Putting on the Dog (11 page)

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 problem. 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.

I got out of my van, bringing Max and Lou with me as I gave in to the temptation to investigate at closer range. About twenty feet beyond the mutilated rawhide, alongside the house, I spotted something yellow. When I got closer, I saw it was a rubber banana, chewed almost beyond recognition.

When I saw what lay another thirty feet beyond, I gasped. I’d seen my share of doghouses in my day, but never anything like this. Even though I knew I was trespassing—probably risking arrest in a town like this—I couldn’t resist crossing the grass.

The lucky canine who resided with Devon Barnett lived in a house that was an exact replica of his master’s mansion. The architecture was precisely the same, down to the wooden shutters. The paint job was also identical. I got down on all fours to get a better look, not even caring about the inevitable grass stains.

“Jessie?”

I jumped up at the unexpected sound of my own name. I was even more surprised when I turned and saw Chess LaMont standing on the lawn. He was dressed only in a black bathing suit the size of a G-string. His muscular body, including his perfectly hairless chest, had been slathered in oil, giving his skin a disconcerting sheen.

Two distinctive accessories complemented his outfit. One of them, a gold nipple ring that matched his eyebrow ring, made me cringe. I found it much easier to focus on the other one. The perky Havanese tucked under his arm was as well-groomed as he was, her hair brushed to an impressive state of fluffiness. She, too, was dressed in black, although her tiny garments took the form of a satin ribbon tied around her neck and a matching bow atop her head that kept her fur out of her eyes.

“Chess! What a surprise!”

I was about to ask him what he was doing there when he crouched down beside the doghouse. Max and Lou immediately introduced themselves to the pretty pup. There was so much tail-wagging it created a breeze.

“Isn’t it wonderful?” he cooed. “The exterior is an exact replica of the main house. We even had it painted the same colors. See, the front door is Sweet Pea Pink and the shutters are Bimini Blue.”

“It’s amazing,” I said sincerely. “I’ve seen dogs with some pretty luxurious digs in my day, but I’ve never seen anything quite like this.”

Chess beamed. “I got the idea when Nettie and I were in Key West.”

“ ‘Nettie’?” Of course, I’d heard him refer to his lover as “Nettie” before. I just hadn’t bothered to think about how it fit into the grand scheme of things.

“My pet name for Devon Barnett; Nettie...get it?”

I blinked. “You and Devon Barnett are—
partners
?”

“We were. Until that stupid ice sculpture of Lady fell on him and the cruel randomness of Fate took him away from me.” Chess scooped up the Havanese and hugged her close against his bare chest, his eyes filling with tears. “And now Zsa Zsa and I are all alone. Aren’t we, precious? All because of Shawn Elliot’s clumsy bulldog. It’s just you and me against the cold, cruel world.”

I glanced around at the ostentatious estate. Chess and Zsa Zsa may have been left alone, but from the looks of things, they weren’t exactly Ragged Dick and Little Orphan Annie.

“Anyway,” Chess continued bravely, “while we were down in the Keys, Nettie dragged me on a tour of Hemingway’s house. I thought I’d be bored silly, but it turns out that Ernest was a true animal lover. He had something like sixty cats. And he loved them so much that he had a cute little cat house built for them that was a replica of his house.”

He nuzzled the white mop draped across his arm. “And Zsa Zsa deserves the very best, don’t you? Oh, yes, you do.
Yes,
you
do-o-o.
”

He stopped suddenly, as if he’d just remembered I was there. “If you didn’t know Nettie and I were a couple, how did you know you’d find me here?”

“I—I didn’t.” I struggled to do some fast thinking. “I, uh, just happened to be driving by—well, it wasn’t entirely a coincidence, since I was curious about where Devon Barnett lived. I mean, I
did
know him, at least a little, so of course I’m upset about what happened. Anyway, I saw the doghouse, and I couldn’t resist stopping to get a better look.”

“Actually, I’m glad you’re here, Jessie.” Chess sounded miserable. “Maybe I look like I’m handling all this pretty well, but the truth is, I’m still in shock. I deserve an Oscar for managing to act in control enough to arrange his cremation this morning.”

“Are you planning a funeral or a memorial service?” I asked gently.

“Just the cremation. I thought I’d scatter his ashes right here in the backyard, since he loved this house so much. Zsa Zsa and I will do it together.” By way of explanation, he added, “Nettie didn’t have a lot of friends.”

“What about his family?”

“Disowned him.” Bitterly, he added, “It turns out his family in Crockettsville, Louisiana, is no more open-minded than my relatives back in Crabapple, Iowa.”

His expression softened. “Come inside and have some iced tea. I make it with fresh mint I grow myself, right here in my garden. I throw in a couple of secret ingredients, too, but I’ll never tell.” He bit his lip, his eyes once again filling with tears. “My iced tea was Nettie’s favorite. He used to call me his ‘Happy Homemaker.’ ”

“Thanks, Chess. I’d be happy to.” I hesitated. “Is it okay if I bring these two monsters?”

“Of course. If this place isn’t dog-friendly, I don’t know
what
is.”

The inside of the house that Devon Barnett had shared with his lover was as striking as the outside. The same bright colors were everywhere, splashed on the walls, in the fabrics, and in the endless clutter that gave the house a cheerful, lived-in look. I was particularly captivated by a framed picture hanging on the living room wall that featured extraordinarily bold colors.

“I have that poster, too,” I observed.

“Oh, that’s not a poster,” Chess replied matter-of-factly. “That’s the original. Don’t you just love David Hockney? We have a Renoir, too. Nettie had excellent taste.”

“I’ll say,” I muttered.

My dogs and I followed Chess and Zsa Zsa into the kitchen, taking in the granite counters, Sub-Zero freezer, and every other desirable accountrement I’d ever seen on the Home and Garden Channel. I paused in front of a shelf lined with unusual cookie jars.

Chess noticed me studying them. “Part of Andy Warhol’s collection,” he informed me.

Up until that point, it never would have occurred to me there could be so much money in stalking celebrities. I was beginning to understand the motivation behind Devon Barnett’s relentlessness.

“This is a fabulous place,” I told him sincerely as I sat down at the kitchen table. I was relieved that after Chess placed Zsa Zsa on the floor, he took a bright Hawaiian shirt off the back of a chair and pulled it on. Just looking at that nipple ring made me shudder.

“Isn’t it fun?” Chess took a pitcher of iced tea out of the refrigerator. “I tried to talk Nettie into getting a photographer from one of the design magazines in here, but he wouldn’t hear of it. It’s funny; he was a very private person.”