Putting on the Dog (15 page)

But I wasn’t here for the real estate.

I braked when I spotted the bright yellow sign jutting above the greenery: Suzanne Fox, D.V.M. Just looking at it made me grin. As I pulled into the parking lot, I imagined what Suzanne’s reaction was going to be when she saw what the cat dragged in.

While the front door was unlocked, the waiting room was empty. Too early for office hours. Even the receptionist hadn’t come in yet. I ventured farther inside, with Max and Lou trailing after me, looking for signs of life.

I spotted Suzanne in the surgery room. She stood with her back to me, bending over a German shepherd and finishing up what looked like a routine spaying. A second woman, another vet or maybe a technician, stood at her side. Even though I hadn’t seen Suzanne for years, there was no doubt in my mind that I’d found her. True, she no longer wore her hair in a long braid down her back. Instead, it was twisted into a complicated knot and held in place with a plastic clip. But its color—a fiery orange-red—hadn’t changed a bit.

She turned slightly, and I saw the familiar sprinkle of freckles across her nose. And she was still what my grandmother used to call “pleasingly plump.”

I didn’t say hello. Instead, I stood in the doorway, threw open my arms, and cried,
“Anassa kata, kalo,
kale...”

“Ia, ia, ia, nike!”
Suzanne finished, turning around. When she saw it was her college lab partner and long-lost friend, her face lit up like a sky full of fireworks, and she let out a squeal. “Oh, my
God
! Jessie, is that really
you
?”

“It’s me, all right!”

She pulled off her surgical gloves and sprinted over to me. We threw our arms around each other, laughing and hugging.

“How long has it been?” she cried breathlessly when she finally pulled away.

“College graduation—a good ten years.”

Her large blue eyes, the color of cornflowers, were shining. “I can’t believe it. Jessie Popper, after all this time!”

Suzanne and I had met at Bryn Mawr, a small women’s college in Pennsylvania that was so rooted in the traditions of classical education that its school cheer was in ancient Greek. While dozens of young women in our freshman class had been premed students, Suzanne Fox and I made up the entire prevet population. So it was hardly surprising that we’d bonded as soon as we met in our Chemistry 101 lab. Both of us were thrilled that we’d found another Mawrtyr hell-bent on getting into vet school and spending the rest of her life caring for animals.

Together, Suzanne and I had endured more allnighters than I cared to remember, agonizing over lab reports fueled with Diet Coke, really bad pizza, and an unflagging sense of camaraderie. Of course, we’d managed to squeeze in a little fun, too. Stealing into Philadelphia on rainy Saturday afternoons to see two movies in a row, throwing ourselves into making our class’s Junior Show the best one in the college’s one-hundred-year-plus history, even double-dating a few times.

Our senior year, we had literally held each other’s hands as we opened the long-awaited letters that would determine how we’d each live the rest of our lives. When both turned out to be acceptances—mine from Cornell University’s College of Veterinary Medicine in upstate New York and hers from Purdue, in her home state of Indiana—we were as thrilled for each other as we were for ourselves.

After graduation, we’d kept in touch for a while. But we’d only managed a few phone calls and E-mails before the demands of veterinary school got in the way.

“I’m still in shock!” Suzanne exclaimed. Her rounded cheeks were punctuated with two big dimples as she said, “Shelley, this is Jessie Popper, one of my best friends
ever
—even though we haven’t seen each other for ages. Jess, this is Shelley Howard, my technician.”

After Shelley and I said the requisite “Hello, nice to meet you’s” and I’d introduced Max and Lou to everyone, Suzanne demanded, “How in the world did you
find
me?”

“One of those free booklets they put in all the stores,” I replied. “
Guide
to the Bromptons
or something.”

“But what are you doing on Long Island?”

“I live here.”

“Get
out
of here! Since when?”

“Since finishing vet school. How about you?”

“I moved here last summer. It never even
occurred
to me that you might be living on Long Island!”

“You wouldn’t have found me. I’m listed as ‘Reigning Cats and Dogs.’ ”

“Where’s your practice?”

“All over the Island. I have a mobile services unit. But I live in a place called Joshua’s Hollow, on the North Shore. I rent a cottage on a big estate. It’s small but incredibly cute, and the lovely woman who owns it has become one of my best friends.”

Suzanne grinned. “So you’re the competition.”

“Don’t worry. I only have a few clients out here on the South Fork. Most of my work is on the North Shore, farther west.”

She shook her head as if she still couldn’t believe her old college pal was standing in front of her. “I’m about done in here. Let’s go into my office. Shelley, would you mind finishing up?”

Leaving her technician to take charge of the German shepherd, Suzanne walked me and my canine entourage through a small cluster of rooms. Both Max and Lou were in sniff heaven, luxuriating in the smells of the hundreds of dogs, cats, rabbits, ferrets, and other animals who had passed through the building in recent times. Suzanne’s office, way in back, was just as cluttered as her dorm room had once been. Ceiling-high shelves were crammed with textbooks and stacks of science journals, and catalogs for veterinary supply houses and uniform companies were scattered here and there. A haphazard stack of bills sat in the middle of a desk, along with several mugs of half-drunk coffee, by now long forgotten. The pale green walls were covered with photographs of cats and dogs doing ridiculously cute things. The same animals appeared so frequently that I assumed they were her pets.

I settled on the window ledge after moving aside a thirsty-looking plant with a gift tag dangling from a scraggly branch. “With our gratitude for all the care you gave Bootsy,” it read. Lou settled down at my feet, while Max continued to explore, nosing around every corner of the room.

“It sounds like you’re doing great!” Suzanne dropped into the wooden desk chair. “Wow, Jess, your own mobile unit!”

“I can’t complain. But what about you?”

Suzanne sighed. “I’m just getting started. I bought this practice last summer. To be perfectly honest, sometimes I feel like I’m in a foreign country.”

“What happened to Indiana?”

She grimaced. “Promise you won’t think I turned into a total flake?”

“I can’t wait to hear this,” I said, grinning.

“A few years out of vet school, I decided I deserved a real vacation,” Suzanne began. “So I took myself to the Caribbean. You know, one of those resorts where everything’s included—even the condoms?”

“Not one of those singles resorts!”

“You
promised
not to laugh!”

“Hey, there’s nothing wrong with a little male attention.”

“Well, it worked. I mean, I met someone. Robert. And I thought he was the most charming, most fascinating guy on earth. He was an entrepreneur who opened restaurants. He’d pick out a good location, hire an architect, find a chef, and launch it. Once it got going, he’d sell it.”

“Sounds like fun. And I bet you ate well.”

“I’m still paying for it, too.” She rolled her eyes and patted her rounded middle. “Anyway, as long as he was in that line of business, I could stay with the same practice I’d worked in since I finished vet school in Indianapolis. But then he decided he wanted a restaurant of his own. One he’d stick with, instead of selling off. He found one, all right, but it was all the way out here on the East End. So we picked up and moved to Long Island.”

“So your husband owns a restaurant nearby?” I asked excitedly.

“Yup—but he’s not my husband anymore. At least, he won’t be for much longer. Last summer, right after we moved here and I bought this practice, Robert announced that he wanted to change more than his career. He filed for divorce. We’re still agonizing over the details. Even though we don’t have any kids, it’s gotten ridiculously complicated.”

“Oh, Suzanne! I’m so sorry.”

“I was devastated at first. And I felt completely stranded in a brand-new place where I didn’t know a soul.” She shrugged. “But I’m getting used to it. At this point, I’m just counting the days until I’m finally divorced and that whole chapter of my life is over.” Brightening, she asked, “What about you, Jess? Are you married?”

“Nope.”

“Anyone you’re serious about?”

I hesitated. That still wasn’t a question I felt a hundred percent comfortable with. “I’ve been seeing a guy named Nick Burby for a few years now. He’s a private investigator, or at least he will be for another couple of months. Then he’s going to law school.”

“Is he your Mr. Right?” Suzanne asked eagerly.

Her question caught me off guard. I hesitated a few seconds before answering, pretending I was busy adjusting Lou’s collar.

“Could be,” I finally said, not wanting to get into the ups and downs of our relationship. Especially since my ongoing struggle with commitment was responsible for most of the downs. “I’ll tell you all about him one of these days. But in the meantime, I’m here to ask a favor.”

“Anything, Jess.”

“The reason I’m out here this week is because I’m running the ‘Ask The Vet’ booth for a charity dog show the SPCA is putting on.”

Suzanne nodded. “I’ve been seeing posters advertising it for months.”

“I got the gig through a friend of mine who’s a vet. He backed out at the last minute. Seems his social life got in the way.”

“You mean he’s single?” Her face lit up.

I rolled my eyes. “Yes, Marcus is single—for a very good reason.”

“How about if you let me be the judge of that?” Suddenly sheepish, she added, “Sorry. I can’t help it. That’s what happens when you’re suddenly in the market again. Especially when you find out pretty darn fast that there are about six decent men out there.”

Her use of the word “decent” in a conversation about Marcus Scruggs gave me pause. I was tempted to give her an earful about Marcus Scruggs—a man who thought the term “feminist movement” referred to jiggling breasts. Instead, I said, “If you insist, I’ll introduce you— but only if you sign a waiver saying I’m not responsible for whatever happens. In the meantime, I’m kind of involved in a murder investigation. Of course, the police are insisting it was an accident. But I’m convinced there’s more to it.”

Suzanne’s eyes widened. “You don’t mean that photographer, do you?”

“Devon Barnett. Did you know him?”

“No. But I read about it in the paper. What does he have to do with you?”

“Actually, nothing.” I filled Suzanne in on my background as an amateur sleuth, hoping she wouldn’t think I’d gone completely off the deep end.

Instead, she seemed fascinated. “How can I help?” she asked enthusiastically.

“You might have access to some of the people I’m interested in questioning. There are several right here on the East End who had ties to Devon Barnett. My suspicion is that one of them might have had a reason to want him dead. Some of them might be your clients, people you’ve developed a relationship with. If I presented myself as your associate, they wouldn’t hesitate to let me into their homes—or to trust me when I started asking questions. Would you mind if I looked through your client list?”

“Be my guest.” Suzanne gestured toward a metal file cabinet pushed into the corner of the office. “I’ve got a folder on each client in there. And if you can’t read the handwriting, don’t blame me. That’s what was given to me when I bought the practice. Unfortunately, the vet I bought this practice from was an older guy who thought computers were just a fad.”

His handwriting didn’t look any worse than mine. Methodically, I flipped through the folders, glancing at the tabs and looking for a name that might be useful. While most of them meant nothing to me, I did see that some of the celebrities I’d spotted out here were among Suzanne’s clients.

“I still can’t believe you found me,” Suzanne exclaimed as I continued perusing her files. “Or that you live so close by. By now, I’ve gotten to know a few people around here, but it’s hard when you’re new to an area, you know? I haven’t even learned all the roads yet.”

“I know. It can be pretty confusing.” I only half-listened as I continued mentally filing away the names I’d found.

When I slammed the heavy drawer shut, Suzanne asked, “Did you find what you need?”

“I’m not sure. You’ve got a few clients I might be interested in talking to at some point. Maybe you’ll let me fill in for you some time.”

“I could use the help. We can get pretty busy around here, especially during the summer. Just let me know what I can do.”

“Thanks, Suzanne,” I said sincerely.

“In fact, why don’t I just give you an extra key to my office? That way, you can come and go as you please while you’re here in the Bromptons. Feel free to use the copying machine, the fax, whatever you need. The same key opens the front door and the one in back, down at the end of that hall. Let me explain how the security system works....” She jotted down the code on the back of one of her business cards. I glanced at it before tucking it safely into my wallet, noting that the card was printed with her fax number, as well as her phone number—a resource I knew might prove helpful at some point.

“Suzanne, you’re a doll. If there’s anything I can do in return—”

She waved her hand in the air. “Glad to help. In the meantime, let’s get together
soon.
I live close by, in West Brompton Beach. At least, for now.” She grimaced. “Whether I’ll get to keep the house or not depends on how the divorce negotiations end. For now, my lawyer has advised me to act like a model citizen. Apparently good old Robert has hired an investigator to watch me, some guy in a beat-up Ford who’s spending his life parked outside my house. That means no wild parties, no men traipsing in and out at all hours of the night... But I could still meet you and Nick for dinner in town.”