Putting on the Dog

by Cynthia Baxter

  I’m not saying it’s admirable, and I’m not saying it’s based on logic. All I’m saying is that it’s there. And idling outside Raffy’s Reptile-A-Rama, doing my best to peer inside through its giant display window, I had a feeling that Raffy had amassed a huge inventory of boas, pythons, and all those other creepy, slithery members of the Serpentes suborder.

  “You can do this,” I told myself as I pulled into a parking spot, sounding like one of those self-help tapes. I held my head up high, pushed open the glass door, and strode inside.

  My first maneuver was glancing around Raffy’s, curious to see what I was up against. Even though the shop wasn’t very big, its inventory was impressive. Over two dozen tanks were on display, lined up on the built-in shelves covering two of the walls. Most of them housed small reptiles, harmless critters I could readily identify. A black-and-brown Abbots tree dragon. A black timor monitor covered with white speckles. A Jackson’s chameleon that was cute, but not nearly as engaging as Leilani. I noticed that Raffy had also expanded into amphibians. One tank was filled with tiny arrow frogs, each one smaller than a Ping-Pong ball, in such bright neon colors they looked like ceramic decorations for a fish tank instead of living, breathing beings.

  I jumped when I caught someone staring at me with cold, unblinking eyes. He hovered in the corner of Raffy’s, as big as a large coffee table, but standing so still I couldn’t tell if he was alive or not. Then the five-foot-long land iguana moved his head. He was real, all right. Not particularly dangerous, I knew, but disconcerting nonetheless.

  Still, I hadn’t yet encountered anything I couldn’t handle—or even anything that would send my blood pressure soaring.

  “So far, so good,” I breathed.

  As the old saying goes, I spoke too soon.

  I had already spotted the busboy, standing behind the counter and chatting with a couple of men I presumed were customers. Gone was his tight white T-shirt. In fact, Gus wasn’t wearing any shirt at all. Instead, his torso was partially covered by a black leather vest that showcased not only his bulbous biceps, but a chest and stomach so rippled with muscles they looked like a graphic relief map of Tibet.

  While his upper body definitely fell into the “fascinating” category, for some reason the two customers were focused on his waistline. A particularly attractive belt? I wondered as I ventured over. It was a distinct possibility, given his obvious passion for leather.

  “Hello, again,” I said, my voice uncharacteristically weak.

  Gus barely glanced up. I, meanwhile, couldn’t resist looking to see what was monopolizing the men’s interest.

  I found out fast, stopping dead in my tracks as I did. That was no belt wrapped around Gus’s waist. It was a reticulated python. And it was probably close to eight feet long.

  I guess I gulped pretty loudly, because all three of the men suddenly glanced over at me.

  “Remember me?” I squawked. I hoped we could get this over with—fast.

  “Hey, check this out,” Gus said cheerfully. “You like snakes?” He gestured toward the gray-and-black tube slithering ominously around his torso.

  I immediately looked down at my shoes, hoping he didn’t see me shudder. “Well...not particularly.”

  “But this is a great snake,” he insisted.

  “And believe me,” one of the men added, “Gus knows his snakes.”

  I glanced up long enough to see that the busboy cum snake charmer was beaming proudly. I, meanwhile, was hoping we could change the subject, if not the entire locale.

  “But listen, it’s just about closing time,” Gus said. “Sorry, guys, but we gotta call it a night.”

  “Sure, Gus. Whatever,” one of the men muttered. He turned to me, looked me up and down, and leered. I half-expected his tongue to dart out like one of the lizards’ in the tank behind him.

  This time, I didn’t care who saw me shudder. Flesh that touches snakeskin shall never touch mine, I thought, horrified by what was obviously going on in his mind.

  I watched the two men wander out of the store, assuming that Gus’s next step would be putting away his writhing accessory. Instead, he kept the python wrapped around him as he scooped up a key ring and sauntered around the shop, shutting off lights.

  “So what’s your interest in those two fags from the Sand Bar, anyway?” he asked casually. “They friends of yours?”

  I could hardly stand to look at him. I tried fixing my gaze on the display of paperback books on the counter, then realized that most of them had snakes as cover girls. I turned—and leaped into the air when I found myself face-to-face with the king-sized iguana. Without the benefit of fluorescent lighting, even he was starting to look ominous.

  “Yes. Well, no, not really. I—look, I don’t want to take up a lot of your time,” I said, eyeing the door nervously. It suddenly seemed very far away, and I noticed that the air inside Raffy’s was growing noticeably warmer. Whether Gus had turned off the air-conditioning or his playful pet had caused me to break out in a sweat, I couldn’t say. “I can see you’re busy. If you could just tell me more about that incident you mentioned, the one with the police...”

  “There’s not much to tell.” Gus had reached the fivehundred-gallon tank that was tucked into the back corner. With surprisingly gentle hands, he began unraveling the python from his muscular trunk. My mouth became drier and drier as I watched. I’d been way off when I’d estimated that the snake was eight feet long. Fifteen was probably more like it. “The two of them came into the Sand Bar one Saturday night, maybe three, four weeks ago. Maybe less. Anyway, they sat down at their favorite table. It’s inside the restaurant, way in the back. That Barnett guy always insisted on sitting against the wall so he could see everybody who came in. He always had his eye out for a celebrity, somebody he could pounce on. He’d snap some pictures, make a few bucks...can’t blame him for that, I guess.”

  “It was how he made his living,” I interjected, surprised that my mouth still worked.

  I’d lost Gus’s attention, at least for the moment. Instead, he was focused on his serpentine friend. He had apparently encountered a glitch in his attempt at unraveling the snake from his person. Instead of cooperating, Buddy was writhing upward along Gus’s chest, toward his neck.

  “Come on, Buddy,” Gus murmured, sounding positively affectionate as he wrestled with the slithering beast. “Time to tuck you in for the night. Don’t play games with me.”

  Please, Buddy, I thought, taking deep breaths and looking away. No games.

  “Anyway, the place was pretty crowded that night,” Gus continued, “so I was running around, clearing one table after another. The boss was in, too, so I had to hustle. You know, look like I was keeping busy. But every time I passed their table, I heard them talking about the same thing.”

  “Which was?...” I prompted, forcing myself to look at him.

  “Y’ready for this?” Gus’s mouth twisted into the same smirk I’d seen at the Sand Bar when he was eavesdropping on my conversation with Steve the Waitperson. “The guy with the yellow hair, Chess, is working on the photographer, trying to convince him that the two of them should make their relationship legal.”

  “You mean...like a marriage?” I asked, not bothering to hide my surprise. “A same-sex union?”

  “Yeah, I think that’s what they call it. Chess keeps saying that him and Barnett should get a weekend house in Vermont, establish themselves as residents, and throw a big wedding. The guy even volunteered to plan the whole thing. I swear, it sounded like he’d already picked out his wedding dress.”

  I chose to ignore that last comment. Besides, I was too busy wondering if Chess knew that Devon had already taken his vows once—only that time, with a woman. “I take it Dev—uh, Barnett—didn’t think it was such a good idea.”

  “You could say that. In fact, he just about froze Chess out. He wouldn’t even talk about it. Chess keeps chattering away, trying all these different ways to convince him, and Dev just sits there. Then he start
s saying ‘No,’ giving Chess a hard time. Their voices keep getting louder. Meanwhile, I’m listening to them, cleaning up the table right next to them. I can see that Chess is getting more and more upset. And finally, he picks up a knife—”

  I gasped. “A steak knife?” At this point, even the snake had lost its power over me. I was too focused on what Gus was telling me to take more than a casual interest in the fact that the python was finally allowing himself to be lowered into the tank, shooting its tongue out every few seconds and looking more evil than the devil himself.

  “Actually, it was a butter knife.” Gus, now free of the python, slammed down the lid that would keep Buddy out of trouble for the rest of the night. “Look, it was the only utensil on the table. But that didn’t keep the guy from acting really ferocious. He stood up and starting jabbing Dev in the shoulder—”

  “With a butter knife?”

  Gus just shrugged.

  “Did he break the skin?”

  “I think the worst he did was get grease all over the guy’s shirt.” Gus let out a harsh laugh, clearly scornful of Chess’s effectiveness as a warrior. “But my boss called the police anyway. At that point, we didn’t know what the guy was capable of. I mean, we got forks in that place!”

  “Did the police come?”

  “Sure. They gotta answer every nine-one-one call. They talked to Dev; they talked to Chess; they talked to me and the boss... ’Course, by the time they got there, everybody had calmed down.”

  “Did Dev press charges?”

  “Nah. Personally, I don’t get it. Seems to me somebody attacks you, you should make sure it goes on the record. You know, in case there’s a next time.”

  I thought for a few seconds. “Do you know why Barnett was so strongly against the idea of a same-sex union?”

  “Beats me. Like I said, those two weren’t exactly my best friends.” He turned his attention to the giant iguana, who was still lurking in the shadows, right behind me. I’d forgotten all about him, but all of a sudden, the place was giving me the creeps. Too little light and too many creepy crawlies. It was definitely time to get out of there, even with the huggable python put back in his tank for the night.

  “Well, thanks for the information,” I told Gus, edging toward the door. Gesturing toward the glowering iguana, I added, “I, uh, guess you’ll be putting this guy away next.”

  “Molly?” Gus asked, looking surprised. “Naw. She comes home with me.”

  I eased out of there as quickly as I could, climbing into my van and making a left turn out of the parking lot. Already the details of my experience at Raffy’s were fading. Instead, I focused on the new information I’d gathered.

  So sweet little Chess has a history of violence, I mused as I veered onto Sunset Highway and headed back to East Brompton. For at least a few moments, he completely lost control. He physically attacked Devon.

  Very telling, I thought. Even if it was assault with a deadly condiment spreader.

  It was after eleven by the time I reached the guesthouse. I was relieved to see Nick’s car outside, a sign that he hadn’t given up on us completely and gone back home to Port Townsend.

  As I headed toward the front steps, I was glad that he and I had decided to do without the house key. The dim porch light was enough to keep someone from stumbling, but hardly the best for rifling through a jam-packed purse.

  I kept my eyes down, wary of maneuvering the uneven steps while wearing shoes with heels. Which is how I happened to notice the small, shadowy mass on the small landing.

  I leaned forward to get a better look—and gasped.

  It was only a mouse, I realized right away. Still, it was a dead mouse, and it was lying directly in my path.

  Poor little guy, I thought, leaning over to study the tiny rodent more carefully. You didn’t need a D.V.M. degree to see that his little neck had been snapped. Lucifer’s handiwork, no doubt.

  I scooped the critter up with some leaves, then found a soft spot under the shrubs. Using a stick, I dug a small hole and buried him.

  That’s how nature works, I thought grimly. There are the hunters, and there are the hunted.

  I reminded myself that human beings were no exception.

  I crept inside the guesthouse, not wanting to wake Nick. It wasn’t a question of being considerate. It was more that I was so tired and so overwhelmed by all the information I’d been barraged with that evening that I didn’t have the energy to argue.

  “Hey, guys,” I greeted my dogs in a whisper. They were both waiting for me, descending upon their lord and master as soon as I walked in the door. I crouched down, hugging and scratching each of them. Lou’s tail thumped loudly against the wooden floor, while Max’s nails skittered noisily across its smooth surface.

  “Sh-h-h,” I warned. “Nick’s sleeping. Don’t wake him.”

  I found him lying in bed, so far over on his side that his feet hung off the mattress. He’d left the light on for me, draping one side of the shade with a dark T-shirt. The dim light cast the room in eerie shadow.

  “Are you okay?” he asked softly as I tiptoed into the room. He didn’t move, and he kept his eyes closed.

  “Sure,” I answered. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “It’s late.” He was silent for a long time before adding, “I was worried.”

  I felt a pang of regret that we couldn’t simply sink into each other’s arms and fall asleep. But I knew from Nick’s tone—and his posture—that he wasn’t ready to do that. At least, not yet.

  I slipped in beside him, taking care not to let our bodies touch. “I went to the screening,” I said, snapping off the light. “I saw Hugo Fontana’s new Pulverizer movie.”

  “How was it?”

  “Violent.”

  “Figures.”

  I didn’t mention Shawn or Gus the Busboy or anyone else connected to Devon. Instead, I lay in the dark, contemplating whether to say anything at all or to simply go to sleep.

  I suddenly felt Lou’s nose poking against my hand. As usual, he was looking for an invitation.

  “Come on, Louie-Lou,” I instructed.

  He leaped onto the bed and dropped down between Nick and me, letting out a contented sigh. Max followed without hesitation, jumping up and then turning around half a dozen times before settling at my feet.

  I nestled my head against Lou’s warm body, glad that at least somebody still wanted to sleep with his body close to mine.

  Chapter 10

  “It’s not the size of the dog in the fight, it’s the size of the fight in the dog.”

  —Mark Twain

  The temperature was still unseasonably frosty early on Wednesday morning—at least, inside the guesthouse. Nick was polite, answering my questions about breakfast, dogs, and plans for the day with single syllables. I was actually relieved that by the time I got out of the shower, he’d already left for the beach, taking Max and Lou and John Grisham with him.

  The Grand Canyon-size distance between Nick and me, combined with the dog show’s one-day hiatus, made this the perfect opportunity to find out what I could about Sydney Hornsby Barnett. I’d already managed to locate the woman who held the dubious distinction of being Devon Barnett’s wife by combining my sophisticated investigative skills with my natural insightfulness. In other words, I called Norfolk County Information.

  I had to restrain myself from letting out a squeal of joy when I found out there was a listing for a Sydney Barnett at 25 Windmill Lane in Cuttituck. Just to be sure, I dialed the number on the spot.

  “You’ve reached Sizzle. Living during the technologicalage has taught you what to do and when to do it. You’ve also learned to wait for the beep.”

  “ ‘Sizzle’?” I repeated aloud, wondering if I’d dialed wrong. Just to be sure, I tried again—and got the same recording.

  I didn’t leave a message. Instead, I copied the address and phone number into my notebook.

  The drive to Cuttituck was much more relaxing than I’d expected. The North
Fork, Long Island’s other fish tail, is less developed and less overtly prosperous than the South Fork. Once a rich farming area, the flat stretch of land still retains its peaceful rural quality, even though the local growers have switched from potatoes to wine grapes. Back in the 1970s, an inventive couple who’d been college sweethearts realized the region’s climate and soil were similar to those of France. They bought some land, figuring they’d plant a few grapes and see what happened.

  What began as a brave experiment turned into a vibrant industry. The North Fork is now home to more than two dozen wineries. The immense fields of neatly planted grape arbors lining both sides of the country road provided me with a pleasing view as I headed east in my van. Every few miles, a sign identified a different winery, inviting travelers to stop in for a tasting or a tour.

  I’d been on the road less than forty-five minutes when I reached the town of Cuttituck. Actually, “town” was an exaggeration. It was more of a hamlet, with a central business district that consisted of two antique shops, a video store, a red brick fire house, and the Cuttituck Diner, a classic-looking eatery from the 1950s that you just knew had terrific meat loaf.

  As I turned off North Shore Road onto Windmill Lane, I suddenly had an attack of butterfly stomach. It was one thing to mingle with strangers at a party or a dog show, sprinkling the conversation with a few carefully crafted questions. Knocking on a stranger’s door without any introduction and certainly without any legitimate reason for being there was in another league altogether.

  I reminded myself that I’d managed just fine at Chess’s house, doing such a good job of thinking on my feet that I actually got myself in the door. Still, I questioned the wisdom of this entire trip as I bumped along the side road, the badly paved surface giving way to dirt as I neared the North Coast. Then I spotted a lone mailbox, handpainted in purple with the number twenty-five. Underneath, in hot pink, were the words, “SIZZLE/BARNETT.”

  “This is the place,” I muttered, making a sharp left into the driveway. I drove only a few more feet before rounding a bend and spotting a squat, dilapidated-looking farmhouse covered with weatherworn cedar shingles. Between its architectural style and its advanced state of decay, I figured it had to be at least a hundred years old. The white paint on the windowframes was peeling, and the roof looked as if it might collapse if I huffed and puffed just a little too hard. Farther back on the property was a barn of the same vintage. The grass in between was overgrown, happily living side by side with an impressive crop of weeds.