Putting on the Dog (39 page)

“Actually,” I drawled, hoping against hope that my little scheme would work, “it’s more a question of what I can do for
you
.”

The good news was that Phyllis Beckwith took the bait. The bad news was that I was going to have to wait almost twelve hours before I’d have a chance to sneak into Devon Barnett’s basement undetected. And
that
was assuming I managed to carry off the other details of my plan without a hitch.

As I opened the door to the guesthouse and heard the water running in the shower, I remembered Betty’s assignment.

As if I didn’t already have enough to deal with, I thought, my stomach fluttering with anxiety. But deep down, I felt guilty for shortchanging Nick. After all, this was supposed to be a vacation, a chance for the two of us to be together. Yet we’d ended up spending so little time together—and so much of it arguing.

Of course, since Max had vanished,
nothing
felt right.

Nick sauntered out of the bathroom, a large white towel wrapped around his waist. “Hi,” he said, blinking. “You’re back.”

As I put breakfast on the kitchen table, I shook my head tiredly. “I feel so overwhelmed, Nick. I have to find Max. I feel like a piece of string that’s been pulled tighter and tighter....”

“Let’s get out of here for a few hours,” he suggested. “I know the perfect spot.”

“But—”

“We’ve got the police looking for him, and I made a few calls around town while you were out.” He came over and wrapped his arms around me. “I’m afraid there’s nothing else for us to do right now, Jess. And I don’t want that piece of string to snap.”

I nodded, then buried my face in his shoulder.

We drove in silence to the stretch of beach we’d found the other night. Nick was right; it was the perfect spot. I knew we’d never manage to recapture the feeling of freedom and fun we’d experienced there before. But I was already looking forward to the chance to stretch out on the sand, enveloped by the warmth of the summer sun.

Even Lou relaxed, sunning himself on the edge of our towel as if he didn’t dare go back home without working on his tan. Nick had brought his portable CD player, and his entourage of classic rock legends, everyone from Jimi Hendrix to Jimmy Page, kept us company.

The only one missing was Max. But I allowed myself to feel at least a little bit heartened for the first time since his disappearance. I now had a plan, and all the pieces were in place. All that remained was for me to pull the whole thing off without a hitch.

By late afternoon, we were famished. We drove around, looking for something to eat, passing up the chic restaurants until we found the right spot. Skipper’s was right on the water, a ramshackle fish-and-chips establishment with weatherworn shingles that looked as if it was patronized by locals rather than Manhattan’s A-list. We sat on the deck, shaded by a faded umbrella with a tired-looking fringe, scarfing down the best fried clams and fries we’d ever encountered. Lou loped around the sand, barking at the seagulls, but sounding more playful than threatening.

As we watched the sun head toward the water’s edge, I forced myself to stop worrying about Max long enough to start making a mental list of the things that made Nick Burby special, all the little idiosyncrasies I’d observed throughout the day. The way that unruly lock of dead-straight hair kept falling into his eyes—and the nonchalant way he brushed it away. The way he hummed his favorite songs without even realizing he was doing it. The way he automatically took my hand whenever we walked side by side, as if touching me was as natural to him as breathing. The way he didn’t mind that I reached over and picked French fries off his plate.

The list kept getting longer. In fact, I wasn’t sure I’d be able to remember all of it by the time I saw Betty. But I realized that her intention hadn’t been for me to tell
her.
It had been for me to tell
myself.

As we got back to the guesthouse, I began checking my watch, counting the minutes until it was time for me to go to Chess and Devon’s house.

I sank onto the couch, silently reviewing my strategy. Nick dropped down next to me. “So what are we doing tonight?” he asked.

“Tonight?”
I repeated, surprised. Despite all the planning I’d done, I’d forgotten to include Nick in the equation.

“It
is
our last night in the Bromptons, after all. I was thinking you and I should do something special. Go to a really fancy restaurant, maybe, or take a moonlit walk on the beach. I know you can’t stop worrying about Max, but...”

“There’s, uh, something important I have to do tonight.”

Nick shifted slightly, just enough that we were no longer pressed against each other.

“I don’t suppose this has anything to do with that Shawn guy.”

“
No,
it has to do with getting Max back.” I twisted around so that I faced him. “Nick, I’ve got to solve Devon Barnett’s murder. Don’t you see, it’s my only chance of getting Max back? I’m convinced that whoever killed Barnett took Max as a threat, a warning that I should butt out.”

I braced myself for an argument. Instead, he nodded.

“What are you planning?”

“Something . . . important.”

“ ‘Important.’ ” He frowned. “Does that mean ‘dangerous,’ by any chance?”

“Actually, it just means ‘nosy.’ I’ll be fine.
Promise.
”

I was prepared to argue my case further. So I was dumbfounded when Nick said, “Anything I can do to help?”

I felt as if my heart were melting. I knew perfectly well how Nick felt about me investigating murders. The simple fact was that he was worried sick about me getting hurt—or worse.

Even though his disapproval irritated me to no end, in calmer, more logical moments, I was able to appreciate the sentiment behind it. But this time, Nick had gone beyond his instinctive concern for me. He knew exactly what was at stake here: Max. And knowing how much I loved my Westie, and how important it was for me to do whatever I could to get him back, he was willing to put his own fears aside to support me in what he knew really mattered to me.

“Thanks, Nick. I don’t think so. But just asking is enough.”

Okay, Betty, I thought. You’ve made your point. The playful lock of hair, the passion for classic rock . . . that’s all well and good. Those endearing traits are what first attracted me to Nick.

But the fact that, deep down, Nick really understands me—and accepts me for who I am—is the thing that’s really rare. That’s what
keeps
us together.

I had a feeling I’d just earned myself an “A.”

“Jessie! What a nice surprise!” Chess greeted me a few minutes later, standing in the doorway with Zsa Zsa in his arms.

He was dressed in a purple silk robe, as if he’d settled in for the evening. I experienced my first pangs of self-doubt since I’d come up with my plan for getting him out of the house. But I didn’t let on.

“Chess, you’ll never believe what happened this morning!” I gurgled as I barged inside. “I had a brainstorm, and . . . well, I hope you don’t mind, but I set up a meeting for you with Phyllis Beckwith.”

His eyes grew wide. “Phyllis Beckwith . . . of Foodies?”

I nodded. “I told her all about your spectacular iced tea and how much everyone just loves it, and suggested that she sample it herself. She’s expecting you at her office at nine. She apologized for making it so late, but she couldn’t fit you in until after she set up a dinner party for two hundred somewhere in Drooping Harbor. Anyway, I told her I couldn’t promise, but I thought you might be willing to give her exclusive rights to your fabulous iced tea all summer—until you go national with it. Of course, I hinted about there being some serious competition.” I named three of the other East End caterers I’d seen listed in the
Guide to the Bromptons
, including one whose ad had included a gushing quote from
Gourmet
magazine.

“Oh, my
God
!” Chess’s hands flew to his cheeks. “I’m...I’m shaking all over, Jessie! You are such a dear! I
never
would have thought of something like that, but you’re right: It
is
a brainstorm. I could become the talk of this town with my iced tea. And if someone with Phyllis Beckwith’s reputation began featuring it at her affairs, there’s no telling
where
it could go! Mrs. Fields, move over!”

“And this is the perfect time to strike, Chess,” I added, urging him on. “You’ve already got the media calling you on the phone...even People and USA Today.”

Chess jeté’d over to the refrigerator. “Fortunately, I made a fresh pitcher a few hours ago. It’s probably just cold enough.” He took out the pitcher, wrapped both hands around it, and closed his eyes reverently. “Yes, yes...that feels about right. Oh, I hope I added just the right amount of mint. The
worst
thing I could do would be to make it too minty....”

“Let me taste it,” I offered, my mind clicking away.

Chess poured me a tall glass from the large pitcher, then watched anxiously as I raised it to my lips.

“Perfect!” I pronounced.

“Oh, good!” Relief washed over his face. Still grasping the pitcher, he glanced around the kitchen. “Now what can I put this in? Something attractive, yet not too showy...”

Suddenly, he froze. “Oh, my God. Jessie, I just had the
perfect
idea for a name!”

I looked at him expectantly.

“
Chess-Tea
!”

Within ten minutes, Chess had found just the right container for his iced tea, changed his clothes, and doused his hair and body with a variety of scented products. As I watched him bustle around excitedly, sipping my tea slowly, I was pleased that in doing something to further my own cause, I’d also managed to do something good for Chess.

I had to remind myself that he might be a murderer.

“How do I look?” he asked, skipping into the kitchen. I surveyed his stylishly spiky hair, his bright Hawaiian shirt, and the hot pink Thermos he clutched possessively in his hands.

“Like the Donald Trump of iced tea,” I said. “Chess, do you mind if I sit here for a few minutes and finish this?” I gestured toward my glass. “It’s so good, I don’t want it to go to waste. I’ll lock up on my way out.”

“Of course,” he agreed. “Enjoy! And now I’m off. Oh, I’m a nervous wreck! Wish me luck...”

As soon as he left, I gulped down the rest of my iced tea and hurried over to the basement door. My heartbeat was racing, and the caffeine I’d just consumed had nothing to do with it.

Please work,
I instructed the key I’d pulled from deep inside my pocket, suddenly afraid it had lost its magical ability to gain me entrance into Devon Barnett’s secret world. I could feel the blood throbbing in my temples as I put the key into the lock and gave it a turn. The tumblers moved without hesitation, and the knob turned easily in my hand.

There.
I’d done it. Now all that remained was to venture into Devon Barnett’s private space to see what he’d been so determined to keep hidden from the rest of the world.

I opened the door wide and glanced at the small white Havanese who’d been watching me curiously. “Want to come, Zsa Zsa?”

She immediately backed away, making little whimpering sounds. Not a good sign, I decided.

I forged ahead anyway. I began creeping down the stairs, treading carefully in the dark and feeling my way by running my hand along the wall.

There has to be a light here
somewhere,
I thought, wondering why all those Nancy Drew mysteries I’d read hadn’t taught me to carry a flashlight at all times.

Despite my growing frustration over not finding a switch, when my fingers finally brushed against one, my heart stopped. Horrifying images of what I might find locked away in Devon Barnett’s basement flashed through my mind. Stacks of bodies, a windowless dungeon outfitted with iron shackles and chains...the climax from every horror movie I’d ever seen, from
Psycho
to
Silence of the Lambs,
replayed through my head.

You’ve come this far, I told myself firmly. You can’t back down now.

I switched on the light, illuminating the entire space at the bottom of the stairs. I blinked over and over again, every muscle tensed as I struggled to adjust to the glaring brightness.

Instead of being shocked or horrified, I was overwhelmed with disappointment. So
this
was what Devon Barnett kept stashed away in his basement under lock and key. My overly active imagination had prepared me for anything except what I found: a photo lab. I scanned the room, taking in the developing tanks, enlargers, light boxes, shelves crammed with bottles of chemicals and boxes of photo paper, all neatly arranged and spanking clean. A dozen black-and-white photographs were clipped to a wire that was strung across the ceiling, looking like a row of handkerchiefs hanging on a clothesline.

Chess had been right. This really was Dev’s studio, the place where he developed his photographs of celebrities. And, as far as I could see, that was
all
it was.

So much for the awe-inspiring investigative abilities of Jessica Popper, Girl Sleuth, I thought grimly. I scanned the string of photos the paparazzo had left to dry. Nothing here but a few shots of movie stars coming out of bars or lounging on the beach, looking like they’ve had a little too much to drink.

By this point, my eyes had completely adjusted to the light. I glanced around, still hoping to stumble across something that would give me a bit more insight into what made Devon Barnett tick—not to mention what made him tick people off. I spotted a wooden stool, more shelving, a two-drawer metal file cabinet, a large plastic bin filled with tongs and squeegees...and tucked into a corner, near the stairs, a plastic bowl of water and a rawhide chew stick.

So
this
is where Hilda locks up Zsa Zsa during her cleaning frenzies! I thought. When I stopped over on Tuesday on my way to the Sand Bar and heard the poor little Havanese’s pitiful barks, she hadn’t been stuffed into a breadbox. She’d been locked in the basement. Which probably explained why the sweet little dog was so alarmed by my suggestion that she accompany me down here.