Putting on the Dog

by Cynthia Baxter

  “Which is why we’ll stick to iced tea.” I glanced around the Sand Bar’s outdoor seating area admiringly. It really did remind me of France—largely because its patrons clearly loved their dogs as much as Parisians did. Just like on the Boulevard Saint-Germaine, many of the people having lunch today had animals at their feet—or, in the case of the devastatingly good-looking couple two tables away, in a baby seat. Their snow-white Maltese, her long coat brushed until it was as soft and fluffy as cotton candy, perched in a high chair. Two yellow satin ribbons were tied high atop her head, holding her silky hair out of her eyes. Every few seconds, she lurched forward, greedily grabbing at the morsels of paté and roast duck her owners kept offering up.

  As for the man at the table next to us, he had two luncheon companions. His Afghans were much more sedate. They lay beside him contentedly, lounging on the sidewalk like giant lawn ornaments—at least until the white powder puff of a Maltese lunged at a piece of duck his mistress offered him and missed.

  The Afghans were instantly on their feet, scrambling toward the coveted morsel. Both Max and Lou immediately picked up on what was happening. Lou strained toward them, so determined to get in on the action that he pulled his leash taut, nearly knocking Nick’s chair over. He was barking his head off, completely destroying the peacefulness of what, up until that point, had been a relaxing afternoon. As for Max, his leash was so tangled up in the chair legs as he attempted to become part of the action that he practically strangled himself. His yelps were punctuated with choking sounds that became increasingly hoarse as he watched one of the Afghans inhale the tiny scrap of food—much to the dismay of the other Afghan, the Maltese, and the Maltese’s owners.

  “Quiet, Lou!” Nick commanded. “Stop acting like a tourist!”

  As I unraveled Max’s leash, restoring his air supply as quickly as I could, I noticed that a busboy clearing a table nearby had paused long enough to watch the scene. He was short and stocky, with beach ball-sized biceps that tested the limits of the white T-shirt he wore with his white apron. His piercing black eyes, completely bald head, and tattoo-covered arms made him look better-suited to a career as a bouncer in a biker bar than a busboy.

  I offered him an apologetic smile, remorseful over having played even a small role in the chaos that had just disrupted the restaurant’s tranquility. In response, he shook his head, wearing a look of utter disdain.

  I was relieved that our waiter finally emerged from inside the restaurant. The tall, fair-haired young man glanced at the scene of the canine commotion, and then pointedly looked away. I got the feeling that the time of his arrival had been carefully planned. Good strategy, I decided. After all, scolding the customers—not to mention their beloved pets—was hardly the route to good tips.

  “I’m Steve,” he began, dipping down to present each of us with a lunch menu. Up close, I saw that he was as well-built as he was good-looking. Probably another wannabe actor, I figured, just like the sales clerk at the roadside farm stand who’d helped me find Shawn’s house. “I’ll be your waitperson this afternoon. May I tell you about our specials? Our appetizer is a seafood Napoleon made with bay scallops, baby shrimp...”

  The dogs quieted down as soon he launched into his monologue. Maybe they found all that talk of confits and reductions soothing.

  After we ordered, I casually asked Steve the Waitperson, “Are things always this crazy? With the dogs, I mean.”

  He rolled his eyes. “You have no idea!”

  “I guess the food makes up for it,” I continued. “I have a friend who just raves about this place. Chess LaMont?”

  “Sure, I know Chess,” the waiter said, nodding. “He comes in here a lot, sometimes with his—”

  He suddenly looked stricken. Of course he’d heard the news about Devon Barnett. In a gossipy summer community like this one, I couldn’t imagine that anyone hadn’t.

  “Yes, it’s tragic, isn’t it?” I offered as a means of getting him off the hook.

  “Devastating.”

  “Did you know them well?”

  “Sure. They used to come in all the time. Sometimes, we’d get to talking. Devon knew a lot of famous people, and the stories he used to tell were fascinating.”

  I noticed that the owner of the two Afghans had left. But the busboy had moved closer. In fact, the way he’d positioned himself—mere inches away, with his back to us as he checked salt and pepper shakers to see if they required refilling—gave me the impression he was doing his best to eavesdrop.

  “What about Chess?” I prompted.

  “He’s great, too,” Steve gushed. “The ideal couple. One of those matches made in heaven, that make you believe there really is such a thing as destiny.”

  I was about to ask another question when I noticed that the busboy had turned his head so that he was facing us. He was smirking. Maybe I was reading too much into his expression, but I got the feeling he couldn’t believe we were actually buying what Steve was telling us.

  “Excuse me, will you?” Steve said abruptly. The owners of the Maltese were desperately waving their hands in the air to get his attention. They were probably ready to order raspberry soufflé for their dog’s dessert.

  “He wasn’t much help,” I commented to Nick.

  “Actually, I thought old Steve was pretty impressive, the way the list of specials rolled off his tongue. Personally, I always trip over the word ‘arugula.’ ”

  “I wasn’t talking about the food. I was talking about getting information out of him.”

  The look on Nick’s face told me I’d just said the wrong thing.

  “Not that dead paparazzo again,” he said, sounding exasperated. “What is it, exactly, that you find so fascinating about this case?”

  “Lots of things,” I replied excitedly, wondering where to begin. “First of all, there’s the fact that everyone has been so quick to assume he died accidentally. Even the police don’t seem interested in considering the possibility that he was murdered. I can’t even get them to return my phone calls! Then there’s the fact that Shawn Elliot’s poor dog, Rufus, is being blamed for—”

  Even before I’d gotten the words out, I realized I’d made a mistake.

  “Is that what this is about?” Nick asked archly. “Shawn Elliot?”

  “No,” I replied, doing my best to sound indignant. “The role Shawn’s dog played in this is just one small piece of what I think is a very intriguing situation. Think about it, Nick,” I went on quickly. “Devon Barnett wasn’t just anybody, He was one of the most hated men in Hollywood—not to mention New York, London, and here on the East End.”

  “Really? Who told you that?”

  I wasn’t about to mention Shawn again. “I read it somewhere.”

  Nick frowned. “Look, just because this guy had a lot of enemies doesn’t mean he was murdered. I mean, you’d hope the police had already come up with this theory.”

  “But the local police have an agenda of their own,” I insisted. “The Bromptons’ season is just beginning. That means tourist dollars, big time. If word got out that people were being murdered around here, that wouldn’t be very good for business, would it?”

  Nick’s eyebrows shot up. “You really think they’d cover it up?”

  I shrugged. “Maybe they’re just not inclined to look for foul play as hard as they could. As long as Devon Barnett was simply the victim of gravity, it’s a local matter. A tragedy that doesn’t warrant much more than a couple of articles in the local paper. But murder—that would be something else entirely.

  “For one thing, crying ‘murder’ and bringing in Norfolk County Homicide would mean the local police would completely lose control over what happened from that point on,” I continued. “Even worse, it would be a question of minutes before the New York media were all over the story. We’re talking major headlines here, lead stories on the six o’clock news, nonstop speculation about whether the murderer would strike again. Not exactly the best public relations for—”


  “Hey, Jess?” Nick interrupted. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

  I looked at him and blinked.

  “We’re supposed to be taking a little vacation here. I thought this was our chance to get away together.”

  “We are together.”

  “But it’s a little crowded. You, me, this Barnett character...I’d rather it was just the two of us.”

  “Don’t worry, Nick. I won’t let this get in the way. I just want to poke around a little, ask a few questions... that’s all.”

  As if to prove my point, I didn’t mention Devon Barnett for the rest of the meal. When Steve brought our entrees, I even resisted the temptation to say they looked gorgeous enough to photograph for a food magazine. All in all, I thought I did an admirable job of behaving myself.

  “I’ve got to get back,” I finally said, glancing at my watch. “You’d be amazed at how many people have questions about their dogs’ health. But first, I’ve got to make a pit stop. Iced tea has no mercy.”

  I left Max and Lou in Nick’s care as I maneuvered around the tables and into the restaurant. I was certain I’d find a rest room with my name on it—or at least my gender. Sure enough, I spotted the door I was looking for, tucked away at the end of a short hallway in back.

  The hallway happened to pass by the kitchen. As I reached the swinging doors, they flew open with such force I was glad I hadn’t been standing in front of them. Out came the tough-looking busboy I’d noticed hovering near our table as Steve the Waitperson sang the praises of Dev and Chess’s remarkable relationship. His biceps ballooned under the weight of the huge plastic bin of clean cappuccino mugs he was hauling, the steam from the dishwasher floating above them like a cloud.

  “Was I imagining things,” I asked him in a low voice, “or were you listening in on our conversation about Devon Barnett and Chess LaMont?”

  The busboy looked shocked, but only for a moment. Then he shrugged noncommittally.

  “Did you know them?” I asked.

  He let out a contemptuous snort. “We weren’t exactly pals. I mean, it’s not like I hang around with them types.”

  “But they were regular customers, weren’t they?” I persisted. “You must have seen them here all the time.” And probably eavesdropped on their conversations, I thought.

  He glanced around, as if wanting to make sure no one was within earshot. “Let’s just say those two fags weren’t exactly the happy couple everybody thought they were. Sure, the really effeminate one—Chess or somethin’?— he liked to put on a good show. But people like us, who saw them practically every day, knew they weren’t exactly Romeo and Juliet.”

  “I guess no couple has a perfect relationship,” I said noncommittally. “They’re all bound to have the occasional argument—even gay couples.”

  “Yeah, right. Except most arguments don’t get rough enough to involve the police.”

  My heart started to pound the way it always does when I’m about to learn something potentially incriminating about someone who’s made my top-ten list of murder suspects. I stepped closer, trying to look interested but not overly eager.

  “The police?” I repeated.

  The swinging doors burst open again, nearly smacking me in the nose. This time, a man in a jacket and tie flew out. An owner or manager, most likely, rather than simply another member of the happy family of Sand Bar employees.

  “Hey, Gus, wanna put those over by the espresso machine some time before next week?”

  The busboy cast him a scathing look.

  We both waited until the boss man hurried off. “Look,” I said evenly, “I’d really appreciate hearing about what happened that night.”

  He looked me up and down appraisingly. Maybe to see if I was someone who could be trusted, but more likely to see if I was someone who was worth his time.

  “How about meeting me later tonight?”

  I blinked. I wasn’t sure what I’d be getting into. But if it was a chance to learn something about Devon Barnett, I was willing to take the risk.

  “If I do,” I countered, “will you tell me what you know?”

  “I got no reason to protect those fags,” he said. “Tell ya what. I work nights at a place called Raffy’s. It’s over in West Brompton, right on Sunset Highway. Come tonight around closing time, right before ten. I gotta hang around anyway to lock up. We can talk then.”

  “A few minutes before ten at Raffy’s,” I repeated. “I’ll be there.”

  I tried to act matter-of-fact as I returned to the table, as if the most dramatic thing that had happened to me in the past five minutes was running out of paper towels in the ladies’ room. But my cheeks must have still been flushed from my unexpected encounter with the Incredible Hulk.

  “Everything okay?” Nick asked me the moment I sat down.

  “Everything’s fine,” I replied quickly. “Why?”

  “You were gone for kind of a long time. And you look...excited.”

  I couldn’t resist. “Nick,” I said, leaning forward and lowering my voice, “you won’t believe what just happened! I ran into the busboy in there—you know, the one who was listening in on our conversation with the waiter?”

  “I hadn’t noticed.”

  “Well, I did. And it turns out he knows something about Dev and Chess! He said they had an argument one night, right here at the restaurant, and the police got involved—” I stopped. Nick was wearing his grumpy expression again. “What’s wrong?”

  “What’s wrong is that I still feel like I’m vying for your attention. And losing.”

  “All right, so I’m not perfect,” I said, not even trying to hide my exasperation. “I happen to have this little flaw. You said yourself that I’ve always been even more interested in the cases you’ve investigated in your PI business than you. I admit it: I find investigating murders irresistible.”

  “Do you need to be reminded that you almost got killed the last time you decided to play Nancy Drew?”

  “No.” I swallowed hard, instantly sobered by the memory. Nick wasn’t exaggerating in the least, and coming horrifyingly close to having my own life snuffed out wasn’t an experience I would ever look back on lightly.

  “But I didn’t,” I pointed out. “As a matter of fact, I think I handled myself rather well.” Before he had a chance to come back with a counter argument, I added, “You know, you’re not perfect, either.”

  Nick shifted in his seat. “What do you mean?”

  “You’re going to law school.”

  “A lot of people would consider that admirable.”

  “That’s because they don’t feel the same way I do about lawyers.”

  “Right. You think they all drink martinis and drive BMW’s—both offenses you feel should be punishable by law.”

  “Okay, so maybe I’m guilty of stereotyping. But you know that’s not what bothers me most. It’s the way they prey on other people’s misery.”

  “Isn’t that what a murder investigation is all about?” Nick countered. “Getting your kicks from the fact that some poor bastard got iced?”

  “I don’t ‘get kicks’! ” I protested. “I consider it an intellectual challenge! Plus, I happen to believe that people should be held accountable for their actions.”

  “That’s precisely why I want to be a lawyer.” Nick reached across the table to take my hand. Begrudgingly, I let him. “See, Jess? Maybe we’re not so different, after all. Except I intend to protect the rights of the living, while you’re interested in justice for the victims of the very worst crime there is.”

  “Well...I guess I never thought of it that way,” I admitted.

  “Maybe it’s time you started doing just that.”

  “I suppose I could. I mean, you do have a point.”

  “So are we okay with this?”

  “I am if you are.”

  “I’ll try. That doesn’t mean I’m willing to sacrifice my vacation among the beautiful people, but I’ll try to be more patient. And Jess?”
<
br />   “Umm?”

  “I don’t like martinis. But a BMW—”

  I punched him in the arm. But only very lightly.

  I left Max and Lou with Nick, figuring spending the afternoon inside the guesthouse eliminated any possibility of heat stroke. Besides, I knew he’d enjoy their company.

  As soon as I got back in my van, my cell phone trilled. I grabbed it, certain the East Brompton Police were finally returning my call.

  “Jessica Popper,” I answered crisply.

  “Hey, Jess! How’s it going?”

  “Marcus?” Hearing his voice caught me completely off guard. I was astonished at how clearly he was coming through. Still, I made a point of speaking loudly and clearly, in case the tropical island he’d been whisked off to didn’t share our abundance of cell phone towers. “WHERE—ARE—YOU?”

  “On the Island. Thought I’d check in and see how it’s going.”

  “IT’S—GOING—GREAT!” I replied, enunciating each word. “HOW—ABOUT—YOU? ARE—YOU— HAVING—FUN?”

  “I always have fun,” he returned coolly. “So how are the chicks out there in the Bromptons? Pretty hot, I bet!”

  “NO—CHICKS,” I returned. “JUST—DOGS.”

  “Maybe I’ll come out there one of these days. You know, check things out for myself.”

  The wheels in my brain were turning. “Wait a minute. When you said you were on the island, which island did you mean?”

  “Long Island, of course. I’m back home.”

  “What happened to your tropical vacation with the mature woman?” I was back to using my normal cell phone voice, which is still about ten times louder than my normal telephone voice. I felt like a fool for picturing Marcus lying under a palm tree, sipping a pink drink garnished with a tiny paper umbrella, when he was probably calling me from his flashy Corvette as he topped eighty mph on the Long Island Expressway.

  “Didn’t work out. It turned out that what she really wanted was—”

  “That’s okay,” I interrupted. “You don’t have to explain.”

  “No, get this,” he insisted. “Turns out what she wanted me for was to make some old guy jealous! Some white-haired dude on this yacht that was, like, as big as Cleveland!”