Putting on the Dog

by Cynthia Baxter

  Gary slammed down the phone, yelling “Damn it!” He took a long breath, meanwhile staring at the offending piece of machinery. When he finally glanced up at me, he was scowling.

  “Wanna buy a six-foot ballerina made of ice— cheap ?”

  “I’m afraid not,” I replied apologetically. Glancing at the white cat stretched across the windowsill, I added, “Actually, I stopped by to see how Lulu was doing.”

  “A hell of a lot better than I am.” He picked up the thick wad of paper sitting in the middle of his desk. “I’m being sued.”

  I felt as if I’d just been punched in the stomach. “Gary, no!”

  “Not that I’m surprised,” he went on in a dull voice. “I’ve been waiting for this since the night it happened.” He held up the front page of a document labeled Chester Montgomery v. Gary Frye, Sole Proprietor, Ice Castles.

  “I’ve got insurance, of course,” he continued, “so this probably won’t ruin me financially. At least, in theory. The reality is that all the horrendous publicity will probably destroy my business. We’ve been getting cancellations all week, but in the back of my mind, I’ve been thinking I could always relocate and start over. But now—”

  He sighed, a deep, exasperated sigh that made my heart wrench. “I don’t suppose you know a good lawyer.”

  Not yet, I thought. If only this could wait a few years. For the first time, it occurred to me that maybe what Nick had chosen to do with his life wasn’t so bad, after all.

  “No, but I know a pretty good veterinarian: me. Let’s have a look at Lulu. I can check her out right here.”

  “Be my guest.”

  I reached up and gently removed Lulu from what I gathered was her favorite spot.

  “Hey, Lulu,” I said softly, not certain of how she’d take to being disturbed. “You remember me, don’t you? Thatta girl. I’m not going to hurt you. I just want to see if your eyes are doing any better.”

  Sure enough, the oxytetracycline HCL ointment seemed to be doing the trick. Lulu’s ocular infection was on the mend.

  “Lookin’ good, Lulu,” I informed her, largely for her owner’s benefit. I ran my hands along her sleek body, checking her internal organs. She seemed just fine.

  “You’ve been giving her the doxycycline, right?” I asked Gary as I returned her to her lounging spot.

  “Yeah,” he replied sullenly.

  “Good. Keep up with that until the bottle’s empty, and continue putting the ointment on for a total of seven days. She’ll be fine.”

  “Thanks, Dr. Popper. I know I’m not exactly jumping up and down with joy, but I appreciate all you’ve done.”

  “Glad I could help.” I eyed the ominous stack of papers on Gary’s desk. That, along with his grim expression, fueled my determination to do a lot more for him than take care of a simple eye infection.

  Driving away from Gary’s by way of downtown took me past East Brompton Green. Even from the road, I could see that swarms of eager participants and spectators had turned out to enjoy the dog show’s final day.

  I experienced a pang of guilt over the fact that having Marcus fill in for me meant that poor Emily was spending the day with him. I wondered what other difficulties she’d been forced to deal with, replaying all the references I’d heard about her mother being in rehabilitation. When I spotted an empty parking space a few hundred feet from the public library, I pulled in.

  Entering the library, I discovered, was like taking a step back in time. The East Brompton Public Library was one of those institutions that hadn’t changed much in over a century—thank goodness. Sure, computers had been added, and one small room was devoted entirely to CD’s and DVD’s. But it also had walls that were paneled in dark wood, overstuffed upholstered chairs ideal for curling up with a good book, and even a few stained-glass windows. A distinctive smell that could only be found in libraries—library paste, mixed with dust—permeated the air.

  Since I didn’t know my way around the East Brompton Library, I began by seeking out the reference librarian. The woman sitting behind the big, important-looking desk fit right in with her surroundings. Not only did she talk in whispers, but she wore her glasses on a chain around her neck. Her cheeks were gaunt and her mouth was permanently pursed, as if all those years of whispering “Sh-h-h!” had reshaped it.

  “May I help you?” she asked, peering at me over the top of her eyeglass frames.

  “I’m trying to find some fairly recent articles from The New York Times about a health-related incident involving the movie actress, Delilah Raines. I believe they’d have been published in the last month or so.”

  “Let me do a search.” With crisp efficiency, she pushed her glasses into place and began punching keys on her computer’s keyboard.

  “Hmm . . . here we are. I think this is probably what you’re looking for.” She hit a few more keys, then pointed halfway across the room. “The printer is over there. The citations should be coming out shortly.”

  “Thank you.” I was about to make a comment about the wonders of technology, when I realized this woman could have probably found the information I wanted just as quickly in the days of ink pots and quills.

  By the time I reached the printer, it was already spewing out a page. I waited until it was completely finished, then grabbed it up and scanned the headlines in the six or seven citations.

  I thought I knew exactly what I’d find. Instead, I let out a cry that sounded like one of Lou’s yelps.

  My heart was pounding as I made a beeline for the microfilm machine. I perused the orange storage boxes until I found the back editions I needed, threaded the first plastic reel into the machine, and watched page after page of the Times flash by in a blur. My head was spinning almost as fast.

  I stopped the machine when it reached page one of the May 25 edition.

  ACTRESS ATTACKED OUTSIDE HOLLYWOOD CLUB

  Hollywood, California—Actress Delilah Raines, the star of such blockbuster films as The Hurricane and Jennie’s Story, was attacked by two men carrying large, blunt objects late last night while walking through a parking lot behind the trendy Café Au Lait, according to Sergeant Luis Rodriguez of the Los Angeles Police Department. The assault occurred at approximately 11:45 P.M., just after Raines left the club on Sunset Boulevard. Police said she was alone at the time of the incident.

  The assailants repeatedly struck Raines on both legs after leaping out from behind parked cars as she neared her vehicle. A witness described the men as two white males over six feet tall. One had long, straight blond hair and was wearing blue jeans and a dark blue T-shirt. The other had short dark hair and a mustache, and was dressed in black pants and a black shirt. According to the witness, both men fled immediately after the attack, disappearing into an alley behind the club.

  Raines, 37, of Brentwood, California, and Paris, France, sustained serious injuries on both legs. An orthopedic surgeon at Cedars-Sinai Hospital in Los Angeles, where she was transported by ambulance, said that X rays showed breakages in several bones, especially the left kneecap. She will require surgery, and a lengthy period of rehabilitation is expected.

  While the Los Angeles Police Department has not released any information on the attackers’ possible motives, a department spokesperson has announced that the identities of the two assailants are still unknown.

  So I was dead wrong in assuming that Delilah Raines was in a drug or alcohol rehab center, I mused. She was brutally attacked, and she’d been undergoing physical rehabilitation.

  The next article, from the May 30 edition, was further proof of my mistaken presumption.

  DELILAH RAINES ADMITTED TO LA JOLLA REHAB CENTER

  La Jolla, California—Actress Delilah Raines was admitted to the La Jolla Rehabilitation Center earlier today, where she is expected to undergo several weeks of intensive physical therapy. Raines sustained serious injuries in both legs after two men attacked her in a parking lot outside a Hollywood club five days ago. A team of orthopedic surgeons at Cedars-Sina
i Hospital in Los Angeles performed surgery later that day.

  Although she left the hospital through a back entrance and was driven to La Jolla in a friend’s car, a crowd of fans was waiting for her when she arrived at the medical facility. They carried banners that read “We love you, Delilah!” and “Get Well Fast!” The posh La Jolla Rehabilitation Center is a favorite with prominent sports figures and other celebrities who are undergoing rehabilitation following physical injuries.

  Friends report that Raines has been suffering from mild depression since the attack by the two assailants, whose identities are still unknown.

  “Delilah wants her fans to know that she is looking forward to a speedy recovery,” Raines’ publicist, Sheila White of White & Forrest, said at a press conference yesterday. “She also wants to thank them for all their support.”

  Gigi Fitzgerald, a close friend, said, “Delilah keeps asking, ‘Why would anyone do this?’ Frankly, those of us who know and love her are asking the exact same question.”

  The Los Angeles Police Department is investigating all leads, including fan mail, said Deputy Chief William Santos. No suspects have been identified at this time.

  The next article had run on June 3. I waited impatiently while the machine whirled away, then began devouring it the moment I located it.

  TWO MEN ARRESTED IN ASSAULT

  Hollywood, California—A Hollywood bartender and an unemployed man with a criminal history were arrested yesterday and charged with attacking 37-year-old actress Delilah Raines.

  Christopher Vale, 27, a bartender, and Richard Strathe, 33, both residents of Redondo Beach, were arrested in Santa Monica and charged with assault. The weapons the police believed were used in the attack against Raines, a wooden baseball bat and a tire iron, were found in the trunk of Strathe’s car. Police believe the motive was robbery.

  Vale and Strathe were arraigned this morning at the Santa Monica Courthouse. Bail was set at $50,000 cash, $100,000 bond.

  The article continued, but I stopped reading. Instead, I concentrated on the photograph of the two handcuffed suspects, walking with their shoulders slumped and their heads down. The witness to the assault had given the police a good description. They were both hulking men, well over six feet tall. Christopher Vale did have long blond hair, although I would have described it as “scraggly.” As for Strathe, his unruly dark hair and thick, uneven mustache gave him a look I would have summarized as “unkempt.”

  Poor Delilah—and poor Emily! I skimmed the rest of the articles, but learned little aside from the fact that Vale and Strathe were still awaiting trial. The articles about the two suspects kept getting smaller, and they kept appearing farther and farther back in the newspaper. There was nothing more about Delilah Raines.

  Tucking the last reel back into its orange box, I pondered the fact that finally tracking down the truth about Emily’s mother had helped me understand why she was in a rehabilitation center in California while her daughter was with her father, three thousand miles away. But my efforts hadn’t done a thing to further my investigation of Devon Barnett’s murder. I flipped off the machine and hurried back to my dogs, sorry I’d wasted my time.

  Chapter 15

  “Dogs are not our whole life, but they make our lives whole.”

  —Roger Caras

  My next stop was Chess’s house. While I’d always found myself looking forward to chatting with him before, this time I was a little more wary— on four different counts. First, I was still reeling from what I’d learned about his past, courtesy of Ms. Pruitt of the Sweet Elm Public Library. Then there was my last visit, when I’d caught Chess with a shoebox full of cash. I still hadn’t decided whether his apparent surprise was sincere—or merely another charade designed to conceal who Chess LaMont really was. Next, there was his lawsuit against Gary Frye, who I was convinced was innocent. I still didn’t know Chess well enough to have a sense of whether he truly believed Gary was responsible or he was simply trying to cash in on his lover’s demise.

  Then there was the fact that he was still high on my list of suspects in Devon Barnett’s murder.

  I took a deep breath before ringing the bell of the sprawling Beach Street mansion. Not only was I worried about confronting Chess, but I was also braced against the possibility of another unpleasant encounter with Hilda.

  This time, Chess flung open the door, cradling Zsa Zsa in his arms. His face lit up as soon as he saw it was me.

  “Jessie, what a nice surprise!” he cooed.

  “And having you answer the door is a nice surprise, too.” I stepped inside, lowering my voice as I asked, “Is Hilda here?”

  “I gave her the day off.” Chess shuddered. “I told her she deserved a three-day weekend after such a trying week. But the truth is that I simply couldn’t stand having her around anymore!” He beckoned for me to follow him into the kitchen. “That woman gives me the creeps, Jessie. I’m getting rid of her—as soon as I get up the nerve. From the way she reacted when I told her to take the day off, you’d think I’d banished her from the Garden of Eden, for heaven’s sake! Doesn’t she have a life? Isn’t there something she’d rather be doing besides vacuuming up other people’s dust and killing their imaginary germs?”

  After putting Zsa Zsa on the floor, Chess poured us each a glass of iced tea, then joined me at the kitchen table. Staring into his boyish face made it difficult to believe he was capable of murder. I had to remind myself that I’d been wrong before.

  “How have you been, Chess?” I asked earnestly.

  I expected a diatribe on how deeply the grieving process was affecting him. Instead, he replied, “Jessie, the phone’s been ringing constantly. I had no idea Nettie was so well-known!” From the way his eyes glittered, I got the weird feeling he was actually enjoying all the attention.

  “Of course, the Stargazer and the Gossip Gazette both want to do big stories on him, since he was one of their favorite photographers,” he gushed. “The Stargazer is even talking cover story! But I’ve also gotten calls from People, USA Today...I even heard from a British journalist who’s considering writing a book about him! Can you imagine? He wants to call it something like, ‘Devon Barnett: Snapshots from the Life of a Paparazzo.’ ” Chess made a grand sweeping motion with his hand to highlight the title. “I’d be in it, of course. In fact, the writer would practically move in here, interviewing me and looking through all our snapshots.... Isn’t it exciting, Jessie? This could make me famous!”

  “That’s great,” I responded, not sure I sounded any more enthusiastic than I felt. “Chess, there’s something I’d like to talk to you about. I just came from the Ice Castles studio. I was talking to Gary Frye, and he mentioned—”

  The temperature in the room instantly dropped about twenty degrees. “Jessie, how could you? That man is responsible for Nettie’s death! Him, and that Shawn Elliot. If he’d managed to control that vile bulldog of his, Nettie would still be alive today. I’m suing both of them!”

  “Gary’s a client, Chess. I’ve been treating his cat for an eye infection. From talking to him, I’m convinced he’s not at fault. And even the police were never one hundred percent certain that Rufus had anything to do with what happened. Would you at least hold off a little longer with the lawsuit?” I pleaded. “You’re still in shock, for heaven’s sake. You’ve got enough to deal with right now. Besides, you might feel differently in a few weeks. Why don’t you let it go for now?”

  Before he had a chance to answer, the shrill ringing of the phone interrupted us.

  “I have to get that,” Chess said, springing up from his chair. “It could be anybody.” He flounced off to the next room, leaving me alone in the kitchen.

  As I sat tapping the kitchen table distractedly, a colorful swatch near the door caught my eye. I focused on the blur of yellows and oranges that, up to this point, had just been part of the scenery. A jolt shot through me as I realized what it was.

  Hilda’s apron. Hanging on a hook, unattended.

&nb
sp; “Yes, of course I’m the person you should be speaking to,” I heard Chess insisting in the next room. “I was closer to Devon Barnett than anyone else in the world....”

  I glanced through the doorway, wanting to make sure he wasn’t wandering from room to room as he held court on the cordless phone. He was nowhere in sight. I shot across the room and began patting down Hilda’s apron.

  One of the pockets was bulging. My heart began to race as I wondered if my hunch about what I’d just stumbled upon would prove correct.

  “Of course I know the show,” Chess was cooing. “I watch it every Sunday night.”

  Glancing around anxiously to make sure Chess wasn’t lurking in the doorway, I plunged my hand into the apron pocket—and realized I’d struck gold. Actually, the metal I’d just found may have been worth a lot less than gold, but to me, the collection of keys bound together on a silver key ring was priceless.

  Hilda’s keys. Maybe my big chance to find out, once and for all, what was hidden away in Devon Barnett’s locked basement.

  “ ‘Overexposed: The Life and Death of a Paparazzo’?” I heard Chess gurgle. “Yes, it sounds like an excellent title. And when are you thinking of putting the segment on the air?”

  By this point, my telltale heart was beating wildly. True, in the Edgar Allan Poe story, the troublemaker had been somebody else’s heart—somebody dead. In this case, it was mine. Still, the last thing I wanted was to be done in by the thump-thump-thump that, to me, sounded as if it were being broadcast on Dolby sound.

  I knew I had to act fast. I made a beeline for the locked basement door, my fingers curled tightly around Hilda’s keys. I was pretty confident that Chess was too busy basking in his fifteen minutes of fame to check up on me. But I couldn’t shake the creepy feeling that Hilda was going to appear at any second, coming up behind me in those big padded sneakers of hers.

  With trembling hands, I tried fitting one of the keys into the lock. Not even close. I tried a second. Much to my surprise, it slid into the lock just fine. I drew in my breath sharply—but let it out again when the key wouldn’t turn.