Putting on the Dog (26 page)

The heavy furnishings stood in sharp contrast to the expansive sea and sky. Hugo had decorated his house with bulky leather furniture, dark wooden tables, and lamps with black wrought-iron bases. The look was more along the lines of a hunting lodge than a seaside retreat. The only thing missing was a pair of elephant tusks and the mounted heads of a few trophy animals.

A stack of magazines and newspapers lay on a coffee table made from tree branches lashed together with strips of leather. I half-expected to find neatly-stacked copies of
Soldier of Fortune
on top. I wasn’t too far off. Along with recent issues of
Gun Collector
and
Field and
Stream,
I spotted that week’s issue of
The East BromptonBanner.
From where I stood, the headline “Devon Barnett Killed By Freak Accident!” screamed at me.

I took it as my cue.

“Too bad about Devon Barnett,” I commented, doing my best to sound casual.

“Yeah.” Hugo’s eyes narrowed. “I understand you think it wasn’t no accident—and that you’re tryin’ to find out who was responsible.”

“Shawn exaggerated,” I insisted. “I’m just curious. The entire incident strikes me as suspicious.” I watched him closely as I added, “Apparently, he had a few enemies. Then there’s the fact that the way he died was so bizarre.”

He shrugged. “Things happen. That’s why they call ’em accidents.”

I simply nodded. Innocently, I asked, “Did you know him?”

“No. Yeah. I mean, everybody knew
of
him. It was impossible not to. The guy was everywhere, snappin’ pictures wherever you went.”

“I’m sure his friends are devastated,” I added, trying to bait him.

He wasn’t biting. “Yeah, I guess.” Impatiently, Hugo said, “You know, I think my checkbook’s upstairs. You mind waitin’?”

“Not at all. In the meantime, is there a rest room I can use?”

“Sure. Right down that hall.”

I’d learned early on that trips to the lavatory were a great way to gather information. You never knew what you’d find simply by wandering around somebody’s home or office, pretending to look for a bathroom.

So far, it appeared that the only good this foray was going to do, was to prove that Hugo’s taste in home furnishings was consistent. I passed a huge dining room with a ridiculously long, rough-hewn wooden table and twenty leather chairs with metal studs, giving them a definite Wild West flavor. A spiky wrought-iron chandelier that looked like something from the Spanish Inquisition hovered above. The adjacent room was packed with electronics, including a television with a screen that was almost as big as the one in Russell Bolger’s screening room.

Expensive toys for very rich boys, I thought.

I slowed my pace considerably as I approached the next room. This one looked like a home office, outfitted with a computer, fax machine, and scanner. All the equipment looked spanking new and state-of-the-art. I glanced back to make sure Hugo wasn’t tailing me, then ducked inside.

I figured you could learn a lot about a person by his home office. But why someone like Hugo Fontana even needed a home office was beyond me, aside from the fact that so many high-tech machines had wheedled their way into our lives that most of us had come to believe there was no way we could survive without them.

I looked around quickly, afraid to linger. My heart pounded wildly, the way it always does when I venture into a place I know I’m not supposed to be. I figured I’d just take a few seconds to see if anything interesting caught my eye.

Something did. Aside from the various machines, the long, sleek L-shaped desk that hugged two entire walls was completely bare except for a single stack of papers held together with two gold fasteners. I stepped over and scanned the front page.

Pulverizer 5: The Aftermath,
I read.

A script. So there
was
going to be a sequel, something the modern world clearly couldn’t manage without.

I felt a little thrill over having access to information that even most insiders didn’t have. Still, I couldn’t see how knowing that Hugo Fontana planned to star in another ridiculously violent film would help the progress of my investigation.

I was about to abandon his home office and find the bathroom when another piece of paper caught my eye. Even though it appeared to be the only other one in the room, it was harder to spot because it was still in the printer. Just for the heck of it, I reached over and pulled it out.

And practically fell over.

Skimming it, I saw that it was a poorly written letter, addressed to someone in Los Angeles I surmised was his agent. It was from Hugo, confirming his interest in appearing in
Pulverizer 5
as long as some additional conditions were met.

But it wasn’t the letter’s content that nearly made me lose my balance. It was the barely perceptible streak that ran along the left side—the same imperfection I’d noticed in the anonymous note I’d found tucked inside the cottage door.

As I pulled into the driveway of Shawn’s estate, I was still mulling over my unexpected discovery that Hugo Fontana had left me that anonymous note. Was there really a skeleton in Chess LaMont’s closet, something in his past that Hugo thought I should know about now that I was investigating Devon Barnett’s murder? Or was the Hollywood hunk simply seeking revenge against the man who, for reasons I might never know, had replaced him as the object of Dev’s affections?

I was more anxious than ever to find out.

At the moment, however, I had something much more pressing to deal with: my trip to the beach with Shawn Elliot. I was torn between wanting to enjoy myself and being afraid I might enjoy myself too much.

Too late now, I reminded myself as I rang Shawn’s doorbell.

“Hey, Jess!” he cried as he threw open the front door. I gulped, taken aback by finding him naked. At least, I thought he was naked. When I dared to lower my eyes, I saw that in between his bare chest and his muscular thighs was a pair of short beige bathing trunks. I hoped Shawn hadn’t noticed that all the color had drained from my face.

Rufus waddled over to greet me, wagging his tail enthusiastically.

“How’re you doing, Rufus, old boy? How’s the dogger?” I crouched down to scratch the thick folds of his neck. The chunky bulldog basked in the attention, making joyful wheezing sounds and covering my arm with wet dog kisses. He no longer saw me as a threat, I supposed, someone who might become a rival for his master’s attention. I hoped he was right.

“All set?” Shawn asked cheerfully. “Or do you want to change into a bathing suit?”

“I’m fine,” I assured him, glancing down at the gray Cornell sweatshirt I’d pulled over my “Jessica Popper, D.V.M.” polo shirt and my khaki shorts, thinking it was probably better if at least
one
of us had clothes on.

I’d assumed we’d take the Ferrari. Instead, Shawn led me to his Jeep, parked in the garage behind the house. As we climbed in, he pulled on the shades and the Dodgers baseball cap he’d been wearing the first time I’d encountered him.

I tried not to think about how much had happened since then—with Nick, with Shawn, with the people who had known Devon Barnett. I decided I was due for a little R&R. So I sat back and tried to enjoy myself as he turned the radio up and we blasted out of the driveway.

I had to admit it was fun, careening along the empty residential streets toward the water, with the wind whipping through my hair. I tried to let the sea breezes blow away all the tensions of the past few days. Instead, I let myself get lost in the scenery: the endless stretch of sandy white beach, the swirling blue-green waves, the astounding beach houses that sprang up from the tall sea grass.

Shawn slowed the Jeep as we neared an orange cone stuck in the middle of the road. “Do Not Enter,” the sign just beyond read.

“I guess we’ve reached the end,” I commented.

“Nah,” he insisted. “That sign’s for other people.”

He swerved around it, driving the Jeep onto the sand. “You don’t get very far in my business without taking risks,” he said, grinning.

He stopped a few hundred yards beyond, jerking to a halt behind a sand dune so high that it blocked the view.

“Okay,” he announced, jumping out of the front seat and jogging around the Jeep. “Close your eyes.”

“Then how am I going to find the water?” I protested.

“I’ll guide you.”

“But—”

“
Trust
me,” he said, gently taking hold of my arm. “I’m a
very
trustworthy guy.”

I didn’t answer. I was too caught up in the dangerously wonderful sensation of walking alongside Shawn, shoulder to shoulder, thigh to thigh. I swallowed hard and tried to concentrate on the fresh, salty air and the cooling breezes.

“Open your eyes,” Shawn finally instructed.

I did—then blinked a few times, overwhelmed by the beauty of the spot he’d led me to. White sand curved around a blue-green cove, forming a perfect half-circle. There was absolutely no one around. In fact, the only sound was the screeching seagulls flying overhead, occasionally swooping down and dipping into the water.

“What do you think?” he asked anxiously.

“Wow.” Not very original, but the most accurate statement I could come up with.

“Come on. Let’s walk along the beach. You can usually go a half-mile or so without running into anybody.” Pulling off his rubber flip-flops, he yelled, “Race you to the shore!”

Squealing like a preschooler, I ran toward the water, managing to keep a few paces behind Shawn. He threw himself into the waves. I ventured in knee-deep, relishing the feeling of the cold water swirling around my legs.

He finally emerged, dripping wet but wearing a huge grin.

“You look like a sea monster!” I cried.

“But I feel great! Come on, let’s head up that way.”

As we kicked our way through the surf, I saw that Shawn was right. There wasn’t another person around as far as I could see. Given the fact that he spent so much of his life on display, it was no wonder he loved this hideout so much.

After we’d walked in silence for a minute or two, Shawn said sincerely, “You know, I feel really bad about last night. I’m sorry I acted like such a jerk. I hope I didn’t totally screw up your murder investigation. I know it’s important to you. Heck, it’s important to me, too. I’m the one who asked you to help clear Rufus’s name. Not to mention mine—especially given the possibility of a lawsuit.”

“It’s done,” I said with a little shrug. “At this point, I’m just hoping that the fact that a lot of people now know what I’m up to won’t make that much difference.”

“What about Nick?” The tone of Shawn’s voice had changed. “What does he think about all this?”

“You mean Mick?” I asked, eyeing him slyly.

“Mick, Nick...whoever.” He chuckled, aware that he’d been caught.

“Nick wishes I’d find another hobby.”

“I guess I don’t blame him.” He hesitated before adding, “I take it the two of you are pretty tight.”

I nodded.

“How long have you been together?”

“About four years. On and off.”

Shawn raised his eyebrows. “I’d be interested in hearing what the ‘offs’ were about.”

I kicked at the sea foam, sending up a little spray. “My own insecurities, mainly.”

“You?”
Shawn sounded genuinely shocked. “You seem like one of the most centered, self-possessed people I’ve ever met!”

I grinned at him. “Then I guess you’re not the only actor around here.”

“So tell me: What’s behind these so-called insecurities of yours?”

“The usual. Fear of commitment gets the number one spot. The result of growing up with parents who weren’t exactly about to give Romeo and Juliet a run for their money.”

“Then how does Nick fit in?”

“Nick is—how can I explain? He’s somebody I’m so comfortable with, that being with him just feels right. Since the day we met, we’ve been able to talk for hours on end about absolutely anything. But what amazes me most is that we never seem to get bored with each other. Irritated, maybe, or even furious on occasion, but never bored.” I laughed nervously. “Sounds like a romance novel, right? And I guess it is, a lot of the time. It’s just when I step back and think about it that it gets scary.”

“Sounds like a kind of ‘scary’ that most of us would give our eye teeth for.”

“What about you?”

Shawn shrugged. Gazing out at the horizon, he said, “I’m pretty much on my own these days.”

“That’s not the impression I’ve gotten! I’ve seen the headlines from
People
and the tabloids at the supermarket. Your name’s been linked with at least half a dozen actresses in the past year. Lily James, Heather McBane, Beebee Montez, Kara Liebling—”

“Beebee and I are ‘just good friends.’ ”

“Aha!” I cried triumphantly. “So you
were
involved with the others!”

“That depends on how you define ‘involved,’ ” Shawn replied lightly. “Some of them were just dates for highprofile events, like opening nights or fund-raisers for charity. Usually, my public relations firm set them up. Some of the others, I really did take out a few times.”

“Which category did Kara Liebling fall into?” I asked, trying to sound casual.

He hesitated. “That one was real.”

A crushing feeling immediately washed over me, a reaction that felt dangerously like jealousy.

“But she turned out to be kind of a nutcase,” Shawn added.

I started at his use of such a strong word. “What do you mean?”

“She was incredibly ambitious. You know the type. Whenever she’s looking deep into your eyes, you can’t help feeling she’s checking out her own reflection in your contact lenses.”

He shrugged. “The problem is, most of the people I meet are more interested in themselves than they are in anybody else. There aren’t a lot of real people in the world I travel in. Everybody wants something.”

“Speaking as somebody who happens to live in the ‘real’ world,” I interjected, “I can assure you that finding someone who truly cares about you—and loves you for yourself—isn’t that easy out here, either.”