Putting on the Dog (17 page)

“It’s fine.” I hesitated, wondering whether or not to mention Devon Barnett. I decided not to. I knew from experience that when it came to my interest in investigating murders, Betty wasn’t exactly my greatest supporter. She felt I’d be better off putting my energy into more productive things—like my relationship with Nick. So instead, I simply said, “It’s turned out to be a lot more interesting than I thought.”

“I bet you’re having a grand old time, hobnobbing with all those celebrities.”

“Well...I have met one or two.”

“I can’t wait to hear all about it!” she said enthusiastically, the treadmill still droning on and on. “As soon as you get back, I’ll make us a pot of tea and you can tell me everything. Of course, I’ll probably be busy, what with rehearsals and all. But you know I always have time for you.”

“It’s a date.”

Betty paused before asking, “Are you
sure
everything is all right, Jessica?”

“Of course. Why wouldn’t it be?”

“Because it’s not like you to worry about your pets. Not when they’re in my care. Besides, I know you well enough to hear it in your voice when there’s something on your mind.”

My dear friend had seen right through me. Still, coming clean was turning out to be more difficult than I’d anticipated. “Actually, I’ve been feeling kind of...confused.”

Across the wires, Betty let out a deep sigh. The rumble of the treadmill had stopped, and the upbeat music had come to an end. “This doesn’t have anything to do with Nick, does it?”

“As a matter of fact—Betty, there’s this...person here who’s been paying a lot of attention to me.”

“You mean flirting.”

“Not flirting, exactly. More like...Well, yes, flirting.”

“And you’re enjoying every minute.”

“Yes,” I admitted miserably.

“And he’s somebody a little bit famous?” Betty probed.

“Somebody a
lot
famous.”

“I see. So you’re wondering how the fact that you’re flirting right back fits in with your relationship with Nick. A relationship that, I might add, is still somewhat fragile.”

Betty was only telling me what I already knew. Even so, that didn’t make it any easier to hear.

“Just remember, that Nick of yours is worth a hundred movie stars any day.” While her voice was gentle, her message was coming across loud and clear. “Don’t get caught up in the glamour of somebody whose face you’ve seen on the big screen, Jessica. It’s dangerous. Believe me; I know.”

I could feel one of Betty’s reminiscences coming on. But I didn’t mind. Especially since I was hoping it would give me some insight into the ridiculous roller coaster of emotions I was experiencing.

“You know about Charles, of course,” she began.

“Yes.” Betty must have told me the story of the love of her life a few hundred times. But it was one I never tired of hearing. It was easily one of the most romantic tales I’d ever heard—certainly better than anything I’d seen in a movie.

“I was smart enough to know from the very beginning that Charles was special,” Betty went on wistfully. “That he was the one. There was something magical between us, Jessica. Something difficult to define—and even more difficult to find. It was there from the start, from that first night I spotted him at the front table at the Copa while I was onstage with that ridiculous pile of fruit on my head. Our eyes met, and I just
knew
. The air was electrified.
I
was electrified. The point, Jessica, is that I can see that you and Nick have the same thing.”

“You were never interested in anyone else?”

“Sure I was. After Charles died, there were other men. Lots of them. And there are few things that feel as marvelous as having a man you find attractive show interest in you. I can assure you that, over the years, I’ve been involved with a lot of charmers. Even some you might have heard of. But none of them was like Charles. Even after he was gone, I never had any doubt he was the one.

“In other words, Jessica,” Betty said gently, “don’t take Nick for granted. Don’t make the mistake of thinking the connection you two have is something that’s easy to come by. I’m more than twice your age, and I’ve learned a few things along the way. My greatest desire is to have the people I care about benefit from whatever knowledge I’ve gained.”

“Thanks, Betty,” I told her sincerely.

“You know, deep down, that I’m right, Jessica, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Good,” she declared in a firm voice. “Then I’ll be able to sleep soundly tonight.”

I hoped I’d be able to do the same.

Chapter 8

“A dog is not ‘almost human,’ and I know of no greater insult to the canine race than to describe it as such.”

—John Holmes

To improve my chances of doing just that, next I dialed Nick’s cell phone. “Hey, hot stuff. What are you up to?”

“Missing you. Other than that, I’m lying on a lounge chair, soaking up the sun and reading John Grisham. My way of getting psyched for law school.”

“Any way I could tear you away with an offer of lunch?”

“Hey, I’m easy,” he replied breezily. “Just say where and when.”

“I heard about a place I’d like to try.” I hesitated, waiting for a momentary flash of guilt to pass. “How about meeting me at the Sand Bar around noon? I’ve got the address right here. . . .”

All right, so maybe I could be faulted with blurring the lines between cultivating my love life and investigating Devon Barnett’s murder. But while I’d promised Nick I wouldn’t let my snooping get in the way, I hadn’t said anything about not doing it at all. Besides, as far as I could tell, it didn’t matter where our lunchtime rendezvous took place, as long as I made time for the two of us to be together. So what if I chose the place Chess had named as one of his retreats when he hid from Hilda and her maniacal cleaning? The fact that a bartender or a waiter might be able to shed a little light on the relationship between Chess and Devon wouldn’t detract from the romance
that
much, would it?

As for Devon, I was still puzzling over the factoid I’d picked up in his obituary. Its claim that a man who had been openly gay was also married buzzed at me like a mosquito that wouldn’t take “No” for an answer. I was beginning to understand that there were more layers to him than I’d first realized.

En route to the Sand Bar, I made a slight detour. The fact that the chic café was right around the corner from Chess’s house created an ideal opportunity to do a little more poking around the love nest he and Devon Barnett had shared. Even though I found him tremendously engaging, I couldn’t rule out the possibility that as the person who was closest to the photographer, he could also have been his killer.

I left Max and Lou in the car, then headed for the Sweet Pea Pink front door. As I rang the bell, I hoped that, this time, I’d find Chess lounging around the house in an outfit that was a little less revealing than what he’d worn the last time I’d paid him a visit.

When the door finally opened, it wasn’t Chess who was standing on the other side. Instead, I found myself face-to-face with Hilda. And just like last time, the expression on her face was anything but welcoming.

She stood at attention, clutching her plastic bucket overflowing with bottles of Windex, Lysol, Tilex, and half a dozen other cleaning products. This time, her dress was a remarkable shade of yellowish-green that I doubted would complement any skin tone. Over it, she wore the same garish orange-and-yellow flowered apron I’d seen before. Only this time, its pockets were stuffed with rags. The same heavy black running shoes gripped her feet to the floor. Her thick beige stockings, meanwhile, seemed to bag around her ankles even more than the last time I’d seen her.

“Hello, Hilda,” I greeted her, plastering on the friendliest smile I could manage. “Remember me?”

“I pay no attention to who comes and goes,” she returned gruffly. “Is not my business.”

From what I could tell, Hilda had left all her charm back in the Old Country, along with her fashion sense. Still, I did my best to act cheerful.

“Is Chess here?” Keeping the smile on my face was getting more and more difficult.

The gesture wasn’t reciprocated. “Mr. LaMont not here. I clean.”

“Yes, I can see that.”

During a short lull in our otherwise fascinating conversation, I could hear the sound of muffled barking.

“Is that Zsa Zsa?” I asked, trying to poke my head through the doorway so I could hear better.

Hilda took a step to the left, blocking me. “Dog is fine. I clean.”

Zsa Zsa didn’t seem fine to me. Even from where I stood, I could hear that her frantic barks had turned to whimpers. The sound made me cringe.

“It sounds as if she’s in trouble,” I insisted. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to see if—”

“Dog is fine,” Hilda repeated, drawing her thin lips into an even straighter line.

I pictured poor Zsa Zsa stashed away in a kitchen cabinet or a breadbox, somewhere she couldn’t get underfoot while Hilda battled the armies of germs she seemed convinced lurked in every corner of Dev and Chess’s immaculate home. The image infuriated me.

“In that case, you probably wouldn’t care if—”

Hilda took a step forward, placing her Mack truck of a body more firmly between me and the doorway. I could see I wasn’t about to win this one, especially since Hilda had a right to be inside Chess’s house—and I didn’t. Still, the first chance I got, I resolved to inform him of how his housekeeper treated his beloved canine during her impassioned cleaning sessions.

But for now, I was the picture of politeness. “Do you know when Chess will be back?”

“I pay no attention to who comes and goes,” she repeated.

“So I understand. Would you at least tell him I stopped by?”

“Yah, yah. Busy. Very busy.” She slammed the door in my face.

I stood on the front steps for a few seconds, stunned. I’m glad we had this little chat, I thought, irritation rising inside me like a bad case of indigestion.

I headed back to my van, thinking that I didn’t blame Chess for making himself scarce whenever Hilda showed up. Hiding out at the Sand Bar or the beach while she buffed and polished and scrubbed and whatever else she did in there made perfect sense.

I only hoped I’d learn more at the bistro than his favorite variety of margarita.

“This is nice, isn’t it?” I commented as Nick and I headed toward the Sand Bar’s outdoor seating area with the dogs. I glanced around, checking to make sure Chess wasn’t hiding out here today. The coast was clear. He wasn’t sitting at any of the small round tables that lined the sidewalk, shielded from the noonday sun by red-and-white umbrellas that were printed along the edge with the name of a popular European beverage. “It feels so...
French
.”

“Can’t tell yet,” Nick returned cheerfully. “It depends on how rude the waiters are.” He and I plunked ourselves down on two wrought-iron café chairs, carefully arranging the dogs’ leashes to keep them from getting their paws tangled up in them. Nick had taken charge of Lou. At the moment, my sweet-tempered Dalmatian seemed content to sniff everything around him, the tiny muscles of his nose on overdrive as he struggled to take in all that exciting new square footage. Max, meanwhile, was in my care. His sturdy little body positively trembled with excitement. Not only were there other dogs within ten blocks of where he stood; layer upon layer of residual scents from dogs who’d been on the premises hours and days and probably even weeks earlier covered the sidewalk, creating a virtual archeological site of canine presence from times gone by.

“For a place to feel
really
French,” Nick continued as he put a calming hand on Lou’s back, “the waiters should have that certain air of superiority that comes from distributing
pommes frites
to tourists all day.”

I laughed. Still, I remembered that during my high school trip abroad, the young, good-looking Parisian waiters had seemed like gods with trays. Their arrogance only made them seem more unattainable—and more intriguing. Gazing across the table, I reminded myself that I no longer had to yearn for the day my prince would come. He was sitting across from me, frowning over the wine list he’d idly picked up.

“Geez, will you look at these prices?” Prince Charming grumbled. “A magnum of champagne—Cristal Brut Rosé, 1988—costs more than a month’s rent!”

“Which is why we’ll stick to iced tea.” I glanced around the Sand Bar’s outdoor seating area admiringly. It really did remind me of France—largely because its patrons clearly loved their dogs as much as Parisians did. Just like on the Boulevard Saint-Germaine, many of the people having lunch today had animals at their feet—or, in the case of the devastatingly good-looking couple two tables away, in a baby seat. Their snow-white Maltese, her long coat brushed until it was as soft and fluffy as cotton candy, perched in a high chair. Two yellow satin ribbons were tied high atop her head, holding her silky hair out of her eyes. Every few seconds, she lurched forward, greedily grabbing at the morsels of paté and roast duck her owners kept offering up.

As for the man at the table next to us, he had two luncheon companions. His Afghans were much more sedate. They lay beside him contentedly, lounging on the sidewalk like giant lawn ornaments—at least until the white powder puff of a Maltese lunged at a piece of duck his mistress offered him and missed.

The Afghans were instantly on their feet, scrambling toward the coveted morsel. Both Max and Lou immediately picked up on what was happening. Lou strained toward them, so determined to get in on the action that he pulled his leash taut, nearly knocking Nick’s chair over. He was barking his head off, completely destroying the peacefulness of what, up until that point, had been a relaxing afternoon. As for Max, his leash was so tangled up in the chair legs as he attempted to become part of the action that he practically strangled himself. His yelps were punctuated with choking sounds that became increasingly hoarse as he watched one of the Afghans inhale the tiny scrap of food—much to the dismay of the other Afghan, the Maltese, and the Maltese’s owners.