Putting on the Dog (16 page)

“Thanks. It sounds great.”

“And if you want to bring along your friend Marcus...” Suzanne added with an unmistakable twinkle in her blue eyes.

I didn’t have the heart to tell her that, in the jargon of our chosen field, she was barking up the wrong tree.

By the time I got to the dog show, Emily was already standing at her post. She’d neatened the piles of brochures the SPCA had supplied on the importance of regular rabies shots and the keys to good nutrition. She’d also pushed forward the giant tick so that it was more prominently displayed. I was pleased she was so excited to be part of the dog show. Emily Bolger was a special little girl, and she deserved to have a good summer.

“Hey, Dr. Popper!” she greeted me.

As I grew nearer, I noticed she was wearing a huge smile and her eyes were shining. For the first time, I caught a glimpse of the future—and what a pretty young woman she was going to be.

“You certainly look happy this morning,” I observed.

“I got a letter from my mom!” She pulled out a note, handwritten on pale pink stationery.

“How’s she doing?”

“Terrific! The rehab’s going really well. She says she’s doing even better than they expected!”

“That’s good news!” I said enthusiastically. While I didn’t know all that much about drug and alcohol rehabilitation programs, I was aware of how difficult they were. “You must really miss her.”

Emily nodded. “We usually spend half the summer together. I’m still hoping I can go to Paris with her during August. In the meantime, I’m going to ask my dad if I can fly out to California to visit her.”

I was silent, wondering if it was the best idea for a vulnerable twelve-year-old like Emily to visit her mother in a place like that. It was probably as luxurious as a spa, but that didn’t mean it wouldn’t be traumatic for a patient’s young daughter.

I was curious to hear more, but the owner of a fluffy Old English sheepdog descended upon us. “Oh, good, I’m glad you finally got here,” she said pointedly. “Barnaby keeps acting really funny whenever he chews something. It’s almost like his teeth hurt. Is it possible for dogs to get cavities?”

“It’s more likely he’s fractured his tooth—probably a slab fracture of the major cheek tooth. It happens when dogs chew things that are too hard, like stones.”

I knelt down to examine Barnaby’s teeth. Sure enough, it looked as if he’d fractured his major premolar. I instructed her to schedule an appointment with her regular veterinarian as soon as she could. I also gave her my business card, in case she was looking for a new vet for Barnaby.

My next consultation was with a college-age young man with spiky bleached hair and a pierced eyebrow. At his side was a sleek, muscular dog I recognized as an American bulldog.

“Beautiful animal,” I commented. “Is she competing in the dog show?” The breed was relatively new and hadn’t yet been recognized by the American Kennel Club.

“No, Bailey and I just came to watch,” he informed me. “She’s only five months old. But I wanted to ask you something. She’s not great at stairs, and sometimes she has trouble jumping up onto the couch. Do you think she could have hip dysplasia?”

“Let’s take a look. Hey, Bailey! How’s the dogger?” I crouched down to get a sense of the puppy’s bone structure, running my hands over her silky-smooth fur and feeling the structure of her bones. “You could be right,” I told her owner. “Her hocks turn inward. Keep an eye out for signs, like hearing a clicking when she walks or noticing that she seems stiff in the morning, before she’s had a chance to move around. But CHD—canine hip dysplasia—can be tough to diagnose in American bulldogs. For one thing, they have an exceptionally high tolerance for pain. And their hindquarters are often strong enough to compensate, holding their hips together even in the presence of CHD. Her regular veterinarian should probably take X rays and do a thorough orthopedic exam under sedation.”

“Thanks,” he replied. I could see he wasn’t happy with my answer, and I didn’t blame him. I was experiencing the beginnings of that sad, defeated feeling that crept up on me sometimes after I’d doled out bad news, when I glanced up and saw that the next person waiting to talk to me was Shawn.

“Hey, stranger!” he said cheerfully. “Thought I’d stop by and see how you’re doing.”

It felt good to see a familiar face. “Busy, believe it or not. I’ve been handing out advice nonstop.”

He chuckled. “I’m glad that, in my line of work, I just have to
pretend
to know stuff, without actually having to learn it.” Turning to Emily, he asked, “How about you, kiddo? Are you having fun helping out Dr. Dolittle here?”

Her sullen expression had returned. “I guess,” she said with a little shrug.

To smooth over the uncomfortable silence that followed, I said, “How’s Rufus bearing up under the pressure?”

His expression darkened. “Are you talking about the pressure of the dog show or the thing with Barnett?”

Knowing how bad Shawn felt about the accusation against Rufus, I saw no reason to belabor the subject. “Actually, I was curious about the documentary. Is he going to be in it?”

Shawn smiled. “He’s one of the stars! That guy who’s making the videotape of the dog show got some great footage of my boy. I can’t wait for you to see it on Sunday. This documentary is turning out to be a pretty big deal. Even the TV stations are coming to the screening this weekend. You’ll be there to see Rufus on the big screen, won’t you?”

Shawn cast an adoring look at the squat, wrinkled beast waddling beside him, his tongue hanging down like a necktie as he panted loudly, no doubt a response to the warmth of the sunny June morning. I noticed that the look of devotion in the bulldog’s eyes was almost identical to his master’s.

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.” I crouched down to give the sturdy bulldog a total body scratch. “How’re you doing, Rufus, old boy?” Glancing up at Shawn, I said, “What a charmer! I wouldn’t be surprised if he won Best of Show.”

“As long as it’s based on looks.” In a stage whisper, he added, “Maybe I shouldn’t admit this to you, since you’re an insider and all, but I’m afraid Rufus is what you’d call an underachiever.”

I stood up, laughing. “Most dogs are. Fortunately, the only thing most people expect of them is unquestioning devotion and never-ending cuteness—both areas in which they happen to excel.”

“Yeah, it’s great to have someone who’s so into you.”

“Rufus looks thirsty,” Emily suddenly said in an accusing tone.

“You’re absolutely right, Emily, my friend. Got any ideas about what we can do about it?”

“I can bring him over to the courtesy tent, if you want,” she offered. “They have water for the dogs there.”

“Would you do that for me?”

She scowled. “I’d do it for Rufus.”

“I’m sure he’d love it.” Shawn handed her the leash. Emily, meanwhile, never looked him in the eye, instead grabbing hold of the leather strap and trotting off with her head down, her squat little friend in tow.

“I get the feeling that little girl doesn’t like me very much,” Shawn commented.

“She’s just been having a difficult summer,” I replied. “She doesn’t have any friends around here. Besides, her mother’s in a rehabilitation center out in California. That can’t be fun.”

“Yeah, I heard all about that. Tough break.” A strange look crossed his face. “So . . . I guess that boyfriend of yours—Mick—has been keeping you busy.”

“Nick. Yeah, we’ve been managing to squeeze in a little fun.”

“I’ll bet. By the way, I’ve been thinking about what you said the other night. About the possibility that Devon Barnett might have been murdered.”

“Really?” I was surprised he even remembered, much less that he’d taken my comment seriously.

“I still don’t think the police would miss something like that. But the thing is, I know he had a lot of enemies. The idea that somebody might have bumped him off isn’t all that crazy. Besides, I do have kind of an ulterior motive. If Barnett really was murdered, that would mean Rufus had nothing to do with it. Look, I have no idea if your theory’s correct or not, but if you’re interested in getting more information about the guy, I might be able to help.”

“How?”

In a casual tone, he said, “I was thinking that maybe I could get you into some places you might not have access to otherwise. I mean, while you’re here at the dog show, you’re kind of on the sidelines, just somebody who’s standing around, handing out free advice. But I know a lot of people in the Bromptons, and they’d look at you differently if you were with me. You might be able to get people to talk to you more openly if you were perceived as more of an insider.”

“Thanks,” I said sincerely. “I just may take you up on your offer. And if I can help clear Rufus’s name, so much the better.”

He grinned. “Cool. In the meantime, I’d better get this guy over to the ring. They’ve got the Nonsporting Group scheduled in the Red Tent first thing this morning. ‘Nonsporting.’ Boy, is that ever an understatement! Rufus is so lazy, he considers Frisbee a spectator sport!”

I laughed. “First, you’ll have to pry him away from Emily.”

He shielded his eyes with his hand, gazing off at Emily and his beloved dog. “The two of them do look pretty happy together, don’t they?” Sighing, he added, “I just wish I had a fraction of that guy’s good looks and charm.”

I didn’t dare touch that one. Instead, I watched Shawn Elliot stride toward the courtesy tent, where Emily was stroking the bulldog’s head lovingly as he lapped up water from a plastic bowl.

Shawn’s offer had left me feeling oddly elated. But as much as I hated to admit it, the chance to delve into Devon Barnett’s past, gaining access to the hidden nooks and crannies of the paparazzo’s life was only partly responsible. At least as attractive was the idea of having Shawn as an escort. I was positively giddy over the idea of being his...well, if not his date, then something very much like it.

It was all I could do to keep from giving myself a kick in the pants.

What on earth is wrong with me?
I wondered. One minute, I’m contemplating walking hand in hand into the sunset with Nick. The next minute, Shawn Elliot is making my heart go pit-a-pat.

I didn’t understand what was happening with me. Even so, I had the disturbing feeling that whatever it was, it was dangerous.

It was time to consult an expert.

As soon as Emily returned to the booth, I stepped into a corner away from the milling crowd, pulled out my cell phone, and dialed a very familiar number. Betty Vandervoort didn’t pick up the phone until the fifth ring. When she finally did, I could hear a recording of
42nd Street
in the background, the bouncy music echoing off the walls of her cavernous mansion in Joshua’s Hollow.

“Hello?” she answered breathlessly.

“Betty? It’s Jessie.”

“Jessica! How lovely to hear from you!”

“Are you all right?” I asked solicitously. “You sound out of breath.”

“I’m on a treadmill.”

“Betty, we all feel that way at one time or another—”

“No,
really.
I got myself a treadmill. To help me get in shape.”

“I didn’t realize you’d gotten
out
of shape.”

It was true. From what I could see, Betty still had the same trim figure she’d had back in her days as a Broad-way dancer—and that had easily been a good five decades earlier. In fact, putting on a little performance for me every now and then, showing off her tap routines from musicals like
South Pacific
and
Oklahoma,
still gave her a kick—no pun intended.

But for someone who’d once enjoyed a glittering life—complete with parties that ran until dawn, weekends at Newport mansions and Havana hotels, and an endless supply of adoring stage-door Johnnies—Betty Vandervoort was surprisingly down to earth.

She was also full of surprises.

“Jessica, I’ve got good news.
Exciting
news.”

“What?” I asked, bracing myself.

“I’m getting back into show biz.”

“What?”

“I realize I’ve been away from it for far too long. When you have a passion for something, why not indulge it? Of course, I’m keeping my expectations realistic. I’m starting small. There’s a community theater group in Port Townsend that’s holding auditions the day after tomorrow. I’ve been putting together a terrific new routine, and I have every intention of knocking ’em dead.”

“What show are you auditioning for?”

“Chicago.”

“Which part, Roxy or Velma?” I was only half-teasing. Knowing Betty, I wouldn’t have been at all surprised if she’d set her sights on one of the two leads.

“Oh, I’m not ready for starring roles.” I couldn’t tell if her breathlessness was from her excitement over her new adventure or the treadmill. “At least, not yet. I’m planning to get back into it with something smaller. Actually, I’ve set my sights on the jailhouse song-and-dance scene, ‘Cell Block Tango.’ ”

“That’s wonderful, Betty.” Even though I was having a bit of trouble picturing the whole thing, I had to admit I was thrilled. “I won’t keep you, since you sound so busy. I was just calling to see how Cat and Prometheus and Leilani are doing.”

“They’re fine.” Betty still sounded slightly out of breath, and I could hear the rhythmic rumble of her treadmill in the background. “In fact, Cat’s right here, watching me as if she can’t figure out why anyone would work so hard to move without getting anywhere. I’ve let her take over the couch—I think the soft cushions are easy on her arthritis. And Prometheus has developed a taste for tortilla chips. He particularly likes the salsa. I didn’t know parrots knew how to dip. As for Leilani, well, the lovely thing about chameleons is that all they need are a few crickets every day and they’re happy.”

“Thanks for taking care of them, Betty.”

“My pleasure—especially since it’s giving you and that Nick of yours a chance to be alone together. Speaking of which, how’s life in the glamorous Bromptons? Is the dog show going all right?”