Putting on the Dog (21 page)

Phyllis looked relieved. “I
knew
it. I’ve got a good feeling about
Armageddon.
I’ve been telling Russell all along that this is the movie that’s going to do it for him—”

“I’m sorry to interrupt, Ms. Beckwith,” interjected a Foodies staff member, dressed in the signature black pants and white shirt, “but the oregano dipping sauce looks a little watery.”

Phyllis immediately looked stricken. “Oh, my God. I
told
Antonio he was getting a little heavy-handed with the balsamic vinegar!” She turned to me, all smiles again, and said, “Will you excuse me? It seems we’re having a little crisis. But let me give you my card. You veterinarians have conferences and parties and things, don’t you? Foodies can even do a completely vegetarian menu!”

She produced a business card from out of nowhere and pressed it into my hand. Then she scurried off to put things right with the uncooperative dipping sauce.

So Russell Bolger’s production company isn’t doing very well, I mused. I glanced around the palatial room with new interest. That little tidbit, combined with the luxurious lifestyle that Bolger had clearly become accustomed to, made for an interesting juxtaposition.

I was still pondering what I’d learned from Phyllis Beckwith, pretending it was the intriguing selection of uncooked food on my plate that was making me so pensive, when I heard a high-pitched voice squeal, “
There
she is!”

I glanced up and saw Emily physically dragging our host for the evening in my direction.

“She’s over
here,
Daddy,” Emily told him. “You
have
to meet her!”

“Hello, Emily,” I greeted her. “How nice to see you!”

“Dr. Popper! I’m so glad you’re here!” The little girl threw her arms around me and gave me such a big hug she nearly knocked me over. She reminded me of one of those Great Danes who’s nearly fully grown but still thinks she’s a puppy, with no idea of her strength.

She was all smiles as she presented me to her father. “This is Dr. Jessica Popper, Dad. My new friend that I told you about. She’s a veterinarian!”

“So you’re the famous Dr. Popper,” Russell Bolger said, smiling warmly and extending his hand. “My daughter has talked about very little else since she met you.”

“Emily is a terrific girl,” I told him sincerely as we shook hands. “Getting to know her has been one of the highlights of this event.”

“Isn’t she great?” Emily asked him. “I told you she was the nicest person in the world!”

Russell patted his daughter’s shoulder affectionately. “Sounds like the feeling is mutual, Emmie.”

As I’d expected, Emily’s conclusion that her parents were disappointed in her was completely inaccurate—at least, if the pride I saw in her father’s eyes was any indication.

“Guess what, Jessie!” Emily demanded, her wide eyes focused on me.

“What?”

“My dad says I can go visit my mom next week!”

“That’s wonderful news!” I smiled at Emily, still uncertain about the wisdom of a twelve-year-old girl visiting a rehab center. But I reminded myself that it wasn’t my call.

“It’s been a rough few months for my daughter,” Russell Bolger told me, putting a protective arm around his daughter. “I think it’ll mean a lot to her to be able to spend some time with her mother.”

“There you are, Russell! Where
have
you been hiding all evening?” One of the other guests—a nearly emaciated redhead in a white dress that was intentionally see-through—came up and planted a wet kiss on his lips, meanwhile pressing her disproportionately large chest against him. I watched Emily’s face fall. My impulse was to distract her. But before I had a chance, one of the other guests grabbed my arm.

“Terrible, isn’t it?” a woman in her late sixties said in a stage whisper, yanking me closer to her side. She was wearing a huge turquoise hat, and I was forced to keep one eye closed to avoid being poked by the oversized brim. “What that poor little girl must have gone through! Not to mention poor Delilah!”

“ ‘Delilah’?”
I realized, for the first time, that I’d never bothered to find out who Emily Bolger’s mother
was.
“You don’t mean—”

“It’s
so
tragic! After all, Delilah Raines is one of the biggest stars in Hollywood! At least, she
was
before she hit forty and the really good roles stopped coming in. It’s such a sad story; one you see getting replayed again and again. Actresses are under so much more pressure than actors when it comes to aging. And then
this
! I mean, it’s bad enough that it happened in the first place. But the way the newspapers carried on and on, reporting every single
detail
—”

I was about to volunteer that I’d missed the event she was talking about completely—and that, in fact, it wasn’t until this very moment that I’d even realized that Emily Bolger’s mother was the movie actress Delilah Raines—but I never got the chance.

“Oh, my God,” the woman gushed. “There’s Hugo. Doesn’t he look
fabulous
since the surgery? I swear, that doctor took ten years off his face. I simply
must
tell him how magnificent he looks....”

She was gone as abruptly as she arrived. Emily and her father, meanwhile, had disappeared into the crowd. But my head was spinning. Of course, I did my best to keep up with the news. But I tended to concentrate on the stories in the front of the newspaper, rather than the ones in the back. Even finding out that Emily’s mom was Delilah Raines didn’t give me much information—aside from being impressed by what a truly star-studded set of parents the sweet little girl had. Maybe everyone else knew “every single detail” about whatever had happened to Emily’s mother, but somehow I’d missed the whole thing.

I glanced at my watch and saw it was getting late. If I was going to make it to West Brompton in time to meet Gus the Tattooed Busboy before Raffy’s closed, it was time for me to go.

I was about to seek out Shawn when he burst into the room, nearly spilling the glass of champagne he was carrying. From the sloppy grin on his face, I surmised that it wasn’t his first.

“Here she is!” he cried when he spotted me. “I been lookin’ for you!”

Any doubts I may have had about his state of inebriation were instantly dispelled by his slurred speech. I only hoped he’d allow me to drive us both home without an argument. I’d never driven a Ferrari, but I couldn’t imagine it was any trickier than a van—especially one stocked with medical equipment.

“You know, Dr. Pepper—I mean,
Popper
—is quite a girl,” Shawn went on. By this point, he was talking loudly enough that most of the people gathered in the room had stopped their own conversations, instead focusing on him. “Not only is she a helluva veteran—hah! I mean, veterinarian. At least, I don’t
think
she’s ever been in the Army. Have you, Jess?”

“Shawn, I think—”

“
Have
you?”

By this point, the room was completely silent. I could feel my cheeks burning. “No. But I think it’s time to—”

“Not only is she smart enough to be an animal doctor. This woman is also a private investigator!”

“Please, Shawn!” I begged, grabbing his arm.

“It’s not like she’s not a professional or anything. But that’s not stopping her from invezzi—I mean,
investigating
murders! I’d bet my Ferrari she’s gonna figure out who killed that bastard Bevon Darnett—”

Several people in the crowd gasped. I could feel a tidal wave of anger rising up inside me.

“Shawn, we’re leaving,” I said firmly, tightening my grasp and practically dragging him out of there.

“Wait, that doesn’t sound right,” he muttered, as he allowed me to pull him along beside me, practically tripping over his own feet. “Kevin Larnett...no, that’s Mevon Carnett...”

I was prepared to give him a piece of my mind as I backed his sports car out of its parking space so fast the tires sputtered against the dirt. As I drove off, my jaw was tightly clenched and my eyes were burning from the tears of anger I refused to let fall. But even before I’d made it out of the driveway, Shawn fell into a deep sleep, slumping over in the seat beside me and snoring more loudly than Lou.

Even though I was infuriated over Shawn’s announcement to a crowd of possible murder suspects that I had taken it upon myself to investigate Devon Barnett’s death, I tried to put my anger aside. Instead, I concentrated on getting Shawn safely into his house and onto his couch, where he immediately launched into the next item on his agenda: sleeping off his overindulgence in Russell Bolger’s expensive champagne.

“He’s all yours,” I told Rufus, dropping the keys to the Ferrari on the coffee table.

The squat bulldog eyed me warily, then plopped down on the floor next to his master with a loud sigh. The look on his face made me feel he understood completely that he was in for a long night.

Next, I got into my van and headed for West Brompton to meet Gus. I had a pretty good idea where Raffy’s was. As for
what
it was, I wasn’t nearly as certain. I figured it was probably a restaurant, one of those places with twelve varieties of hamburger, each with a name that’s cuter than the last. Or maybe a tuxedo rental place, nicknamed for its suave, continental owner, Rafael.

A half hour later, I pulled into the strip mall I’d envisioned when Gus had given me the address. Methodically, I checked out the sign above each store. “Raffy’s, Raffy’s...” I muttered.

And then my heart stopped.

Raffy’s. There it was, all right, exactly where Gus had said it would be. Only he hadn’t given me the whole name.

Raffy’s Reptile-A-Rama.

My heart started up again. Only this time, it was beating so fast I felt dizzy.

Personally, I have nothing against the Reptilia class. I’m quite fond of lizards, invariably appreciative of the charms of the dignified iguana, the energetic gecko with its funny feet that look like asterisks, and even the ferocious-looking monitor. And ever since Nick and I went to Hawaii, I’ve been pleased to count Leilani, the most charming Jackson’s chameleon this side of Polynesia, among our pets. Turtles? I can hardly imagine anything cuter. Gators and crocs hold an endless fascination for me, and I can’t get enough of those cable TV shows they star in.

It’s snakes I have a problem with.

I’m not saying it’s admirable, and I’m not saying it’s based on logic. All I’m saying is that it’s
there
. And idling outside Raffy’s Reptile-A-Rama, doing my best to peer inside through its giant display window, I had a feeling that Raffy had amassed a huge inventory of boas, pythons, and all those other creepy, slithery members of the Serpentes suborder.

“You can do this,” I told myself as I pulled into a parking spot, sounding like one of those self-help tapes. I held my head up high, pushed open the glass door, and strode inside.

My first maneuver was glancing around Raffy’s, curious to see what I was up against. Even though the shop wasn’t very big, its inventory was impressive. Over two dozen tanks were on display, lined up on the built-in shelves covering two of the walls. Most of them housed small reptiles, harmless critters I could readily identify. A black-and-brown Abbots tree dragon. A black timor monitor covered with white speckles. A Jackson’s chameleon that was cute, but not nearly as engaging as Leilani. I noticed that Raffy had also expanded into amphibians. One tank was filled with tiny arrow frogs, each one smaller than a Ping-Pong ball, in such bright neon colors they looked like ceramic decorations for a fish tank instead of living, breathing beings.

I jumped when I caught someone staring at me with cold, unblinking eyes. He hovered in the corner of Raffy’s, as big as a large coffee table, but standing so still I couldn’t tell if he was alive or not. Then the five-foot-long land iguana moved his head. He was real, all right. Not particularly dangerous, I knew, but disconcerting nonetheless.

Still, I hadn’t yet encountered anything I couldn’t handle—or even anything that would send my blood pressure soaring.

“So far, so good,” I breathed.

As the old saying goes, I spoke too soon.

I had already spotted the busboy, standing behind the counter and chatting with a couple of men I presumed were customers. Gone was his tight white T-shirt. In fact, Gus wasn’t wearing any shirt at all. Instead, his torso was partially covered by a black leather vest that showcased not only his bulbous biceps, but a chest and stomach so rippled with muscles they looked like a graphic relief map of Tibet.

While his upper body definitely fell into the “fascinating” category, for some reason the two customers were focused on his waistline. A particularly attractive belt? I wondered as I ventured over. It was a distinct possibility, given his obvious passion for leather.

“Hello, again,” I said, my voice uncharacteristically weak.

Gus barely glanced up. I, meanwhile, couldn’t resist looking to see what was monopolizing the men’s interest.

I found out fast, stopping dead in my tracks as I did. That was no belt wrapped around Gus’s waist. It was a reticulated python. And it was probably close to eight feet long.

I guess I gulped pretty loudly, because all three of the men suddenly glanced over at me.

“Remember me?” I squawked. I hoped we could get this over with—
fast.

“Hey, check this out,” Gus said cheerfully. “You like snakes?” He gestured toward the gray-and-black tube slithering ominously around his torso.

I immediately looked down at my shoes, hoping he didn’t see me shudder. “Well...not particularly.”

“But this is a great snake,” he insisted.

“And believe me,” one of the men added, “Gus knows his snakes.”

I glanced up long enough to see that the busboy
cum
snake charmer was beaming proudly. I, meanwhile, was hoping we could change the subject, if not the entire locale.

“But listen, it’s just about closing time,” Gus said. “Sorry, guys, but we gotta call it a night.”

“Sure, Gus. Whatever,” one of the men muttered. He turned to me, looked me up and down, and leered. I half-expected his tongue to dart out like one of the lizards’ in the tank behind him.