the bar-and-grill was cool and dark, with rough wooden floors and booths with high backs. The decorations ran along the lines of a neon Bud Light sign and an inflatable Cuervo Gold bottle. Only a few patrons sat at the bar and the booths, most of them al
one. Nearly all of them kept their eyes glued to the television suspended from the ceiling.

  “What can I get you?” the bartender asked congenially. With his red hair, freckles, and wide grin—not to mention his bright green shirt—he looked like he belonged in a place called the Lucky Shamrock.

  I ordered a sandwich and iced tea to go, then let my eyes drift up to the television screen, just like everybody else around me. The Channel 14 logo permanently lodged on the lower right told me we were all watching the local news, like it or not. I half-watched a segment on a high school cheerleading squad headed for some national competition. But the next segment snapped me to attention.

  “Today, members of Norfolk County’s top brass came out to celebrate the opening of a new athletic complex for children and teens.” Behind the blond reporter who stood in front of the camera, I could see a sprawling collection of buildings surrounded by green fields. “The new Jose Nunez Center in East Metchogue will house a swimming pool, basketball courts, and outdoor facilities for soccer, baseball, and track.”

  The camera panned across a group of dignitaries standing on a podium, a half-dozen men and women who looked like they were dying for their turn at the microphone. I zeroed in on one of them, standing toward the back.

  “Also in attendance at the ribbon-cutting ceremony was Lieutenant Anthony Falcone. Lieutenant Falcone became Norfolk County’s new chief of homicide back in December.”

  My mouth dropped open as I watched Falcone practically elbow his way through the crowd of dignitaries, doggedly making a beeline for the microphone. He was a small, wiry man with eyes so dark they looked as if they could burn holes in you. I noticed that as he snaked through the crowd, he straightened his tie, then reached up to slick back his shiny, carefully styled black hair.

  He had to stand on his toes to get close enough to the mike to speak. That didn’t deter him in the least.

  “This is truly a great day for Norfolk County,” he announced in a thick Long Island accent. “Our children are our future. I’m proud to be part of this great recreational facility, which will go a long way in helping young people all over Long Island achieve their potential—”

  He was still talking when the camera cut to the news-room.

  “Here you go.” The bartender handed me a brown paper bag. “That’s seven-twenty-five. Need a straw?”

  After we’d settled up and I headed out of the Lucky Shamrock, I was still thinking about Falcone. I’d noticed his picture in the newspaper before, but this was the first time I’d seen him in action. I was struck by his intensity. I was also surprised by what a media hound he was. His predecessor, Lieutenant Harned, had preferred to stay in the background. But from what I could see, this Falcone character was something else entirely.

  I wondered how he felt about amateur sleuths.

  All afternoon I kept my cell phone in my pants pocket. I must have checked it a hundred times, anxious to make sure the battery hadn’t fizzled out or that I hadn’t been too distracted to hear it ring. There had to be some logical explanation why the East Brompton Police weren’t more interested in hearing what a concerned citizen had to say about the possibility that Devon Barnett hadn’t been the victim of an accident after all.

  By the end of the day, I was debating whether to call again. Maybe my message got lost, I reasoned, not wanting to believe it had simply been ignored. I dialed the number again.

  “East Brompton Police,” the same woman answered in the same uninterested voice.

  “This is Dr. Jessica Popper. I called earlier today—”

  “Yes, I know,” she returned coldly. “I’m the one who took the message.”

  “No one’s called me back yet, and—”

  “Really? I handed it to Sergeant Bangs personally. Told him what you’d called about, too. He pretty much said the same thing I told you—that pending the autopsy, we’re considering the photographer’s death an accident.”

  “Yes, I know.” I had to struggle to keep the impatience out of my voice. “But I’d still like to talk to him about it. I have some information he may be interested in. Would you please leave him another message?”

  The woman sighed impatiently. “Suit yourself.”

  Well, one thing’s for sure, I thought as I tucked away my cell phone. The East Brompton Police are convinced that Barnett died accidentally—and they’re not exactly in a hurry to discuss any other possibilities. In fact, from the looks of things, nobody besides Gary Frye seems particularly interested in whether Devon Barnett was murdered.

  Nobody, that is, except me.

  For the rest of the afternoon, I couldn’t stop thinking about my bone-chilling conversation with Gary Frye. I was certain he’d been telling the truth about reinforcing the ice sculptures.

  In fact, the more I thought about it, the more it made sense that Devon Barnett had been murdered, rather than the victim of a random event—especially one as unlikely as a bulldog bumping into a table. The circumstances surrounding the paparazzo’s death were simply too suspicious. First, no one had witnessed the so-called “accident,” a fact the medical examiner himself had stated. That, combined with the dog-proof safety system Gary claimed he’d rigged up, and the fact I was positive I’d spotted someone sneaking into the gazebo, constituted the physical realities.

  Even more compelling was the fact that Barnett had been so universally despised.

  By the end of the day, my resolve to find out more about the paparazzo’s death was strong. True, the last time I’d gotten involved in a murder investigation, I’d come close to being killed. But the mere idea that someone had actually been murdered—and that whoever was responsible might go free—was simply too horrifying to ignore.

  After I said good-bye to Emily and thanked her for all her help, I climbed into my van with Max and Lou. But instead of heading home, I drove back into town. I cruised along Main Street until I spotted the biggest, flashiest florist I could find. This time, I brought my two sidekicks inside with me. While they like to act tough— especially Max—the truth is that those two bundles of fur love flowers. In fact, I had to stop bringing carnations home because Max was so fond of nibbling them. But both of them loved stretching out for a nap in the middle of the lilies of the valley my neighbor and landlady, Betty Vandervoort, planted around her mansion-style home.

  They appreciated the gesture. The leggy Dalmatian and the squat, feisty Westie didn’t try to hide their enthusiasm as we entered the tiny shop and were immediately surrounded by the nearly overpowering fragrance of hundreds of flowers. Lou just stood there, looking enraptured and breathing in deeply, his black, wet nose pulsating in ecstasy. Max waddled over to a display of freesia and stuck his nose in unceremoniously, half his face disappearing into the profusion of soft pink petals.

  A young woman with two long blonde braids, a flowered skirt down to her ankles, and purple Birkenstocks stepped out from behind the counter. “Hi!” she said cheerily. “How can I help you?” If she noticed Max slobbering over her merchandise, she was too polite to comment.

  “I’d like to send flowers, but I’m afraid I don’t know the person’s address,” I explained. My heart pounded as I wondered if my little ploy would work.

  “Maybe I can help,” she said. “At least, if it’s somebody local.”

  “I want to send an arrangement to Devon Barnett’s house. The photographer?”

  Her smile faded. “Yeah, I heard about that. Weird, huh?”

  My ears pricked up like Max’s. “How do you mean?”

  “Oh, just the way he died. I mean, can you imagine getting killed by an ice sculpture? It’s freaky. I mean, what are the odds of that happening?”

  I didn’t tell her I was starting to wonder the exact same thing.

  I picked out a dignified arrangement, then wrote out a card with the message, “Our deepest sympathy. Funds for Our Furry Friends.” When it came time to settle up, I paid cash.

  “About where to send them...” I said.

  “No p
roblem. I know where he lives—lived. One-forty-five Beach Lane.”

  The address was instantly stored in my memory bank.

  “They’ll be delivered some time this afternoon,” she told me. “Is that soon enough?”

  “Terrific. Thanks for your help.”

  I was about to leave the shop when the woman asked, “Were the two of you friends?”

  “Not really. More like acquaintances.”

  “Figures.”

  Her response surprised me, and I guess my expression showed it.

  “It’s just that, from what I’ve heard about the guy,” she said with a shrug, “I figured he didn’t really have any friends.”

  As soon as I reached my van, I checked my map. Instead of driving home via the most direct route, I took a slight detour. It was only a few miles out of my way— and it took me right past Devon Barnett’s house.

  Chapter 6

  “There are three faithful friends—an old wife, an old dog, and ready money.”

  —Ben Franklin

  Even though I now knew Devon Barnett’s address, as soon as I turned onto Beach Lane I discovered his house would have been hard to miss. While it was similar to all the others on the block in terms of its grandeur, the bright Caribbean colors of its exterior differentiated it from all the rest. The house itself was a sunny yellow. But that was just the backdrop for its bubble-gum pink front door, apple-green door frame, and turquoise wooden shutters.

  Once the shock wore off, something else caught my eye. While the grass was so green it looked as if it, too, had been painted with painstaking care, its perfection was marred by a small blotch of brown.

  Even from my van, I could see that it was a badly mangled rawhide stick.

  Devon Barnett had owned a dog.

  The idea intrigued me. I’d already become familiar with his ruthless side, the aspects of his personality that had motivated Shawn Elliot to dub him “the most hated man in Hollywood.” It had never occurred to me that the notorious paparazzo had also been a dog-lover.