Putting on the Dog

by Cynthia Baxter

  “Funny how our paths keep crossing, isn’t it?” she commented.

  “I guess when you come right down to it, the Bromptons are really like a small town.”

  She stepped over to the mirror so that the two of us were standing side by side. “I see we have something else in common,” she said, her eyes fixed on her reflection as she reached up to smooth her perfect hair. “Besides our social calendars, I mean.” I guess I looked as puzzled as I felt, because she added, “Shawn Elliot?”

  I didn’t respond.

  “I saw the two of you sitting together during the screening,” Kara went on, her eyes still fixed on the mirror. “I don’t know if Shawn has said anything to you, but he and I were together at one point.”

  I could feel the blood draining from my face. Sure enough, when I checked my reflection, I saw that I looked like an extra in a horror movie. My impulse was to correct her, to tell her that Shawn and I were “just friends.” But I knew if I tried to explain, my words would come out sounding weak and defensive.

  Then there was the fact that the only reason Shawn had brought me here tonight was so I could seek out information that might help me with my murder investigation. I wasn’t exactly anxious to confess that I was playing private detective.

  “I suppose he’s giving you the royal treatment,” she continued. “Shawn is one of those rare men who really knows how to treat a woman.”

  I glanced over at Kara’s reflection and saw she was smiling. Yet there was a distinct undertone to her voice that exposed an entirely different side of her. Still, I supposed that jealousy could have that effect—on anyone. I decided to try being honest.

  “Kara, I’m only going to be here in the Bromptons for a few days,” I told her, my voice as even as I could manage. “The people who are running the charity dog show were kind enough to find me a place to live while I’m here, and it happened to be the guesthouse on Shawn’s estate. He’s simply being neighborly by making sure I have something to do in the evenings.”

  “That’s so considerate of him.” She paused only for a second before adding, “And how does your boyfriend feel about Shawn’s generosity?”

  I stiffened. Kara had clearly put some effort into dissecting my social life. But while my initial reaction was irritation, I told myself that it was nothing personal. It was obvious that she still had strong feelings about Shawn.

  Fortunately, I never had to answer her question about Nick. The door flew open again, and a group of three women who’d clearly hit the champagne a little too hard burst into the room, laughing and screeching.

  “It’s getting crowded in here,” I said, flashing her a smile that I truly meant to be sympathetic. “I’ll catch up with you later, Kara.”

  I was relieved that I spotted Shawn the moment I stepped back out into the lobby. I made a beeline in his direction. But before I had a chance to engage him in conversation, a tall, dark-haired woman wearing a dress that revealed considerably more than it covered, cut me off.

  “Shawn Elliot! There you are!” She grabbed his arm, wrapping both hands around it possessively. “I need you to settle a bet. Alicia and I were just arguing over which one of your movies came out first, Afternoon in Paradise or Rocky Mountain High. You must clear this up before we break into a fistfight—”

  Shawn cast me an apologetic look as he allowed himself to be led away. But as far as I was concerned, he’d done enough just by getting me in the door.

  Still, I found myself in the uncomfortable position of having no one to talk to once again. I wandered over to the food table, a lavish display of sushi, raw vegetables, and other food that had never seen the inside of an oven or the top of a stove. I had just picked up a plate and was trying to decide where to begin, when a sharp female voice caught my attention.

  “Not there!” the familiar voice hissed. “The beluga belongs over there, next to the osetra!”

  Phyllis Beckwith, the mistress of Foodies, Inc., was standing a few feet behind me, her hands on her hips. Once again, she was dressed in a tailored, expensive-looking suit—this time, lemon-yellow—and a pair of spiky high heels. And once again, her carefully madeup face was twisted into an angry scowl.

  “You know how important this movie is to Mr. Bolger!” she continued in the same angry tone. “He’s got a lot riding on it. Now put this caviar next to the other caviar, where it’s supposed to be, before I put them both where they really belong!”

  Phyllis’s habit of talking to her employees as if they were cockroaches irritated me. But if I’d learned anything in life, it was that the old saying about catching more flies with honey than with vinegar couldn’t be more true.

  “Are you the culinary genius who’s responsible for all this fabulous food?” I asked, easing over to her and doing my best to look admiring.

  “Why, yes.” Her voice had softened so dramatically it was hard to believe this was the same person who, seconds before, had been barking orders like a drill sergeant.

  I narrowed my eyes and looked pensive, as if I was thinking really hard. “Now wait a minute...” I said tentatively. “Aren’t you the same caterer who did that magnificent spread at the dinner for the charity dog show? The other event here at Russell Bolger’s?”

  Phyllis beamed. “You have an excellent memory.”

  “Well, I was so impressed,” I gushed, horrified at how good at this I was turning out to be. “But I suppose you knock yourself out for every event you cater.”

  “Definitely. But especially for Russell. He’s much more than a client. He’s a friend. Russell Bolger has been very good to me over the years. Why, he was practically the person who got Foodies off the ground!”

  “Really! How did he manage that?” I prompted.

  “He took a chance by hiring me back when I was just starting out, trying to get my catering business off the ground with nothing but a few quiches.” Her eyes got glassy, as if she were taking a momentary trip back in time. “Back then, I didn’t even have my own kitchen. I used to get up at five A.M. to make my quiches at a friend’s restaurant before her regular staff came in. I owe him a lot. I was in the middle of a divorce, and after twelve years as a stay-at-home wife and mother...”

  “What an amazing success story!” I exclaimed. “Well, you’ve certainly gone all out tonight.”

  Phyllis glanced around, as if wanting to make sure no one overheard. In a much softer voice, she said, “Of course, this movie is very important to Russell.”

  “Why this one, in particular?” I asked.

  She reacted to my question with surprise. “Don’t you read the trades?”

  “Uh, no. I’m a veterinarian. I’m only out here on the East End for the dog show.”

  “How refreshing! I sometimes forget there are people in the world who aren’t connected to the entertainment business in some way.”

  I leaned forward, hoping she’d be willing to fill me in, even though I had no connection to Hollywood.

  “Russell’s production company, North Star, has been having some... financial difficulties,” she told me in a near-whisper.

  “Really? I had no idea!”

  “North Star’s last few pictures flopped at the box office,” Phyllis went on in the same low voice. “In fact, in the last five years or so, the Pulverizer films are the only ones that have made any money. Russell is counting on Pulverizer4 to pull his company out of its financial slump. If, for some reason, it doesn’t break a few records for ticket sales...”

  She shook her head. “Well, I’m not even going to think about that. I’m sure Hugo’s got another huge hit on his hands. I was too busy in the kitchen to come to the screening. What did you think of it?”

  I smiled brightly. “It certainly had all the elements required to make it a success.” I silently congratulated myself on my diplomacy. “And Hugo Fontana definitely possesses star quality.” At least I was sincere about that last part.

  Phyllis looked relieved. “I knew it. I’ve got a good feeling about Armageddon.
I’ve been telling Russell all along that this is the movie that’s going to do it for him—”

  “I’m sorry to interrupt, Ms. Beckwith,” interjected a Foodies staff member, dressed in the signature black pants and white shirt, “but the oregano dipping sauce looks a little watery.”

  Phyllis immediately looked stricken. “Oh, my God. I told Antonio he was getting a little heavy-handed with the balsamic vinegar!” She turned to me, all smiles again, and said, “Will you excuse me? It seems we’re having a little crisis. But let me give you my card. You veterinarians have conferences and parties and things, don’t you? Foodies can even do a completely vegetarian menu!”

  She produced a business card from out of nowhere and pressed it into my hand. Then she scurried off to put things right with the uncooperative dipping sauce.

  So Russell Bolger’s production company isn’t doing very well, I mused. I glanced around the palatial room with new interest. That little tidbit, combined with the luxurious lifestyle that Bolger had clearly become accustomed to, made for an interesting juxtaposition.

  I was still pondering what I’d learned from Phyllis Beckwith, pretending it was the intriguing selection of uncooked food on my plate that was making me so pensive, when I heard a high-pitched voice squeal, “There she is!”

  I glanced up and saw Emily physically dragging our host for the evening in my direction.

  “She’s over here, Daddy,” Emily told him. “You have to meet her!”

  “Hello, Emily,” I greeted her. “How nice to see you!”

  “Dr. Popper! I’m so glad you’re here!” The little girl threw her arms around me and gave me such a big hug she nearly knocked me over. She reminded me of one of those Great Danes who’s nearly fully grown but still thinks she’s a puppy, with no idea of her strength.

  She was all smiles as she presented me to her father. “This is Dr. Jessica Popper, Dad. My new friend that I told you about. She’s a veterinarian!”

  “So you’re the famous Dr. Popper,” Russell Bolger said, smiling warmly and extending his hand. “My daughter has talked about very little else since she met you.”

  “Emily is a terrific girl,” I told him sincerely as we shook hands. “Getting to know her has been one of the highlights of this event.”

  “Isn’t she great?” Emily asked him. “I told you she was the nicest person in the world!”

  Russell patted his daughter’s shoulder affectionately. “Sounds like the feeling is mutual, Emmie.”

  As I’d expected, Emily’s conclusion that her parents were disappointed in her was completely inaccurate—at least, if the pride I saw in her father’s eyes was any indication.

  “Guess what, Jessie!” Emily demanded, her wide eyes focused on me.

  “What?”

  “My dad says I can go visit my mom next week!”

  “That’s wonderful news!” I smiled at Emily, still uncertain about the wisdom of a twelve-year-old girl visiting a rehab center. But I reminded myself that it wasn’t my call.

  “It’s been a rough few months for my daughter,” Russell Bolger told me, putting a protective arm around his daughter. “I think it’ll mean a lot to her to be able to spend some time with her mother.”

  “There you are, Russell! Where have you been hiding all evening?” One of the other guests—a nearly emaciated redhead in a white dress that was intentionally see-through—came up and planted a wet kiss on his lips, meanwhile pressing her disproportionately large chest against him. I watched Emily’s face fall. My impulse was to distract her. But before I had a chance, one of the other guests grabbed my arm.

  “Terrible, isn’t it?” a woman in her late sixties said in a stage whisper, yanking me closer to her side. She was wearing a huge turquoise hat, and I was forced to keep one eye closed to avoid being poked by the oversized brim. “What that poor little girl must have gone through! Not to mention poor Delilah!”

  “ ‘Delilah’?” I realized, for the first time, that I’d never bothered to find out who Emily Bolger’s mother was. “You don’t mean—”

  “It’s so tragic! After all, Delilah Raines is one of the biggest stars in Hollywood! At least, she was before she hit forty and the really good roles stopped coming in. It’s such a sad story; one you see getting replayed again and again. Actresses are under so much more pressure than actors when it comes to aging. And then this! I mean, it’s bad enough that it happened in the first place. But the way the newspapers carried on and on, reporting every single detail—”

  I was about to volunteer that I’d missed the event she was talking about completely—and that, in fact, it wasn’t until this very moment that I’d even realized that Emily Bolger’s mother was the movie actress Delilah Raines—but I never got the chance.

  “Oh, my God,” the woman gushed. “There’s Hugo. Doesn’t he look fabulous since the surgery? I swear, that doctor took ten years off his face. I simply must tell him how magnificent he looks....”

  She was gone as abruptly as she arrived. Emily and her father, meanwhile, had disappeared into the crowd. But my head was spinning. Of course, I did my best to keep up with the news. But I tended to concentrate on the stories in the front of the newspaper, rather than the ones in the back. Even finding out that Emily’s mom was Delilah Raines didn’t give me much information—aside from being impressed by what a truly star-studded set of parents the sweet little girl had. Maybe everyone else knew “every single detail” about whatever had happened to Emily’s mother, but somehow I’d missed the whole thing.

  I glanced at my watch and saw it was getting late. If I was going to make it to West Brompton in time to meet Gus the Tattooed Busboy before Raffy’s closed, it was time for me to go.

  I was about to seek out Shawn when he burst into the room, nearly spilling the glass of champagne he was carrying. From the sloppy grin on his face, I surmised that it wasn’t his first.

  “Here she is!” he cried when he spotted me. “I been lookin’ for you!”

  Any doubts I may have had about his state of inebriation were instantly dispelled by his slurred speech. I only hoped he’d allow me to drive us both home without an argument. I’d never driven a Ferrari, but I couldn’t imagine it was any trickier than a van—especially one stocked with medical equipment.

  “You know, Dr. Pepper—I mean, Popper—is quite a girl,” Shawn went on. By this point, he was talking loudly enough that most of the people gathered in the room had stopped their own conversations, instead focusing on him. “Not only is she a helluva veteran—hah! I mean, veterinarian. At least, I don’t think she’s ever been in the Army. Have you, Jess?”

  “Shawn, I think—”

  “Have you?”

  By this point, the room was completely silent. I could feel my cheeks burning. “No. But I think it’s time to—”

  “Not only is she smart enough to be an animal doctor. This woman is also a private investigator!”

  “Please, Shawn!” I begged, grabbing his arm.

  “It’s not like she’s not a professional or anything. But that’s not stopping her from invezzi—I mean, investigatingmurders! I’d bet my Ferrari she’s gonna figure out who killed that bastard Bevon Darnett—”

  Several people in the crowd gasped. I could feel a tidal wave of anger rising up inside me.

  “Shawn, we’re leaving,” I said firmly, tightening my grasp and practically dragging him out of there.

  “Wait, that doesn’t sound right,” he muttered, as he allowed me to pull him along beside me, practically tripping over his own feet. “Kevin Larnett...no, that’s Mevon Carnett...”

  I was prepared to give him a piece of my mind as I backed his sports car out of its parking space so fast the tires sputtered against the dirt. As I drove off, my jaw was tightly clenched and my eyes were burning from the tears of anger I refused to let fall. But even before I’d made it out of the driveway, Shawn fell into a deep sleep, slumping over in the seat beside me and snoring more loudly than Lou.

  Even thoug
h I was infuriated over Shawn’s announcement to a crowd of possible murder suspects that I had taken it upon myself to investigate Devon Barnett’s death, I tried to put my anger aside. Instead, I concentrated on getting Shawn safely into his house and onto his couch, where he immediately launched into the next item on his agenda: sleeping off his overindulgence in Russell Bolger’s expensive champagne.

  “He’s all yours,” I told Rufus, dropping the keys to the Ferrari on the coffee table.

  The squat bulldog eyed me warily, then plopped down on the floor next to his master with a loud sigh. The look on his face made me feel he understood completely that he was in for a long night.

  Next, I got into my van and headed for West Brompton to meet Gus. I had a pretty good idea where Raffy’s was. As for what it was, I wasn’t nearly as certain. I figured it was probably a restaurant, one of those places with twelve varieties of hamburger, each with a name that’s cuter than the last. Or maybe a tuxedo rental place, nicknamed for its suave, continental owner, Rafael.

  A half hour later, I pulled into the strip mall I’d envisioned when Gus had given me the address. Methodically, I checked out the sign above each store. “Raffy’s, Raffy’s...” I muttered.

  And then my heart stopped.

  Raffy’s. There it was, all right, exactly where Gus had said it would be. Only he hadn’t given me the whole name.

  Raffy’s Reptile-A-Rama.

  My heart started up again. Only this time, it was beating so fast I felt dizzy.

  Personally, I have nothing against the Reptilia class. I’m quite fond of lizards, invariably appreciative of the charms of the dignified iguana, the energetic gecko with its funny feet that look like asterisks, and even the ferocious-looking monitor. And ever since Nick and I went to Hawaii, I’ve been pleased to count Leilani, the most charming Jackson’s chameleon this side of Polynesia, among our pets. Turtles? I can hardly imagine anything cuter. Gators and crocs hold an endless fascination for me, and I can’t get enough of those cable TV shows they star in.

  It’s snakes I have a problem with.