Putting on the Dog (19 page)

I punched him in the arm. But only very lightly.

I left Max and Lou with Nick, figuring spending the afternoon inside the guesthouse eliminated any possibility of heat stroke. Besides, I knew he’d enjoy their company.

As soon as I got back in my van, my cell phone trilled. I grabbed it, certain the East Brompton Police were finally returning my call.

“Jessica Popper,” I answered crisply.

“Hey, Jess! How’s it going?”

“Marcus?”
Hearing his voice caught me completely off guard. I was astonished at how clearly he was coming through. Still, I made a point of speaking loudly and clearly, in case the tropical island he’d been whisked off to didn’t share our abundance of cell phone towers. “WHERE—ARE—YOU?”

“On the Island. Thought I’d check in and see how it’s going.”

“IT’S—GOING—GREAT!” I replied, enunciating each word. “HOW—ABOUT—YOU? ARE—YOU— HAVING—FUN?”

“I always have fun,” he returned coolly. “So how are the chicks out there in the Bromptons? Pretty hot, I bet!”

“NO—CHICKS,” I returned. “JUST—DOGS.”

“Maybe I’ll come out there one of these days. You know, check things out for myself.”

The wheels in my brain were turning. “Wait a minute. When you said you were on the island, which island did you mean?”

“Long Island, of course. I’m back home.”

“What happened to your tropical vacation with the mature woman?” I was back to using my normal cell phone voice, which is still about ten times louder than my normal telephone voice. I felt like a fool for picturing Marcus lying under a palm tree, sipping a pink drink garnished with a tiny paper umbrella, when he was probably calling me from his flashy Corvette as he topped eighty mph on the Long Island Expressway.

“Didn’t work out. It turned out that what she
really
wanted was—”

“That’s okay,” I interrupted. “You don’t have to explain.”

“No, get this,” he insisted. “Turns out what she wanted me for was to make some old guy jealous! Some white-haired dude on this yacht that was, like, as big as Cleveland!”

“And the fact that her intentions weren’t honorable troubled you?” I couldn’t resist asking.

“I can’t tell you how many times she paraded me up and down the dock, like I was some kind of prized
poodle
or something.” He took a long, deep breath. “Popper, she
used
me!”

“Imagine!”

“She’s history, man. Anyway, it’s definitely time to move on, and I thought that since you’re out on the East End, maybe I’d come out and, you know, make the scene.”

I didn’t bother to tell Marcus that no one “made the scene” anymore. I was too busy trying to think up an excuse. “Well...they don’t give me much time off—”

“That’s okay. If there’s one thing the Marc Man excels at, it’s making his own good time.”

The Marc Man?
I was glad he wasn’t there to see the way I was rolling my eyes.

“So listen, Popper, I’ll be in touch,” he continued. “But I wanted you to know I’m back in the good old U.S. of A. and ready to par-
tay.
”

And I’m ready to vo-
mit,
I thought grimly after we hung up. All I needed was a visit from Marcus Scruggs to complicate my life even further. But as I turned on the ignition, I pushed the thought aside. Knowing Marcus, he probably wouldn’t make good on his threat. Since he had the attention span of a two-year-old toddler combined with the libido of a fifteen-year-old boy, it probably wouldn’t be long before he’d moved on to some other distraction—undoubtedly of the female variety, and hopefully much closer to home.

I was humming as I strolled across East Brompton Green toward my bug-bedecked booth. My lunch with Nick had put me in such a good mood that even the possibility of a visit from Marcus Scruggs couldn’t ruin it. Or maybe something else had elevated me to such an optimistic state: the promise of a clandestine rendezvous with a mysterious busboy that would yield me some telling new information about Chess and Devon’s dark side.

Lost in thought, I suddenly became aware of someone walking beside me. Glancing over, I saw it was Shawn and his sidekick, Rufus.

“Hey, Rufus!” I chirped. “How’s our star?”

“Aw, so it turns out he’s not the only pretty face in this town,” Shawn answered glumly. “But even though he didn’t win any ribbons, I’m still his number one fan.”

“And he’s clearly yours.” I didn’t mention that the loyal bulldog undoubtedly had a lot of competition. “Speaking of animals, you never mentioned you had a cat.”

“A cat?”
Shawn looked puzzled for a few seconds before saying, “Oh, you must mean that nasty black cat that hangs out on my property. I call him Lucifer.”

My eyebrows shot up. “Interesting name for a pet.”

“He’s no pet,” he insisted. “He just kind of moved in.”

“Poor thing. You might want to make his adoption official. By feeding him, I mean.”

“I guess there’s no harm in that—as long as he stays outside,” Shawn mused. “I don’t think Rufus is interested in sharing me.
Especially
with a feline!”

I glanced at the adoring pet at his side, who at the moment was gazing at him with moist, soulful eyes. “I think I have to agree. Speaking of man’s best friend, I’d better get over to my booth—”

“Actually, there was a reason I was looking for you. I realize this is short notice, but I was wondering if you were free tonight.”

I guess I looked shocked. He quickly added, “What I mean is, there’s a party this evening. I thought it might be a good opportunity for you to learn more about Devon Barnett and the circles he traveled in. Their edges, anyway.”

“Well, I—”

“We wouldn’t have to stay that long,” he insisted. “I just need to put in an appearance. In fact, you’d be doing me a favor, since I have nobody else to go with.”

Right, I thought. Like Shawn Elliot has trouble finding a date—especially for a glamorous soiree in the Bromptons.

The fact that he could have taken practically any woman in the Free World made me realize he really was doing me a favor.

“It sounds great,” I told him sincerely. “What kind of party is it?”

“It’s a screening, over at Russell Bolger’s.” He grimaced. “Hugo Fontana’s got a new movie opening next week:
Pulverizer4: Armageddon.
”

“A comedy, huh?”

He chuckled. “Yeah, right. Unfortunately, you’ll probably have to sit through the whole thing. But there’ll be a cocktail party afterward that’ll give you a chance to mingle. Who knows what you’ll find out?”

“Shawn, I’d love to.” It really was an offer I couldn’t refuse.

“Why don’t I pick you up at the guesthouse around six?”

I hesitated, imagining Nick’s reaction. “Maybe it would be better if I picked you up.”

“Sure, whatever. Just knock on my door when you’re ready. I’ll be waiting.”

I was absolutely thrilled over the opportunity to go to a party that would give me a closer look at the celebrity scene that Devon Barnett had found so intriguing—especially one that was being held at the scene of the crime. And most of the guests would probably be people who had known him—if not personally, then by having their names smeared by him at some point in their careers.

Of course, first I had to overcome a major stumbling block. Nick.

I’ll just be straightforward, I decided as I headed toward the guesthouse late that afternoon. Surely Nick won’t begrudge me the chance to go to a Hollywood party that will probably be the most glamorous event I’ve ever attended. And he’ll just have to understand that Shawn is doing me a real favor, that he’s turning out to be a good friend....

All my resolve to be strong slipped away the moment I opened the door.

Nick stood in the middle of the living room, holding what looked like a white towel. He was studying it, the expression on his face puzzled, enraged, and hurt, all at the same time.

It took me a few seconds to realize that the bundle in his arms was Shawn’s bathrobe, embroidered with the initials “S.E.”

“Hey, Nick,” I said with forced cheerfulness.

He just glanced at me questioningly.

“It’s not what you think,” I said. It took me about two seconds to realize how ridiculous those words sounded. “I wore that here the day I arrived because my clothes got splattered with mud....It’s kind of funny, actually. See, when I was driving here, I got lost and—”

I noticed then that Lou was lying under the coffee table, his eyes moving back and forth between the two of us, no doubt picking up on the tension that was sending invisible sparks flying around the room. I was relieved when Max came trotting in from the bedroom with his favorite squeaky toy, a hot pink plastic poodle, dangling from his jaws.

“Not only am I competing with a dead guy,” Nick said coldly. “I’m also competing with some Tinseltown Don Juan!”

“It was completely innocent!” I insisted.

“So you keep saying,” Nick replied. “Again and again and again.”

“If you don’t trust me, I don’t see how we can have much of a relationship!”

“Maybe that’s the bottom line. Maybe we
don’t
have much of a relationship!”

I opened my mouth to protest, but Nick held out both hands to stop me. “Wait. Let’s not do this. Look, Jess, you and I have the whole evening ahead of us. Why don’t we find a nice, quiet restaurant, someplace romantic, and you can tell me the whole story behind that idiot’s bathrobe being in
your
bedroom, and—”

“I have a feeling you’re not going to like this very much, either,” I interrupted. “I’m going to a screening tonight. With Shawn.”

I braced myself for a tirade. Instead, he just blinked. “You’re joking, right?”

“Nick, it’s a really good chance for me to talk to people who knew Devon Barnett,” I went on, speaking too quickly, “and even a few who—”

“Tell you what, Jess,” Nick said icily. “You do whatever you want, with
whomever
you want. But do me one small favor: Let me know if you ever decide, once and for all, that you want me to be part of your life. Okay?”

He grabbed his car keys and stormed out.

I stood frozen to the spot, not quite able to believe what had just happened. My eyes stinging, I told myself he’d come back.

He
has
to, I insisted, biting my lip. He left behind all his CDs.

Chapter 9

“The more I see of the depressing stature of people, the more I admire my dogs.”

—Alphonse de Lamartine

As Shawn and I zoomed into Russell Bolger’s driveway, the tires of his red Ferrari sending up a spray of tiny pebbles that set the valet parking staff jumping, I saw I wasn’t the only one who’d started thinking of the estate as the scene of the crime. Russell had summoned an impressive amount of extra security for the evening. In addition to the legions of guards from a private security firm, there was also a Town of East Brompton Police car parked discreetly behind a clump of trees.

Once inside, I saw that the studio executive had good reason to worry about keeping the premises safe—and tumbling ice sculptures were only part of the picture. The artwork he owned—including a Picasso, a Matisse, and a Monet I could only assume were the real thing—could have been the basis for a small museum. In addition, I spotted a glass chandelier that looked like a Chihuly and an egg, most likely a Fabergé, placed unassumingly on an end table.

Given the impressive collection Russell Bolger had amassed, I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised that his house also had its very own theater, with a large open area outside it that served as a lobby. The room was the size of a small auditorium, with a large stage, complete with thick velvet curtains the color of an expensive burgundy. But it was also suitable for viewing movies. In fact, it was equipped with plush, dark red velour seats, plastic cup holders, and a screen as big as the ones I’d seen in my local multiplex. It even had its own popcorn machine, made to look like an old-fashioned red cart with oversized wheels.

Yet as I followed Shawn into the theater, a glass of champagne in hand, I noticed that there was one very distinctive feature that differentiated this theater from your average, run-of-the-mill movie house: the audience. Tonight’s crowd was as star-studded as Oscar night. Aside from my own celebrity date for the evening, I spotted at least a dozen other actors I recognized from television and film. I also saw a Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist, a few well-known novelists, and a Swedish fashion model who’d retired at age twenty-two after marrying the head of a record company.

Despite the impressive guest list, the focus of the evening was undoubtedly Hugo Fontana, the star of the film and tonight’s guest of honor. All eyes were upon him as he sauntered into the theater after everyone else had taken a seat. He was dressed casually in khaki pants, a black polo shirt, and a loose-fitting wheat-colored linen jacket whose clean lines emphasized his broad shoulders and massive chest. His square jawline was accentuated by a serious five o’clock shadow, giving him an air of insouciance that belied the importance of the evening.

A tall, lanky man strode into the theater beside him, trying to look just as relaxed but not quite succeeding. Russell Bolger, no doubt. While Hugo took a seat in the front row, the man I assumed was our host for the evening stepped in front of the screen and motioned for everyone to quiet down. He was exceptionally good-looking, the type of individual who exuded such confidence that he automatically became the center of attention. His dark hair was peppered with gray, and his tanned skin had the weathered look of someone who’d spent a lot of time on a yacht. Even from a distance, I could see that he had the same hazel eyes as his daughter. When he smiled, I saw the resemblance even more clearly.

“I’d like to thank you all for coming tonight,” Russell Bolger began, his voice filling the room as he spoke into a microphone he’d pulled from out of nowhere. The sound system in the modest-sized auditorium was so powerful I half-expected him to introduce the Rolling Stones. “It’s exciting for me to see so many familiar faces. I promise you’re in for an action-packed evening. In case anyone doesn’t know why we’re here, it’s because we’re about to have the pleasure of watching one of the greatest actors of all time, Hugo Fontana, do what he does best.”