My focus quickly shifted to another muscular being covered with exceptional hair. Brutus stood at Hugo’s side, eyeing me suspiciously. He kept glancing up at his master, as if he wanted help deciding whether he should growl or cover me with dog kisses.
“She’s okay, Brutus,” Hugo told him.
Right on cue, he stepped forward and stuck his nose in my crotch. Nothing I hadn’t dealt with more times than I could count. I sidestepped him, crouching down so that he and I were at eye level.
“Hey, Brutus,” I greeted him, giving him an expert neck-scratching designed to show him I was someone who knew her way around dogs.
“What a fine animal,” I commented, glancing up at Hugo. It was true; the Chesapeake Bay retriever was beautifully proportioned, with a broad head, an oily brown coat, and small amber eyes. Like all retrievers, he had well-developed hindquarters, designed to put him in good stead for swimming.
The breed had an interesting history. In the early 1800s, two Newfoundland puppies were rescued from a shipwreck off the Maryland coast. After they turned out to be exceptional water retrievers, they were bred with several other types of dog to create a brand-new breed. Their nickname was “Chessies”—wonderfully ironic, I thought, given what I now knew about Hugo’s romantic history.
“Brutus must love it out here,” I said, rising to my feet. I gestured toward the tremendous property and, behind it, East Brompton Bay. “All this room to run around.”
“This guy’s in heaven,” Hugo agreed heartily. “He’s always jumpin’ into the bay. The seagulls drive him nuts.”
I laughed. “Those are Chessies for you. Born to retrieve. But let’s take a closer look at him. If you could just bring him into my van...”
“Sure. Come on, boy. Let’s follow the lady.”
Once the three of us had crossed the immense lawn to the driveway and climbed into my van, Hugo looked around and let out an appreciative whistle.
“Whoa. Nice place you got here,” he said. “And I thought the trailers we get when we shoot on location were nice. You got everything you need right here, dontcha?”
“Pretty much. Now, let’s just get Brutus up here....” I stepped on the foot pedal that lowered the mechanized examining table, steadying the dog and wondering how my back would ever survive without such a valuable invention. “How’re you doing, Brutus? You sure are being brave. Thatta boy. You’re doing fine.” I continued to murmur encouragement as I checked Brutus’s eyes, then looked in his ears with an otoscope.
“I’m glad I’m having the chance to chat with you, Mr. Fontana,” I commented congenially. “I was afraid I’d be dealing with a handler.” I had to resist the urge to say “one of your people.” “I always like to speak directly with the animal’s owner, since that’s usually where the real bond lies.”
“I’m very involved in Brutus’s care,” Hugo assured me. “I wouldn’t trust my dog to nobody. He’s too much a part of my life, y’know? Always has been, ever since the days he was eatin’ canned dog food and I was livin’ on peanut butter. These days, we’re both filet mignon guys.”
I couldn’t resist giving him a quick lecture on the importance of giving a dog a balanced diet, one that included calcium rather than just meat. Hugo listened, but he didn’t look convinced. Meanwhile, I ran my fingers along Brutus’s spine and belly, palpating his internal organs to see if anything felt out of the ordinary. Everything seemed fine—until I noticed a moist area on his left hind.
“Looks like we’ve got a hot spot,” I noted.
Hugo looked alarmed. “What’s that?”
“See this moist area, over here?”
“Sure. I figured it was just a bruise.”
“It’s infected, no doubt an allergic reaction.” The sturdy retriever had decided he’d had enough of being poked and prodded. He made a move toward the edge of the table, skittering across the stainless-steel surface. Fortunately, I’d maintained a strong hold on him just in case it turned out he didn’t enjoy being in the spotlight as much as his master. “It’s okay, Brutus. Just hang in there....”
“ ‘Allergic’? To what?” Hugo sounded a little defensive, as if I might be questioning his ability to care for Brutus responsibly.
“It’s very common,” I assured him. “It could be from swimming in the bay, or even just a reaction to pollen.”
“So what do we do?” he asked nervously.
“First, I’m going to clip the hair around the wound to keep the infection from creeping under the hair coat. Then, I’m going to use an antibiotic anti-inflammatory spray on it.... Would you hold onto him? He’s a little skittish, poor guy.” The apprehensive animal looked at me woefully, and his entire body shook. “Hey, Brutus, we’re not going to hurt you. Mr. Fontana, come around to this side, so he can see your face. He’ll feel a lot more comfortable that way.”
I noticed that as Hugo held eighty pounds of well-developed muscle in place, his own muscles bulged impressively. I remembered the female audience member who had walked out of the screening ahead of me, practically swooning over Hugo Fontana, Hunk Extraordinaire. The thought made me smile.
“All done, Brutus!” I finally announced, turning to Hugo. “Mr. Fontana, I’ll give you this corticosteroid spray to use for at least another week. At that point, you should bring him into Dr. Fox so she can have a look. We won’t bandage it, because it’s important to keep it open to the air. I’ll also give you an antibiotic for him to take orally, twice a day for a week. First, I’ll weigh him, so I can determine the correct dosage....”
When I was done, I fondled Brutus’s ears. “All done, sweetie. What a good boy! Yes, you’re a very good boy....”
Hugo was patting the pockets of his jeans. “Shoot. Guess I left my checkbook in the house. D’ya mind coming in for a sec?”
“Not at all.” I thought you’d never ask, I was tempted to add.
Not surprisingly, the inside of the house was as grand as the outside. Just past the foyer, I could see a gigantic room with cathedral ceilings. The entire back wall was glass. A large swimming pool stretched beyond, framed by the awe-inspiring water view.
The heavy furnishings stood in sharp contrast to the expansive sea and sky. Hugo had decorated his house with bulky leather furniture, dark wooden tables, and lamps with black wrought-iron bases. The look was more along the lines of a hunting lodge than a seaside retreat. The only thing missing was a pair of elephant tusks and the mounted heads of a few trophy animals.
A stack of magazines and newspapers lay on a coffee table made from tree branches lashed together with strips of leather. I half-expected to find neatly-stacked copies of Soldier of Fortune on top. I wasn’t too far off. Along with recent issues of Gun Collector and Field and Stream, I spotted that week’s issue of The East BromptonBanner. From where I stood, the headline “Devon Barnett Killed By Freak Accident!” screamed at me.
I took it as my cue.
“Too bad about Devon Barnett,” I commented, doing my best to sound casual.
“Yeah.” Hugo’s eyes narrowed. “I understand you think it wasn’t no accident—and that you’re tryin’ to find out who was responsible.”
“Shawn exaggerated,” I insisted. “I’m just curious. The entire incident strikes me as suspicious.” I watched him closely as I added, “Apparently, he had a few enemies. Then there’s the fact that the way he died was so bizarre.”
He shrugged. “Things happen. That’s why they call ’em accidents.”
I simply nodded. Innocently, I asked, “Did you know him?”
“No. Yeah. I mean, everybody knew of him. It was impossible not to. The guy was everywhere, snappin’ pictures wherever you went.”
“I’m sure his friends are devastated,” I added, trying to bait him.
He wasn’t biting. “Yeah, I guess.” Impatiently, Hugo said, “You know, I think my checkbook’s upstairs. You mind waitin’?”
“Not at all. In the meantime, is there a rest room I can use?”
“Sure. Right
down that hall.”
I’d learned early on that trips to the lavatory were a great way to gather information. You never knew what you’d find simply by wandering around somebody’s home or office, pretending to look for a bathroom.
So far, it appeared that the only good this foray was going to do, was to prove that Hugo’s taste in home furnishings was consistent. I passed a huge dining room with a ridiculously long, rough-hewn wooden table and twenty leather chairs with metal studs, giving them a definite Wild West flavor. A spiky wrought-iron chandelier that looked like something from the Spanish Inquisition hovered above. The adjacent room was packed with electronics, including a television with a screen that was almost as big as the one in Russell Bolger’s screening room.
Expensive toys for very rich boys, I thought.
I slowed my pace considerably as I approached the next room. This one looked like a home office, outfitted with a computer, fax machine, and scanner. All the equipment looked spanking new and state-of-the-art. I glanced back to make sure Hugo wasn’t tailing me, then ducked inside.
I figured you could learn a lot about a person by his home office. But why someone like Hugo Fontana even needed a home office was beyond me, aside from the fact that so many high-tech machines had wheedled their way into our lives that most of us had come to believe there was no way we could survive without them.
I looked around quickly, afraid to linger. My heart pounded wildly, the way it always does when I venture into a place I know I’m not supposed to be. I figured I’d just take a few seconds to see if anything interesting caught my eye.
Something did. Aside from the various machines, the long, sleek L-shaped desk that hugged two entire walls was completely bare except for a single stack of papers held together with two gold fasteners. I stepped over and scanned the front page.
Pulverizer 5: The Aftermath, I read.
A script. So there was going to be a sequel, something the modern world clearly couldn’t manage without.
I felt a little thrill over having access to information that even most insiders didn’t have. Still, I couldn’t see how knowing that Hugo Fontana planned to star in another ridiculously violent film would help the progress of my investigation.
I was about to abandon his home office and find the bathroom when another piece of paper caught my eye. Even though it appeared to be the only other one in the room, it was harder to spot because it was still in the printer. Just for the heck of it, I reached over and pulled it out.
And practically fell over.
Skimming it, I saw that it was a poorly written letter, addressed to someone in Los Angeles I surmised was his agent. It was from Hugo, confirming his interest in appearing in Pulverizer 5 as long as some additional conditions were met.
But it wasn’t the letter’s content that nearly made me lose my balance. It was the barely perceptible streak that ran along the left side—the same imperfection I’d noticed in the anonymous note I’d found tucked inside the cottage door.
As I pulled into the driveway of Shawn’s estate, I was still mulling over my unexpected discovery that Hugo Fontana had left me that anonymous note. Was there really a skeleton in Chess LaMont’s closet, something in his past that Hugo thought I should know about now that I was investigating Devon Barnett’s murder? Or was the Hollywood hunk simply seeking revenge against the man who, for reasons I might never know, had replaced him as the object of Dev’s affections?
I was more anxious than ever to find out.
At the moment, however, I had something much more pressing to deal with: my trip to the beach with Shawn Elliot. I was torn between wanting to enjoy myself and being afraid I might enjoy myself too much.
Too late now, I reminded myself as I rang Shawn’s doorbell.
“Hey, Jess!” he cried as he threw open the front door. I gulped, taken aback by finding him naked. At least, I thought he was naked. When I dared to lower my eyes, I saw that in between his bare chest and his muscular thighs was a pair of short beige bathing trunks. I hoped Shawn hadn’t noticed that all the color had drained from my face.
Rufus waddled over to greet me, wagging his tail enthusiastically.
“How’re you doing, Rufus, old boy? How’s the dogger?” I crouched down to scratch the thick folds of his neck. The chunky bulldog basked in the attention, making joyful wheezing sounds and covering my arm with wet dog kisses. He no longer saw me as a threat, I supposed, someone who might become a rival for his master’s attention. I hoped he was right.
“All set?” Shawn asked cheerfully. “Or do you want to change into a bathing suit?”
“I’m fine,” I assured him, glancing down at the gray Cornell sweatshirt I’d pulled over my “Jessica Popper, D.V.M.” polo shirt and my khaki shorts, thinking it was probably better if at least one of us had clothes on.
I’d assumed we’d take the Ferrari. Instead, Shawn led me to his Jeep, parked in the garage behind the house. As we climbed in, he pulled on the shades and the Dodgers baseball cap he’d been wearing the first time I’d encountered him.
I tried not to think about how much had happened since then—with Nick, with Shawn, with the people who had known Devon Barnett. I decided I was due for a little R&R. So I sat back and tried to enjoy myself as he turned the radio up and we blasted out of the driveway.
I had to admit it was fun, careening along the empty residential streets toward the water, with the wind whipping through my hair. I tried to let the sea breezes blow away all the tensions of the past few days. Instead, I let myself get lost in the scenery: the endless stretch of sandy white beach, the swirling blue-green waves, the astounding beach houses that sprang up from the tall sea grass.
Shawn slowed the Jeep as we neared an orange cone stuck in the middle of the road. “Do Not Enter,” the sign just beyond read.
“I guess we’ve reached the end,” I commented.
“Nah,” he insisted. “That sign’s for other people.”
He swerved around it, driving the Jeep onto the sand. “You don’t get very far in my business without taking risks,” he said, grinning.
He stopped a few hundred yards beyond, jerking to a halt behind a sand dune so high that it blocked the view.
“Okay,” he announced, jumping out of the front seat and jogging around the Jeep. “Close your eyes.”
“Then how am I going to find the water?” I protested.
“I’ll guide you.”
“But—”
“Trust me,” he said, gently taking hold of my arm. “I’m a very trustworthy guy.”
I didn’t answer. I was too caught up in the dangerously wonderful sensation of walking alongside Shawn, shoulder to shoulder, thigh to thigh. I swallowed hard and tried to concentrate on the fresh, salty air and the cooling breezes.
“Open your eyes,” Shawn finally instructed.
I did—then blinked a few times, overwhelmed by the beauty of the spot he’d led me to. White sand curved around a blue-green cove, forming a perfect half-circle. There was absolutely no one around. In fact, the only sound was the screeching seagulls flying overhead, occasionally swooping down and dipping into the water.
“What do you think?” he asked anxiously.
“Wow.” Not very original, but the most accurate statement I could come up with.
“Come on. Let’s walk along the beach. You can usually go a half-mile or so without running into anybody.” Pulling off his rubber flip-flops, he yelled, “Race you to the shore!”
Squealing like a preschooler, I ran toward the water, managing to keep a few paces behind Shawn. He threw himself into the waves. I ventured in knee-deep, relishing the feeling of the cold water swirling around my legs.
He finally emerged, dripping wet but wearing a huge grin.
“You look like a sea monster!” I cried.
“But I feel great! Come on, let’s head up that way.”
As we kicked our way through the surf, I saw that Shawn was right. There wasn’t another person around as far a
s I could see. Given the fact that he spent so much of his life on display, it was no wonder he loved this hideout so much.
After we’d walked in silence for a minute or two, Shawn said sincerely, “You know, I feel really bad about last night. I’m sorry I acted like such a jerk. I hope I didn’t totally screw up your murder investigation. I know it’s important to you. Heck, it’s important to me, too. I’m the one who asked you to help clear Rufus’s name. Not to mention mine—especially given the possibility of a lawsuit.”
“It’s done,” I said with a little shrug. “At this point, I’m just hoping that the fact that a lot of people now know what I’m up to won’t make that much difference.”
“What about Nick?” The tone of Shawn’s voice had changed. “What does he think about all this?”
“You mean Mick?” I asked, eyeing him slyly.
“Mick, Nick...whoever.” He chuckled, aware that he’d been caught.
“Nick wishes I’d find another hobby.”
“I guess I don’t blame him.” He hesitated before adding, “I take it the two of you are pretty tight.”
I nodded.
“How long have you been together?”
“About four years. On and off.”
Shawn raised his eyebrows. “I’d be interested in hearing what the ‘offs’ were about.”
I kicked at the sea foam, sending up a little spray. “My own insecurities, mainly.”
“You?” Shawn sounded genuinely shocked. “You seem like one of the most centered, self-possessed people I’ve ever met!”
I grinned at him. “Then I guess you’re not the only actor around here.”
“So tell me: What’s behind these so-called insecurities of yours?”
“The usual. Fear of commitment gets the number one spot. The result of growing up with parents who weren’t exactly about to give Romeo and Juliet a run for their money.”
“Then how does Nick fit in?”
“Nick is—how can I explain? He’s somebody I’m so comfortable with, that being with him just feels right. Since the day we met, we’ve been able to talk for hours on end about absolutely anything. But what amazes me most is that we never seem to get bored with each other. Irritated, maybe, or even furious on occasion, but never bored.” I laughed nervously. “Sounds like a romance novel, right? And I guess it is, a lot of the time. It’s just when I step back and think about it that it gets scary.”
Putting on the Dog Page 20
