Chess isn’t who you think he is. Check into his past. Start with his hometown—and Mr. Sylvester.
It wasn’t signed.
My instinctive response was to check behind me and peer into the bushes that surrounded the guesthouse, just to make sure whoever had left me the note wasn’t lurking in the shadows, watching for my reaction. Then I held the single 81⁄2’’ x 11’’ white sheet closer, scrutinizing it and trying to find something—anything—that would give me a clue as to who had tucked it into my front door. As far as I could tell, it was an ordinary piece of paper, the kind used in just about every computer printer in the world. In fact, the only thing remotely distinctive about it was a barely noticeable streak running along the left side—a sign that the printer’s owner would soon be in need of a new ink cartridge. Either that, or shaking the cartridge side to side in a high-tech version of the Macarena.
As I stepped inside the guesthouse, I discovered I’d been right about Nick and the dogs still being absent. I was glad to have the opportunity to follow up on the note’s suggestion. An idea of what ruse to use was already forming in my mind as I dialed Information again.
“What city and state?” the voice at the other end of the line asked.
“Crabapple, Iowa. The public library.”
I waited, gripping my pen as I heard the clicking of computer keys at the other end of the line.
Finally, the operator said, “I’m sorry. I don’t have a town by that name.”
I frowned, wondering if I’d remembered the name of Chess’s hometown incorrectly. “Is there anything that sounds like it?” I asked. “Or maybe some other spelling—like maybe ‘Crab’ starts with a ‘K’?”
“I need an exact name,” the operator told me impatiently.
Thank goodness for the Web, I thought, after I gave up on that approach. Instead, I set up Nick’s laptop on the kitchen table and logged on. One good thing about the Internet is that it never gets snippy, no matter how many questions you ask.
I typed in the key words “Crab” and “Iowa.” What came up wasn’t very helpful.
Next, I tried “Tree” and “Iowa.” Maybe I hadn’t heard everything Chess had said correctly, but I was pretty sure I got at least that part right. Nothing. I started trying other combinations with “Iowa,” like “Pine,” “Maple,” and “Elm.”
“Bingo!” I cried as “Sweet Elm, Iowa” appeared in half a dozen listings.
“So there’s no such place as Crabapple, Iowa, but there is a Sweet Elm,” I mumbled, thinking aloud. “Could be a play on words, the result of Chess LaMont’s off-beat sense of humor.”
But I wondered if that was all it was. Another possibility was that Chess was deliberately trying to mislead people. It was certainly a good way of making it harder for someone to find out anything about his past.
Still puzzling over whether I’d managed to stumble upon Chess’s actual hometown, I forged ahead, punching in more words to see what I could learn. The Sweet Elm Chamber of Commerce treated me to a pretty comprehensive overview of the town I suspected Chess had fled a decade earlier. In addition to a park with a baseball field, picnic grounds, and public rest rooms near the bandstand, it had six restaurants including two that weren’t chains, two hardware stores, and five churches. And there was plenty to do. This summer, in addition to the Fourth of July parade, the town was sponsoring “I’m Sweet on Sweet Elm” Day, an annual event that featured a blueberry pie eating contest, music by the Sweet Elm Sweeties, and of course, the ever-popular Miss Sweet Elm pageant.
From what I could see, it was a wholesome Midwestern town out of a Norman Rockwell painting. Not necessarily the most comfortable place for a young man who was anticipating coming out of the closet.
Fortunately, in addition to a war memorial, an historical society, and a senior center, the town also boasted a public library. Its phone number was right there on the Website, and I copied it into my address book. Then I dialed it, glancing at my watch and hoping that the fact that it was an hour earlier in Iowa would work in my favor.
“Sweet Elm Public Library,” answered a voice so sugary that its owner clearly belonged in a town with that name. “How may I help you?”
“Could you please connect me with Reference?”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” the young woman said sincerely. “I’m afraid our Reference librarian, Ms. Pruitt, has left for the day.”
So much for the benefit of the time difference. “Maybe you can help me. I live in New York, and I’m planning a surprise party for a friend of mine who grew up in Sweet Elm. I thought it might be fun to get hold of some pieces of his past, like the picture from his high school yearbook. He graduated ten years ago.”
“We keep all the Sweet Elm High School yearbooks on file, all the way back to 1928,” the young woman informed me, “but you’ll still have to talk to Ms. Pruitt. That kind of research is really her area.”
And so much for immediate gratification. “When will she be in?”
“You can probably reach her tomorrow. She comes in at ten.”
“Thanks for your time. I’ll try her then.”
Next to the phone number of the Sweet Elm Public Library, I jotted down, “Call Ms. Pruitt, Reference. Thursday, 10:00 A.M., Central Time.”
Given what I’d learned about Hugo Fontana earlier that day, the handsome action hero with the bulging muscles held new interest for me. I made a beeline for Poxabogue.
“Dr. Fox is in surgery,” Shelley informed me when I appeared, unannounced, in Suzanne’s office. “She’s removing a mass....”
“It’s okay,” Suzanne called from the back of the office. “Jessie’s always welcome.”
I found her suturing a black shih tzu whose tiny body lay limp on the stainless-steel table. The dog’s tongue hung motionless from her slackened jaw, and her fur was matted against the side of her skull as if she’d been in that position for some time. Her intravenous catheter was hooked up to a clear plastic IV bag with a narrow tube.
Even though I’d performed surgery hundreds or even thousands of times myself, I was struck by how vulnerable the helpless pup looked. Out of habit, I glanced at the digital reading on the purple pulse oximeter nearby on the counter to make sure the animal was stable. Even though she looked like a rag rug, she seemed to be doing fine.
Suzanne glanced up. “This is a hard one,” she told me grimly. “Charley here was one of my first patients. Sweetest little dog you ever saw. And now, we’ve got this mass to deal with. I was hoping it was just a cyst, but we weren’t that lucky. I’m really going to sweat it out, waiting for the pathologist’s report to come back.”
“That’s tough,” I commented, knowing how difficult it always was to deal with the probability of cancer.
“I’m just about done here.... I’ll be right out, Jess.”
Two minutes later, Suzanne and I were sitting in her office. “A long day,” she said with a sigh, leaning back in her chair.
“Most of them are,” I observed.
“At least this one’s almost over. So what brings you to beautiful downtown Poxabogue?”
“I’m here to ask you a favor,” I replied with a grin. “What else?”
“Shoot.”
“When I looked through your files the last time I was here, I noticed that Hugo Fontana is a client of yours.”
For the first time since I’d walked in the door, she smiled. “I’m one of the few people who knows the Pulverizer can’t stand the sight of blood. He can barely watch me cut Brutus’s toenails.”
I decided not to mention that there were a few other facts about the Pulverizer that most people didn’t know.
“I’d like the opportunity to talk to him,” I told her. “Is there any way we could set up a house call?”
“Sure. I could call him and remind him that Brutus is due for a rabies shot. I remember that his last one was a year ago, just after I bought the practice. He was one of my first clients. I still remember how impressed I was when he walked in! Any
way, I could tell him it’s time for a booster and that I’ll be sending an associate with a mobile unit to his house to take care of it.”
“Perfect. Thanks a million, Suzanne,” I said sincerely.
She pulled a file from the metal cabinet, plopped back into her desk chair, and dialed the number handwritten on front.
“Mr. Fontana?” I heard her say in the same professional tone I used with clients. “This is Dr. Fox, Brutus’s veterinarian.... I’m fine, thank you. The reason I’m calling is that I happened to check Brutus’s chart and I see that he’s due for a rabies shot. I’m working with a mobile services unit this summer, to see if it’s an addition that might benefit my practice. Rather than having you bring him into the office, I can have a veterinarian come right to your home, whenever it’s convenient.... Tonight? If you hold a moment, I’ll check my schedule....”
She glanced at me, her eyebrows raised questioningly. I nodded.
“Tonight looks fine. How does six-thirty sound?”
I gave her the thumbs-up. I guess Hugo did, too.
“I’ll be sending an associate, Dr. Jessica Popper... Yes, as a matter of fact, she is involved with the dog show.... Yes, the SPCA is a worthy cause.... You’re right; the way some animals are treated is horrendous. Okay, then, Dr. Popper will see you and Brutus this evening at six-thirty.”
“Thanks, Suzanne,” I told her sincerely once she’d hung up the phone. “I owe you.”
“I’m glad you feel that way,” she replied, “because now I’ve got a favor to ask you.”
“Anything.”
“I’d like you and Nick to have dinner with me Friday night.”
“That’s the kind of favor it’s easy to say ‘Yes’ to.”
“There’s a catch.”
I raised my eyebrows expectantly.
“Remember that guy you mentioned the other day... the single one?”
“Marcus?” His name came out like a gasp. True, I hadn’t forgotten about the interest my college pal had expressed in Marcus Scruggs the last time I’d dropped in. But I was hoping against hope that she had.
“Yeah, that’s the guy.” Suzanne’s tone was casual, but there was a glint in her blue eyes I remembered seeing before. I knew her well enough to recognize it as a sign of determination. “Do you know if he’s back from his trip yet?”
I couldn’t bring myself to lie. “As a matter of fact, he is. Apparently, it didn’t work out the way he expected.”
“Great. In that case, I was wondering if you’d invite him along as a fourth.”
“But I don’t even know if he’s free—”
“Try him,” she urged. “Tell him you’ve got someone you want him to meet.”
“But Marcus is...he’s...” How could I possibly put it into words?
Suzanne didn’t wait. “Look, Jess, just because you don’t like him doesn’t mean I won’t.” Impatience had crept into her tone. “Besides, he’s a vet, right? He and I already have something in common!”
She had me there.
With a little shrug, Suzanne added, “I figure this Marcus guy is young, available, and breathing, so how bad could he be?” Young, more or less, I thought morosely. Available, definitely. Breathing, probably. As for answering Suzanne’s last question, I wouldn’t have known where to begin.
Suzanne went back to work, and I went back to my van. I dialed Marcus as soon as I got inside, figuring I might as well get it over with.
“Scruggs here.”
“Is this the Marc Man?” I asked dryly.
“You got him,” he replied, his tone morphing into a seductive murmur. “And what lovely lady am I lucky enough to have calling me today?”
“It’s Jessie.”
“Popper.” I could hear the disappointment in his voice. But it only took him a few seconds to remember that I was stationed in the Bromptons—as in “Glamour with a capital G.” “How’s life on the East End?”
“Fabulous. Famous stars of stage and screen, champagne flowing like water, luxurious mansions...it’s like being in a movie.” A Hitchcock movie, I thought, deciding not to add the part about the dead body. “In fact, the reason I’m calling is to invite you to dinner. I’ve got a friend out here who’s very anxious to meet you.”
“A movie star?”
“Uh, no.”
“Supermodel?”
“Not exactly. She’s a vet.”
“I get it. The brainy type.”
Once again, I could hear his disappointment. I wanted to reach through my cell phone and strangle him. Unfortunately, the technology hadn’t yet developed to that point.
“Come on, Marcus,” I insisted. “You owe me. I filled in for you at the last minute so you could run off to a tropical island with somebody’s oversexed grandmother, remember?”
“All right, all right,” he grumbled. “If the evening’s a total waste, I can always hit the bars afterward.”
“Right. You can ‘make the scene.’ ”
I gave him the name and address of the restaurant Suzanne had picked, then experienced a sinking feeling as I ended the call. I hope I’m not making a mistake, I thought. Then I reminded myself that my pal Suzanne was a grown-up—old enough to make her own mistakes. And in this case, I was certain it wasn’t going to take her very long to figure out she’d made a whopper.
I hurried home, figuring I’d grab a quick snack before jumping in the shower and heading over to Hugo’s. I hadn’t counted on running into Shawn. He was poking around the flower beds in front of his house, brandishing a large pair of scissors.
Given the way my mind was working these days, my first thought was that he was acting awfully suspicious. Then I realized he was simply cutting flowers.
He brightened when he saw me. “There she is!” he cried. “The inimitable Dr. Pepper!”
“That’s Popper,” I corrected him crossly.
A look of confusion crossed his face as he thrust a bouquet of bright pink peonies at me. “These are for you,” he said. “I thought they’d cheer up the guesthouse.”
I ignored the flowers. “I don’t know how you can look me in the eye,” I challenged, making no effort to hide my anger.
Shawn blinked. “What am I missing here, Jess?”
I could see that his confusion was sincere. That didn’t make me any more forgiving. “Last night? The Pulverizer screening?”
He shrugged. “I thought we had a good time. I know I did—at least until I woke up this morning and realized that somewhere along the line, a rhino had trampled on my head.”
“You really don’t remember? Then allow me to refresh your memory,” I said crisply. “First of all, you had way too much champagne. And then you announced to everybody that I’m investigating Devon Barnett’s murder!”
“Is that bad?” he asked, looking baffled.
“Of course it’s bad!” I cried. “It would be one thing if I were a ... a homicide detective, with an entire police department behind me. It wouldn’t even matter if I were a real private investigator. But I’m just doing this on my own! Now, when I go around asking questions, the people who know what I’m doing are going to be suspicious. They’ll probably be more careful of what they say to me—which means I’ll find out a lot less than I would have if they’d thought I was just a veterinarian making conversation!”
“I see your point.” Shawn’s face fell. “Gee, Jess, I’m really sorry. I hope I didn’t screw things up for you too badly.” He thought for a few seconds before adding, “Is there any way I could make it up to you?”
Startled, I asked, “What do you mean?”
“I was thinking . . . I found this stretch of beach that, believe it or not, nobody else seems to know about. I go there all the time, and I almost always have it all to myself. I’d love to show it to you.”
“Shawn, I’m not really sure—” I was thinking of Nick, of course. But I stopped midsentence. At the moment, I reminded myself, Nick wasn’t speaking to me. He wasn’t even around. So much for me spoiling
our romantic little getaway.
Then again, I was furious with Shawn. At least, I was supposed to be. But he was looking at me with those intense blue eyes of his, waiting for my answer. I could feel my anger melting away.
“Shawn, I’d love to see your private beach,” I finally said, telling myself I was only human, after all. Human— and of the female gender. “Right now, I’ve got to make a house call—veterinarian stuff. But as soon as I’m done, I’ll stop over. How does that sound?”
“It sounds...terrific.” He smiled at me, that same smile that had made millions of women all over the world instantly fall in love with him.
I wondered if I was any different.
Chapter 11
“Speak softly and own a big, mean Doberman.”
—Dave Miliman
Hugo Fontana’s house was a dignified Tudor so big that Henry VIII himself would have undoubtedly felt at home in it. Just beyond the expansive property, the calm waters of East Brompton Bay provided the summer hideaway with another one of the spectacular water views the Bromptons were so famous for.
The house was so vast that I expected it to be staffed with uniformed servants. So I was surprised that Hugo answered the door himself when I showed up promptly at six-thirty. He was dressed casually in jeans and a navy-blue polo shirt. True to his usual style, the shirt looked as if he’d purposely bought it one size too small to show off his cantaloupe-sized biceps and his massive, sculpted chest. His thick, shiny black hair dissolved into a mass of tiny curls at the back of his neck. No doubt a team of hair stylists agonized over those recalcitrant locks every time a director shouted “Action,” forcing them to blend in with the rest of his sleek, black hair.
“I’m Dr. Popper,” I announced in my professional voice. “I’m working with Dr. Fox—”
“Yeah, yeah, she told me all about it,” Hugo interrupted.
I was interested to hear that he really did talk in the gruff, heavily Brooklyn-accented voice that had become his signature. I was also struck by the fact that, up close, he had the same bigger-than-life presence in person that he projected on-screen. The way he fixed his dark, smoldering eyes on me definitely had a jarring effect.
Putting on the Dog Page 19
