Putting on the Dog (33 page)

I dialed the familiar number on my cell phone.

“Scruggs here.”

“Marcus! I’m so glad I got you!” Words I never thought I’d utter. “I need a favor.”

“Wait a minute. I thought coming to meet your friend for dinner tomorrow night was the favor.”

“Yes, but this one’s more of a favor to
you
. It’s your big chance to meet those actresses and supermodels you’ve been obsessing about.”

“Supermodels?”

I’d clearly gotten his attention. “Tomorrow’s the last day of the dog show, and I need a stand-in at the ‘Ask The Vet’ booth. You were already planning to come out to the East End. Besides, you’ll meet more gorgeous, attention-starved females than you’ll know what to do with.” You may meet a few of their owners, too, I thought.

“Okay, okay. I guess I owe it to the SPCA.”

Not to mention your elevated testosterone level. “Thanks. You won’t regret it. And Marcus? There’s one woman in particular you should look out for. I have a feeling she’s exactly your type, and that you two are really going to hit it off.”

“Yeah?” I could hear the optimism in his voice. “What’s her name?”

“Celia Cromworthy.”

I didn’t sleep very well that night. I tossed and turned as I struggled to make sense of the information I’d collected about the people who had known Devon Barnett— and who may have wanted him dead. An entire cast of characters starred in my ruminations. I pictured them all standing in a lineup, then focused on each of them, one at a time.

First of all, there was Chess. He occupied the number one spot. Not only were there signs of major conflict in his relationship with his lover, but he had a major skeleton in his closet—a skeleton that had once belonged to his teacher and very special friend.

Next came Hugo Fontana, whose career would have been destroyed if Barnett went public with the fact that the macho movie star was gay. Standing right next to him was Russell Bolger, whose movie production company was likely to fold if the Pulverizer was ever outed. Phyllis Beckwith was wedged in there, too. She was loyal to Bolger because he had helped her get her start in the catering business. If Barnett had been on the verge of telling the world Hugo’s secret, how far would she have gone to protect Bolger and his baby, North Star Studios?

Sydney Hornsby Barnett, a.k.a. Sizzle, came next. She stood to inherit a huge amount of money if Barnett died while he was still married to her. But if he’d been successful in getting the annulment he was seeking, she’d have been spit out of the marriage without a cent. On top of that was the fact that she had lied to me about being out in the Bromptons the very night he was murdered.

Then there was Shawn, who was part of my lineup simply because he had hated Barnett so much. And I couldn’t forget that Rufus
had
been near the scene of the crime—even if I knew he couldn’t have been responsible for Barnett’s demise. Even Hilda was a suspect—mainly because of the way she crept around his house in her gigantic Nikes, a mysterious presence who always seemed to be looming in the background.

Of course, I also had to consider everyone else I’d met in the Bromptons. Even someone like Gary Frye could have had a vendetta against Barnett—and he certainly had the access and know-how to use an ice sculpture as a murder weapon. But there were also hundreds of other people who had known and hated Barnett, victims of his merciless lens who might have been at the party that night—and who could have iced the unethical paparazzo.

As I lay in the dark, I also examined the bits and pieces of information I’d acquired about Barnett himself. His secret rendezvous a few nights before his murder, his sudden plans to buy a vacation house in the South of France, the shoebox full of cash he kept stashed in his closet...I was convinced he’d been involved in something besides snapping photographs of celebrities and selling them to tabloids. I was becoming increasingly certain that the basement he was so meticulous about keeping locked was a very good place to find out what that “something” was.

I was also aware that I was running out of time. Sunday afternoon’s luncheon and video screening marked the end of the dog show. After that, I’d be on my way home to Joshua’s Hollow and back to my usual busy schedule. Investigating Barnett’s death while I was in the Bromptons had been difficult enough. Once I was an hour and a half away, continuing would be close to impossible. If I was going to identify the murderer and gather enough evidence to convince Lieutenant Falcone that I’d solved the crime, I had a little more than two days left to do it.

It was no wonder I couldn’t sleep.

First thing the next morning, even before Nick was awake, I left the dogs nestled against him in bed and headed over to Ice Castles. I was anxious to talk to Gary Frye again, to see if he had learned anything new about Devon Barnett’s death. As I pulled my van into his parking lot, I was struck by the fact that something felt different this time. Only two or three cars were parked outside, and the area had the desolate feeling of a ghost town.

I knocked on the door, meanwhile peering through the small window. I saw Gary inside, sitting at his desk and talking on the phone. He gestured for me to come inside.

“Yes, Mrs. Donner, I understand that you’re concerned. But let me assure you that—
cancel
? Well, it’s a little late for that. If you look at the contract you signed when you first engaged Ice Castles’ services for Brittany’s birthday party . . . Yes, there is a cancellation clause, but if you look at the date, I believe you’ll see that it’s already passed.... Mrs. Donner? Hello, Mrs. Donner? . . .”

Gary slammed down the phone, yelling “
Damn
it!” He took a long breath, meanwhile staring at the offending piece of machinery. When he finally glanced up at me, he was scowling.

“Wanna buy a six-foot ballerina made of ice—
cheap
?”

“I’m afraid not,” I replied apologetically. Glancing at the white cat stretched across the windowsill, I added, “Actually, I stopped by to see how Lulu was doing.”

“A hell of a lot better than I am.” He picked up the thick wad of paper sitting in the middle of his desk. “I’m being sued.”

I felt as if I’d just been punched in the stomach. “Gary, no!”

“Not that I’m surprised,” he went on in a dull voice. “I’ve been waiting for this since the night it happened.” He held up the front page of a document labeled
Chester
Montgomery
v.
Gary Frye, Sole Proprietor, Ice Castles.

“I’ve got insurance, of course,” he continued, “so this probably won’t ruin me financially. At least, in theory. The reality is that all the horrendous publicity will probably destroy my business. We’ve been getting cancellations all week, but in the back of my mind, I’ve been thinking I could always relocate and start over. But now—”

He sighed, a deep, exasperated sigh that made my heart wrench. “I don’t suppose you know a good lawyer.”

Not yet,
I thought.
If only this could wait a few years.
For the first time, it occurred to me that maybe what Nick had chosen to do with his life wasn’t so bad, after all.

“No, but I know a pretty good veterinarian: me. Let’s have a look at Lulu. I can check her out right here.”

“Be my guest.”

I reached up and gently removed Lulu from what I gathered was her favorite spot.

“Hey, Lulu,” I said softly, not certain of how she’d take to being disturbed. “You remember me, don’t you? Thatta girl. I’m not going to hurt you. I just want to see if your eyes are doing any better.”

Sure enough, the oxytetracycline HCL ointment seemed to be doing the trick. Lulu’s ocular infection was on the mend.

“Lookin’ good, Lulu,” I informed her, largely for her owner’s benefit. I ran my hands along her sleek body, checking her internal organs. She seemed just fine.

“You’ve been giving her the doxycycline, right?” I asked Gary as I returned her to her lounging spot.

“Yeah,” he replied sullenly.

“Good. Keep up with that until the bottle’s empty, and continue putting the ointment on for a total of seven days. She’ll be fine.”

“Thanks, Dr. Popper. I know I’m not exactly jumping up and down with joy, but I appreciate all you’ve done.”

“Glad I could help.” I eyed the ominous stack of papers on Gary’s desk. That, along with his grim expression, fueled my determination to do a lot more for him than take care of a simple eye infection.

Driving away from Gary’s by way of downtown took me past East Brompton Green. Even from the road, I could see that swarms of eager participants and spectators had turned out to enjoy the dog show’s final day.

I experienced a pang of guilt over the fact that having Marcus fill in for me meant that poor Emily was spending the day with him. I wondered what other difficulties she’d been forced to deal with, replaying all the references I’d heard about her mother being in rehabilitation. When I spotted an empty parking space a few hundred feet from the public library, I pulled in.

Entering the library, I discovered, was like taking a step back in time. The East Brompton Public Library was one of those institutions that hadn’t changed much in over a century—thank goodness. Sure, computers had been added, and one small room was devoted entirely to CD’s and DVD’s. But it also had walls that were paneled in dark wood, overstuffed upholstered chairs ideal for curling up with a good book, and even a few stained-glass windows. A distinctive smell that could only be found in libraries—library paste, mixed with dust—permeated the air.

Since I didn’t know my way around the East Brompton Library, I began by seeking out the reference librarian. The woman sitting behind the big, important-looking desk fit right in with her surroundings. Not only did she talk in whispers, but she wore her glasses on a chain around her neck. Her cheeks were gaunt and her mouth was permanently pursed, as if all those years of whispering “Sh-h-h!” had reshaped it.

“May I help you?” she asked, peering at me over the top of her eyeglass frames.

“I’m trying to find some fairly recent articles from
The
New York Times
about a health-related incident involving the movie actress, Delilah Raines. I believe they’d have been published in the last month or so.”

“Let me do a search.” With crisp efficiency, she pushed her glasses into place and began punching keys on her computer’s keyboard.

“Hmm . . . here we are. I think this is probably what you’re looking for.” She hit a few more keys, then pointed halfway across the room. “The printer is over there. The citations should be coming out shortly.”

“Thank you.” I was about to make a comment about the wonders of technology, when I realized this woman could have probably found the information I wanted just as quickly in the days of ink pots and quills.

By the time I reached the printer, it was already spewing out a page. I waited until it was completely finished, then grabbed it up and scanned the headlines in the six or seven citations.

I thought I knew exactly what I’d find. Instead, I let out a cry that sounded like one of Lou’s yelps.

My heart was pounding as I made a beeline for the microfilm machine. I perused the orange storage boxes until I found the back editions I needed, threaded the first plastic reel into the machine, and watched page after page of the
Times
flash by in a blur. My head was spinning almost as fast.

I stopped the machine when it reached page one of the May 25 edition.

ACTRESS ATTACKED OUTSIDE HOLLYWOOD CLUB

Hollywood, California—Actress Delilah Raines, the star of such blockbuster films as
The Hurricane
and
Jennie’s Story,
was attacked by two men carrying large, blunt objects late last night while walking through a parking lot behind the trendy Café Au Lait, according to Sergeant Luis Rodriguez of the Los Angeles Police Department. The assault occurred at approximately 11:45 P.M., just after Raines left the club on Sunset Boulevard. Police said she was alone at the time of the incident.

The assailants repeatedly struck Raines on both legs after leaping out from behind parked cars as she neared her vehicle. A witness described the men as two white males over six feet tall. One had long, straight blond hair and was wearing blue jeans and a dark blue T-shirt. The other had short dark hair and a mustache, and was dressed in black pants and a black shirt. According to the witness, both men fled immediately after the attack, disappearing into an alley behind the club.

Raines, 37, of Brentwood, California, and Paris, France, sustained serious injuries on both legs. An orthopedic surgeon at Cedars-Sinai Hospital in Los Angeles, where she was transported by ambulance, said that X rays showed breakages in several bones, especially the left kneecap. She will require surgery, and a lengthy period of rehabilitation is expected.

While the Los Angeles Police Department has not released any information on the attackers’ possible motives, a department spokesperson has announced that the identities of the two assailants are still unknown.

So I was dead wrong in assuming that Delilah Raines was in a drug or alcohol rehab center, I mused. She was brutally attacked, and she’d been undergoing physical rehabilitation.

The next article, from the May 30 edition, was further proof of my mistaken presumption.

DELILAH RAINES ADMITTED TO LA JOLLA REHAB CENTER

La Jolla, California—Actress Delilah Raines was admitted to the La Jolla Rehabilitation Center earlier today, where she is expected to undergo several weeks of intensive physical therapy. Raines sustained serious injuries in both legs after two men attacked her in a parking lot outside a Hollywood club five days ago. A team of orthopedic surgeons at Cedars-Sinai Hospital in Los Angeles performed surgery later that day.

Although she left the hospital through a back entrance and was driven to La Jolla in a friend’s car, a crowd of fans was waiting for her when she arrived at the medical facility. They carried banners that read “We love you, Delilah!” and “Get Well Fast!” The posh La Jolla Rehabilitation Center is a favorite with prominent sports figures and other celebrities who are undergoing rehabilitation following physical injuries.