“Chess,” I asked, choosing my words carefully, “do you think any of his phobias might have been justified?”
He frowned. “What do you mean?”
“There were a lot of people who didn’t like what he did. Taking pictures of people—celebrities—at their worst moments, publishing them with the intention of making them look bad.... From what I understand, he wasn’t very popular.”
“What’s your point, Jessie?”
I took a deep breath. “It’s occurred to me that maybe Devon’s death wasn’t accidental.”
Chess looked stricken. “You think he was murdered?”
“It’s possible.”
I told him about the conversation I’d had with Gary Frye earlier that day. When I finished, he remained silent. But the frown lines in his forehead had thickened considerably.
“Chess, has anything unusual happened lately?” I asked him. “Was Devon acting different? Did he mention anything—or anyone—that might not have struck you as odd at the time, but that, looking back, could have indicated that something was wrong?”
“Well...” He glanced from side to side, as if to make sure no one was listening. As far as I knew, the only person within hearing distance was Hilda, and she seemed completely focused on sucking dust and germs out of the carpet.
“Now that you mention it, there was something....”
“Yes?”
Chess sighed. “Lately, like for the past couple of weeks, Nettie kept talking about buying another vacation home. Only this time, in the South of France.”
“You didn’t think that was a good idea?”
“Believe me, no one would have loved a petite maison in Provence more than me. But I didn’t know how he thought we were going to afford it.” He opened both arms, gesturing at the house around us. “You see how he liked to live. He acted as if there was an unlimited supply of money. But even I knew there had to be some limit to how much we had to spend.”
“Is that the only thing you’ve noticed that’s been out of the ordinary?”
“Well...” He hesitated, as if trying to sort out what he was going to say next. “A few nights ago he went out for a meeting. Someplace local, since he wasn’t gone that long.”
“What kind of meeting?”
“He wouldn’t say. And even at the time, it struck me as odd. Most of the people out here don’t want to meet with the paparazzi. They’re too busy running away from them.”
“Did he tell you anything more about it?”
“He wouldn’t say a word. But I noticed that when he came home, he was Mr. Cranky. You couldn’t get near him. Not that I tried very hard. Nettie could be sweet, but when he was in one of his black moods...well, I can tell you it wasn’t a very pretty sight.”
“So you have no idea who he met with? Or whether it was related to his work?”
Chess shook his head. “Nettie and I were really close. In fact, we were getting ready to celebrate our three-year anniversary. But even with me, there was a side of him that was very secretive. I always figured it was the nature of his business to be guarded, since a lot of what he did involved tricking people. You know, sneaking up on them when they least expected, so he could get just the right shot. The one that showed their vulnerability.”
Smiling sadly, he added, “And now you’re telling me somebody might have snuck up on him. And that he turned out to be the most vulnerable of all.”
“I don’t know for a fact that Dev was murdered,” I pointed out. “It’s just a theory.”
“I wish I could tell you you’re wrong, that no one could have possibly wanted Devon Barnett dead. But even though I loved him, I always knew there were plenty of people who couldn’t wait to read his obituary.”
I didn’t mention that I happened to be one of them. Not that I’d been rooting for Devon Barnett’s demise, of course. But now that he was dead—under circumstances that I, at least, considered extremely questionable—I was anxious to learn as much about him as possible. His obituary would be the first factual account of his life I’d have access to.
“Knock, knock. Anybody home?”
Both Chess and I turned at the sound of a sweet female voice at the screen door at the back of the house. It turned out to belong to a sweet female face.
“Kara!” Chess rushed across the kitchen and flung open the door. “Or is that Little Red Riding Hood, bringing me a basket of goodies?”
He took the giant-sized basket from her and put it on the table. “You are such a dear.”
“Just a few things I picked up at the Pampered Pantry,” she said breezily. “I figured you wouldn’t be in the mood for cooking. Certainly not for going out. This should keep you well-fed for the next few days. I brought over a couple of videos, too. Desk Set and Brigadoon. I thought you and I could stay in tonight.”
Kara turned to me. “You’re welcome to join us, Jessie.”
“Thanks, but I’ve got plans of my own.”
“Kara, you are my guardian angel. Let me just put some of these things into the ’fridge....”
As Chess fussed with the food, Kara sidled over to me.
“Thanks for stopping in to check on Chess,” she said in a low voice. “That was really thoughtful of you. Especially since you two just met.”
I just nodded. I wasn’t about to admit that not only wasn’t I the Good Samaritan she thought I was, but that Chess had actually discovered me spying on his property.
Confident that I was leaving Chess in good hands, I gathered up my canine cohorts and went home to Nick.
I was thinking about Devon Barnett’s obituary and the insights it might give me as the dogs and I made my way across the lawn of Shawn’s estate, toward my cottage. Suddenly, I stopped in my tracks. Once again, I had the creepy feeling I was being watched. And this time, I knew it couldn’t be Devon Barnett lurking in the shadows. I didn’t think it was a voyeuristic bulldog, either.
“Hello?” I called. “Who’s there?”
I was almost certain I heard a rustling in the rhododendrons. The sound sent Max into a barking frenzy. Every muscle tensed as I instinctively prepared for fight or flight.
When the scrawny black cat I’d seen the day before darted out from under the bushes, I relaxed.
“Why don’t you find somebody else to pick on?” I called as the cat rocketed across the lawn. Still, I was taking a mental inventory of the refrigerator, wondering if there were any tidbits I could leave out for the poor little vagabond.
I opened the door to the guesthouse, glad Nick and I had decided to leave it unlocked, since neither of us wanted to deal with the uncooperative hardware. I was pleased to hear a Talking Heads CD playing, a sign that Nick was home, waiting for me. I couldn’t wait to tell him everything I’d learned.
Instead, as soon as I walked inside, I could feel the chill in the air. And unlike the main house, the guesthouse wasn’t air-conditioned.
“Hi! I’m back!” I called gaily, hoping that using a cheerful tone would add a little warmth.
“That was a long day,” Nick greeted me.
He was sprawled across the couch, an open copy of a Scott Turow novel lying on his chest. No doubt his way of preparing himself to enter law school in the fall.
Max and Lou made a beeline for him, acting as if they’d feared they’d never see him again. He, in turn, gave them a royal head, back, and belly scratching.
His warm welcome wasn’t universal.
“I thought we were going to the beach.” Even though Nick was trying to sound casual, I could hear that he was hurt.
“There’s still time.” I hated the defensive tone I was using.
“I thought the dog show ended at four.”
“It did. I got busy. I ended up...doing something else.”
“What kind of ‘something else’?”
“Why am I being subjected to the third degree?” My prickliness didn’t sound any better to me than my defensiveness.
“Because you’re almost two hours later than
you’d said you’d be.”
“I couldn’t help it. Something came up.”
“Something related to the dog show?”
He had me. “Actually, it was related to Devon Barnett’s death.” Reluctantly, I added, “Nick, I’m beginning to think he was murdered.”
Nick sighed. “I thought this dog show thing was supposed to give us a chance to spend some time together. I had no idea you were going to let your obsession with investigating murders of people you don’t even know, get in the way.”
“Wait a minute. You’re the one who backed out at the last minute!”
“I’m here, aren’t I?” he insisted. “I held up my end of the bargain. What about you?”
Why are we arguing? I thought. That’s not what we came to the Bromptons for.
“I’m sorry, Nick,” I said, all the anger gone from my voice. “Look, let’s start over. I promise not to say another word about Devon Barnett for the rest of the night, if you promise you won’t, either. We’ll just pile into the car with the dogs and drive to the beach. Okay?”
He looked relieved. “Okay.”
By the time we got to the shore, it was nearly deserted. Even the diehards were rolling up their towels and heading toward the parking lot.
The beach was ours. The fine white sand gave off magical little sparkles if you squinted at it just the right way, and just beyond, the ferocious blue-green waves edged an ocean that seemed to stretch on forever.
“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” I said breathlessly, barely able to utter the words.
“What, that it feels like we’re the only people in the world?”
“Exactly. Adam and Eve Play Beach Blanket Bingo.”
We turned into two little kids, frolicking in the waves. Nick totally got into it, splashing me until I squealed for mercy and insisting that I climb onto his shoulders and dive in. I loved every minute.
So did Lou, who was as much of a water baby as we were. He pranced in the waves beside us, his gangly legs kicking up the foam. Max, a true landlubber, raced back and forth on the sand, barking his head off. Every time the surf touched one of his paws, he leaped back indignantly and barked even louder. Nick had had the foresight to bring along a Frisbee he kept in his car, standard equipment he stashed in the trunk with the jumper cables and a can of Fix-A-Flat. We took turns throwing it, then howled with laughter as Max and Lou scrambled after it as excitedly as if they were pursuing a pound of sirloin.
Finally, the four of us sank onto the warm sand. We were all exhausted from fighting with the ocean, which won every time.
“Now what?” I asked.
“How about going into town and stocking up on groceries, and then you taking a long, hot bath while I make you dinner?”
“Hmm. That’s a tough one. Let me think.... Okay!”
A half hour later, Nick and I were meandering through a small but well-stocked grocery store, examining the displays of imported cookies and weird condiments and discussing the merits of one brand of coffee versus another.
We’re like an old married couple, I realized, then braced myself for a wave of anxiety.
It never came.
Instead, I marveled at how nice it felt, playing house. How comfortable. Not threatening at all. Shyly, I glanced over at Nick, curious about how he was reacting. He stood with his elbows resting on the edge of the grocery cart, reading the ingredients on a jar and looking completely contented.
I could get used to this, I thought.
As for Nick, it looked as if he already had.
Chapter 7
“Dogs act exactly the way we would act if we had no shame.”
—Cynthia Heimel
I didn’t sleep much that night. But it wasn’t Nick who kept me awake. It was Devon Barnett.
Or, more accurately, my growing suspicion that he could well have been murdered, rather than simply the victim of a random event.
By the time I bounded out of bed the next morning, my head buzzing from a long night of ruminating, I had decided to pay a visit to the Bolger estate. And there was no time like seven A.M., when few people were likely to be around to witness my snooping. The last thing I wanted was intervention from humans.
That included boyfriends. As I padded around the bedroom, pulling on shorts and a fresh burgundy-colored monogrammed polo shirt, I made as little noise as possible. I was relieved that Nick continued to sleep soundly, sprawled across the bed with the sheet draped modestly across his loins, as if he were posing for a classical oil painting. I was happy to let sleeping dogs lie.
Not real dogs, however. I was busily hatching a plan, and my two canine sidekicks played leading roles. They were both raring to go, acting as if they’d already hit the espresso pot. Even though Max was curled up at the foot of the bed, his sturdy little body was tense as he watched me hopefully, wagging his stub of a tail to show he was ready for anything. Lou was also a good sport. Aside from a few yawns and stretches, he didn’t seem the least bit put off by the fact that the sun looked as if it could use a little caffeine of its own.
As I drove to the palatial estate that Russell Bolger and his daughter Emily called home, I hoped that neither of them was an early riser. I also hoped they weren’t as security conscious as Shawn Elliot, whose formidable iron fence didn’t exactly scream “Welcome.”
The moment I turned onto Ocean Spray Drive, I saw that I’d been wise to anticipate the worst. While the Bolgers’ place had looked inviting at Sunday night’s kick-off dinner, this morning it was shut up tight. But I immediately spotted what I hoped would be my ticket inside the grounds: a landscaper’s truck, parked outside what looked like a service entrance off to one side of the property. That gate was wide open, making room for the gardeners who were busily unloading lawn mowers, leaf blowers, and other equipment off the back of the flatbed truck.
Yes, I thought. The force is with me.
Instead of heading directly toward the Bolger estate, I turned onto a side street, drove a couple of hundred yards, and parked my van out of sight of Ocean Spray Drive. Then I focused on Max and Lou, who were already pawing at the windows, itching to get out and explore.
“Okay, guys,” I told them firmly. “I’m going to need your help. Do you think you can act like wild beasts? Oh, that’s right; you always act like wild beasts.”
Lou looked at me blankly, as if he were thinking, “Could you please translate that into Dog?” Max was too busy smearing the van’s side window with nose slime to respond.
After snapping leashes onto both, I retrieved a doggie treat from my secret stash and stuck it in my pocket. Next, I pulled on a cotton sweater that hid my name, boldly embroidered on my chest. Then the three of us headed back to Ocean Spray Drive—this time, on foot and on paw.
I strolled along the street with my two charges, attempting to look as relaxed as any other local resident. Well, maybe I couldn’t pass for an actual resident, but I figured I could always pretend I was a nanny—or even a professional dog-walker. Max and Lou did their usual first-rate job of sniffing every square inch of grass and the trunk of every tree, as if nothing were in the least bit out of the ordinary. When it comes to acting, they’re both pros.
Even though I’d already attended an event on the studio executive’s grand estate, I hadn’t gotten a very good look at it—at least, not beyond the tent, the gazebo, the fabulous view of the bay and the wildlife preserve, and the police cars. This time, as I approached, I studied the mansion and the grounds that surrounded it much more carefully. After all, I was beginning to view it in a new light, considering the possibility that it now had another identity: the scene of the crime.
The mansion, set amid an immense piece of carefully manicured property, had a gray stone façade that gave it a dignified, almost stodgy look. Still, extra touches like a cupola on top, a side porch that stretched across the entire back, and at least twelve chimneys jutting up against the pale blue sky made it seem a little more friendly.
But I wasn’t here
to admire the architecture. It was time to put my plan into action—and my dogs weren’t the only ones who had to do a little acting. You can do this, I told myself, fully aware that I sounded like one of those ridiculous self-fulfillment tapes.
As I neared the forbidding wrought-iron fence, I snuck the doggie treat out of my pocket. I let Lou smell it, then hurled it as far across the Bolgers’ lawn as I could.
Predictably, he watched it disappear, then looked at me mournfully, whining in disbelief that I’d done such a cruel thing.
“Go for it, Lou!” I whispered hoarsely. I let go of the leash, then watched with satisfaction as he wriggled under the fence and bounded across the lawn, barking like a madman—or even a mad dog.
Good job, I thought with pride. Okay, Maxie-Max. Now it’s your turn....
My Westie didn’t need any prompting. As soon as he saw that Lou had been freed from the constraints of his leash and was running across the huge stretch of lawn like a crazed antelope, he went into overdrive. He began barking his head off, his indignant yelps irritating enough to attract the attention of one of the landscapers standing a hundred yards or so up ahead.
“Excuse me!” I cried, pulling an extremely unhinged Max toward the open gate by his leash. “My dog got loose, and he’s running around back there. Do you mind if I go onto the property and get him?”
It didn’t take the landscaper long to make up his mind. I imagined him picturing Russell Bolger storming out of the house in his bathrobe, demanding to know what all the racket was—and why his gardener couldn’t be trusted to do his job without waking up the entire neighborhood.
“Go ahead, lady,” he instructed, glaring at Max. Then he shot a dirty look at Lou, who was already fading into a black-and-white dot. Probably hoping his job description wasn’t going to be expanded to include pooper-scooper duty.
I thanked him, trying not to look triumphant, then jogged across the immense lawn with Max leading the way. By that point, Lou was nowhere in sight. Figuring he’d probably disappeared behind the house, I headed that way, dragged by my incensed Westie.
Putting on the Dog Page 10
