“Don’t worry. I only have a few clients out here on the South Fork. Most of my work is on the North Shore, farther west.”
She shook her head as if she still couldn’t believe her old college pal was standing in front of her. “I’m about done in here. Let’s go into my office. Shelley, would you mind finishing up?”
Leaving her technician to take charge of the German shepherd, Suzanne walked me and my canine entourage through a small cluster of rooms. Both Max and Lou were in sniff heaven, luxuriating in the smells of the hundreds of dogs, cats, rabbits, ferrets, and other animals who had passed through the building in recent times. Suzanne’s office, way in back, was just as cluttered as her dorm room had once been. Ceiling-high shelves were crammed with textbooks and stacks of science journals, and catalogs for veterinary supply houses and uniform companies were scattered here and there. A haphazard stack of bills sat in the middle of a desk, along with several mugs of half-drunk coffee, by now long forgotten. The pale green walls were covered with photographs of cats and dogs doing ridiculously cute things. The same animals appeared so frequently that I assumed they were her pets.
I settled on the window ledge after moving aside a thirsty-looking plant with a gift tag dangling from a scraggly branch. “With our gratitude for all the care you gave Bootsy,” it read. Lou settled down at my feet, while Max continued to explore, nosing around every corner of the room.
“It sounds like you’re doing great!” Suzanne dropped into the wooden desk chair. “Wow, Jess, your own mobile unit!”
“I can’t complain. But what about you?”
Suzanne sighed. “I’m just getting started. I bought this practice last summer. To be perfectly honest, sometimes I feel like I’m in a foreign country.”
“What happened to Indiana?”
She grimaced. “Promise you won’t think I turned into a total flake?”
“I can’t wait to hear this,” I said, grinning.
“A few years out of vet school, I decided I deserved a real vacation,” Suzanne began. “So I took myself to the Caribbean. You know, one of those resorts where everything’s included—even the condoms?”
“Not one of those singles resorts!”
“You promised not to laugh!”
“Hey, there’s nothing wrong with a little male attention.”
“Well, it worked. I mean, I met someone. Robert. And I thought he was the most charming, most fascinating guy on earth. He was an entrepreneur who opened restaurants. He’d pick out a good location, hire an architect, find a chef, and launch it. Once it got going, he’d sell it.”
“Sounds like fun. And I bet you ate well.”
“I’m still paying for it, too.” She rolled her eyes and patted her rounded middle. “Anyway, as long as he was in that line of business, I could stay with the same practice I’d worked in since I finished vet school in Indianapolis. But then he decided he wanted a restaurant of his own. One he’d stick with, instead of selling off. He found one, all right, but it was all the way out here on the East End. So we picked up and moved to Long Island.”
“So your husband owns a restaurant nearby?” I asked excitedly.
“Yup—but he’s not my husband anymore. At least, he won’t be for much longer. Last summer, right after we moved here and I bought this practice, Robert announced that he wanted to change more than his career. He filed for divorce. We’re still agonizing over the details. Even though we don’t have any kids, it’s gotten ridiculously complicated.”
“Oh, Suzanne! I’m so sorry.”
“I was devastated at first. And I felt completely stranded in a brand-new place where I didn’t know a soul.” She shrugged. “But I’m getting used to it. At this point, I’m just counting the days until I’m finally divorced and that whole chapter of my life is over.” Brightening, she asked, “What about you, Jess? Are you married?”
“Nope.”
“Anyone you’re serious about?”
I hesitated. That still wasn’t a question I felt a hundred percent comfortable with. “I’ve been seeing a guy named Nick Burby for a few years now. He’s a private investigator, or at least he will be for another couple of months. Then he’s going to law school.”
“Is he your Mr. Right?” Suzanne asked eagerly.
Her question caught me off guard. I hesitated a few seconds before answering, pretending I was busy adjusting Lou’s collar.
“Could be,” I finally said, not wanting to get into the ups and downs of our relationship. Especially since my ongoing struggle with commitment was responsible for most of the downs. “I’ll tell you all about him one of these days. But in the meantime, I’m here to ask a favor.”
“Anything, Jess.”
“The reason I’m out here this week is because I’m running the ‘Ask The Vet’ booth for a charity dog show the SPCA is putting on.”
Suzanne nodded. “I’ve been seeing posters advertising it for months.”
“I got the gig through a friend of mine who’s a vet. He backed out at the last minute. Seems his social life got in the way.”
“You mean he’s single?” Her face lit up.
I rolled my eyes. “Yes, Marcus is single—for a very good reason.”
“How about if you let me be the judge of that?” Suddenly sheepish, she added, “Sorry. I can’t help it. That’s what happens when you’re suddenly in the market again. Especially when you find out pretty darn fast that there are about six decent men out there.”
Her use of the word “decent” in a conversation about Marcus Scruggs gave me pause. I was tempted to give her an earful about Marcus Scruggs—a man who thought the term “feminist movement” referred to jiggling breasts. Instead, I said, “If you insist, I’ll introduce you— but only if you sign a waiver saying I’m not responsible for whatever happens. In the meantime, I’m kind of involved in a murder investigation. Of course, the police are insisting it was an accident. But I’m convinced there’s more to it.”
Suzanne’s eyes widened. “You don’t mean that photographer, do you?”
“Devon Barnett. Did you know him?”
“No. But I read about it in the paper. What does he have to do with you?”
“Actually, nothing.” I filled Suzanne in on my background as an amateur sleuth, hoping she wouldn’t think I’d gone completely off the deep end.
Instead, she seemed fascinated. “How can I help?” she asked enthusiastically.
“You might have access to some of the people I’m interested in questioning. There are several right here on the East End who had ties to Devon Barnett. My suspicion is that one of them might have had a reason to want him dead. Some of them might be your clients, people you’ve developed a relationship with. If I presented myself as your associate, they wouldn’t hesitate to let me into their homes—or to trust me when I started asking questions. Would you mind if I looked through your client list?”
“Be my guest.” Suzanne gestured toward a metal file cabinet pushed into the corner of the office. “I’ve got a folder on each client in there. And if you can’t read the handwriting, don’t blame me. That’s what was given to me when I bought the practice. Unfortunately, the vet I bought this practice from was an older guy who thought computers were just a fad.”
His handwriting didn’t look any worse than mine. Methodically, I flipped through the folders, glancing at the tabs and looking for a name that might be useful. While most of them meant nothing to me, I did see that some of the celebrities I’d spotted out here were among Suzanne’s clients.
“I still can’t believe you found me,” Suzanne exclaimed as I continued perusing her files. “Or that you live so close by. By now, I’ve gotten to know a few people around here, but it’s hard when you’re new to an area, you know? I haven’t even learned all the roads yet.”
“I know. It can be pretty confusing.” I only half-listened as I continued mentally filing away the names I’d found.
When I slammed the heavy drawer shut, Suzanne asked, “
Did you find what you need?”
“I’m not sure. You’ve got a few clients I might be interested in talking to at some point. Maybe you’ll let me fill in for you some time.”
“I could use the help. We can get pretty busy around here, especially during the summer. Just let me know what I can do.”
“Thanks, Suzanne,” I said sincerely.
“In fact, why don’t I just give you an extra key to my office? That way, you can come and go as you please while you’re here in the Bromptons. Feel free to use the copying machine, the fax, whatever you need. The same key opens the front door and the one in back, down at the end of that hall. Let me explain how the security system works....” She jotted down the code on the back of one of her business cards. I glanced at it before tucking it safely into my wallet, noting that the card was printed with her fax number, as well as her phone number—a resource I knew might prove helpful at some point.
“Suzanne, you’re a doll. If there’s anything I can do in return—”
She waved her hand in the air. “Glad to help. In the meantime, let’s get together soon. I live close by, in West Brompton Beach. At least, for now.” She grimaced. “Whether I’ll get to keep the house or not depends on how the divorce negotiations end. For now, my lawyer has advised me to act like a model citizen. Apparently good old Robert has hired an investigator to watch me, some guy in a beat-up Ford who’s spending his life parked outside my house. That means no wild parties, no men traipsing in and out at all hours of the night... But I could still meet you and Nick for dinner in town.”
“Thanks. It sounds great.”
“And if you want to bring along your friend Marcus...” Suzanne added with an unmistakable twinkle in her blue eyes.
I didn’t have the heart to tell her that, in the jargon of our chosen field, she was barking up the wrong tree.
By the time I got to the dog show, Emily was already standing at her post. She’d neatened the piles of brochures the SPCA had supplied on the importance of regular rabies shots and the keys to good nutrition. She’d also pushed forward the giant tick so that it was more prominently displayed. I was pleased she was so excited to be part of the dog show. Emily Bolger was a special little girl, and she deserved to have a good summer.
“Hey, Dr. Popper!” she greeted me.
As I grew nearer, I noticed she was wearing a huge smile and her eyes were shining. For the first time, I caught a glimpse of the future—and what a pretty young woman she was going to be.
“You certainly look happy this morning,” I observed.
“I got a letter from my mom!” She pulled out a note, handwritten on pale pink stationery.
“How’s she doing?”
“Terrific! The rehab’s going really well. She says she’s doing even better than they expected!”
“That’s good news!” I said enthusiastically. While I didn’t know all that much about drug and alcohol rehabilitation programs, I was aware of how difficult they were. “You must really miss her.”
Emily nodded. “We usually spend half the summer together. I’m still hoping I can go to Paris with her during August. In the meantime, I’m going to ask my dad if I can fly out to California to visit her.”
I was silent, wondering if it was the best idea for a vulnerable twelve-year-old like Emily to visit her mother in a place like that. It was probably as luxurious as a spa, but that didn’t mean it wouldn’t be traumatic for a patient’s young daughter.
I was curious to hear more, but the owner of a fluffy Old English sheepdog descended upon us. “Oh, good, I’m glad you finally got here,” she said pointedly. “Barnaby keeps acting really funny whenever he chews something. It’s almost like his teeth hurt. Is it possible for dogs to get cavities?”
“It’s more likely he’s fractured his tooth—probably a slab fracture of the major cheek tooth. It happens when dogs chew things that are too hard, like stones.”
I knelt down to examine Barnaby’s teeth. Sure enough, it looked as if he’d fractured his major premolar. I instructed her to schedule an appointment with her regular veterinarian as soon as she could. I also gave her my business card, in case she was looking for a new vet for Barnaby.
My next consultation was with a college-age young man with spiky bleached hair and a pierced eyebrow. At his side was a sleek, muscular dog I recognized as an American bulldog.
“Beautiful animal,” I commented. “Is she competing in the dog show?” The breed was relatively new and hadn’t yet been recognized by the American Kennel Club.
“No, Bailey and I just came to watch,” he informed me. “She’s only five months old. But I wanted to ask you something. She’s not great at stairs, and sometimes she has trouble jumping up onto the couch. Do you think she could have hip dysplasia?”
“Let’s take a look. Hey, Bailey! How’s the dogger?” I crouched down to get a sense of the puppy’s bone structure, running my hands over her silky-smooth fur and feeling the structure of her bones. “You could be right,” I told her owner. “Her hocks turn inward. Keep an eye out for signs, like hearing a clicking when she walks or noticing that she seems stiff in the morning, before she’s had a chance to move around. But CHD—canine hip dysplasia—can be tough to diagnose in American bulldogs. For one thing, they have an exceptionally high tolerance for pain. And their hindquarters are often strong enough to compensate, holding their hips together even in the presence of CHD. Her regular veterinarian should probably take X rays and do a thorough orthopedic exam under sedation.”
“Thanks,” he replied. I could see he wasn’t happy with my answer, and I didn’t blame him. I was experiencing the beginnings of that sad, defeated feeling that crept up on me sometimes after I’d doled out bad news, when I glanced up and saw that the next person waiting to talk to me was Shawn.
“Hey, stranger!” he said cheerfully. “Thought I’d stop by and see how you’re doing.”
It felt good to see a familiar face. “Busy, believe it or not. I’ve been handing out advice nonstop.”
He chuckled. “I’m glad that, in my line of work, I just have to pretend to know stuff, without actually having to learn it.” Turning to Emily, he asked, “How about you, kiddo? Are you having fun helping out Dr. Dolittle here?”
Her sullen expression had returned. “I guess,” she said with a little shrug.
To smooth over the uncomfortable silence that followed, I said, “How’s Rufus bearing up under the pressure?”
His expression darkened. “Are you talking about the pressure of the dog show or the thing with Barnett?”
Knowing how bad Shawn felt about the accusation against Rufus, I saw no reason to belabor the subject. “Actually, I was curious about the documentary. Is he going to be in it?”
Shawn smiled. “He’s one of the stars! That guy who’s making the videotape of the dog show got some great footage of my boy. I can’t wait for you to see it on Sunday. This documentary is turning out to be a pretty big deal. Even the TV stations are coming to the screening this weekend. You’ll be there to see Rufus on the big screen, won’t you?”
Shawn cast an adoring look at the squat, wrinkled beast waddling beside him, his tongue hanging down like a necktie as he panted loudly, no doubt a response to the warmth of the sunny June morning. I noticed that the look of devotion in the bulldog’s eyes was almost identical to his master’s.
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.” I crouched down to give the sturdy bulldog a total body scratch. “How’re you doing, Rufus, old boy?” Glancing up at Shawn, I said, “What a charmer! I wouldn’t be surprised if he won Best of Show.”
“As long as it’s based on looks.” In a stage whisper, he added, “Maybe I shouldn’t admit this to you, since you’re an insider and all, but I’m afraid Rufus is what you’d call an underachiever.”
I stood up, laughing. “Most dogs are. Fortunately, the only thing most people expect of them is unquestioning devotion and never-ending cuteness—both areas in which they happen to excel.�
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“Yeah, it’s great to have someone who’s so into you.”
“Rufus looks thirsty,” Emily suddenly said in an accusing tone.
“You’re absolutely right, Emily, my friend. Got any ideas about what we can do about it?”
“I can bring him over to the courtesy tent, if you want,” she offered. “They have water for the dogs there.”
“Would you do that for me?”
She scowled. “I’d do it for Rufus.”
“I’m sure he’d love it.” Shawn handed her the leash. Emily, meanwhile, never looked him in the eye, instead grabbing hold of the leather strap and trotting off with her head down, her squat little friend in tow.
“I get the feeling that little girl doesn’t like me very much,” Shawn commented.
“She’s just been having a difficult summer,” I replied. “She doesn’t have any friends around here. Besides, her mother’s in a rehabilitation center out in California. That can’t be fun.”
“Yeah, I heard all about that. Tough break.” A strange look crossed his face. “So . . . I guess that boyfriend of yours—Mick—has been keeping you busy.”
“Nick. Yeah, we’ve been managing to squeeze in a little fun.”
“I’ll bet. By the way, I’ve been thinking about what you said the other night. About the possibility that Devon Barnett might have been murdered.”
“Really?” I was surprised he even remembered, much less that he’d taken my comment seriously.
“I still don’t think the police would miss something like that. But the thing is, I know he had a lot of enemies. The idea that somebody might have bumped him off isn’t all that crazy. Besides, I do have kind of an ulterior motive. If Barnett really was murdered, that would mean Rufus had nothing to do with it. Look, I have no idea if your theory’s correct or not, but if you’re interested in getting more information about the guy, I might be able to help.”
“How?”
In a casual tone, he said, “I was thinking that maybe I could get you into some places you might not have access to otherwise. I mean, while you’re here at the dog show, you’re kind of on the sidelines, just somebody who’s standing around, handing out free advice. But I know a lot of people in the Bromptons, and they’d look at you differently if you were with me. You might be able to get people to talk to you more openly if you were perceived as more of an insider.”
Putting on the Dog Page 12
