Putting on the Dog

by Cynthia Baxter

  “I’m thinking of getting an agent,” I heard Chess chirping in the next room. “Tell you what: Why don’t you give me your number and I’ll have my people call your people....”

  I worked as fast as I could, even though my shaking hands put me at a disadvantage. I kept going, trying another key, then another...

  I’d already gone through almost all of them with no success when I heard Chess say, “Thanks for calling. We’ll be in touch!”

  I was about to give up, but figured I’d try one more in the few seconds that remained before Chess reemerged. I inserted one last key into the lock, felt it slide in with ease, then tried to turn it.... My knees got weak as I felt the lock give way.

  I heard footsteps. Chess was coming back.

  I pulled the key off the ring and stuck it into the pocket of my shorts as I stepped through the short hallway, back into the kitchen, and returned Hilda’s keys to her apron pocket. I’d found a way to get into Devon’s locked studio. The clock was ticking, and this was my last hope for uncovering new information about what he might actually have been involved in—and whether it was something that may have brought about his demise.

  All I needed now was an opportunity to use it.

  As I drove away from Chess’s house, I could feel the key to Devon Barnett’s studio jabbing into my hip. I didn’t even care that it was probably giving me a black-and-blue mark.

  Having it in my possession fueled me with optimism over finding Barnett’s murderer. I realized it was possible that Devon’s insistence upon keeping his studio locked, could have been nothing more than another aspect of his passion for cleanliness. But it was equally possible that in finding the key to Devon’s carefully guarded photography studio, I’d actually found the key to the paparazzo’s murder. I tried to imagine what I might discover down there, picturing everything from pornographic photographs to human body parts, sealed up in Ziploc bags.

  As soon as I turned the corner and was certain I was out of sight, I pulled over to the curb and dialed Norfolk County Homicide. But this time, I had something up my sleeve other than trying to convince Lieutenant Falcone that Barnett had been murdered.

  “Homicide. Officer Bongiovanni speaking.”

  “Good mornin’. Mah name is Mary Louise Highland, and I work for a public relations firm—Louis Max Associates? I have a press release I’m about to send over to Lieutenant Falcone, inviting him to a charitable event in the Bromptons. We’d be ever so pleased if he’d join us. There’ll be lots of press coverin’ the event, not to mention celebrities like Hugo Fontana, Shawn Elliot, Kara Liebling...”

  “I’ll put him on.”

  “Wait! I don’t really need to speak—”

  I was gripped by anxiety when less than three seconds later, I heard a familiar voice. “Lieutenant Falcone. How can I help you?”

  He sounded a little friendlier than last time—probably because Bongiovanni had clued him in on the fact that he was being invited to a star-studded event that was bound to get an impressive amount of media coverage. Even so, I had no choice but to stick to my deep-fried, honey-coated Southern accent. The last thing I wanted was for Falcone to figure out who was really calling him.

  “Good afternoon, Lieutenant,” I cooed, stretching my words out so that I sounded like a contender for the Miss Alabama title. “Mah name is Mary Louise Highland. I’m with the public relations firm Louis Max Associates, here in New Yoke City?”

  “Sure,” Falcone said heartily. “I’ve heard of them. Good agency.”

  It’s true that no one’s ever said a bad word about us, I thought wryly. “I’m callin’ to tell you about an event we have scheduled out in the Bromptons this Sunday. It’s a luncheon at Russell Bolger’s house, the final event of the charity dog show that’s been runnin’ all week.”

  “I’m kind of busy this weekend—” he interrupted.

  “So many local celebrities are goin’ to be there—and of course, all the media from Long Island and New Yoke...”

  I could practically hear him sit up straighter in his seat. “Media?” he repeated, his voice filled with reverence.

  I’d clearly said the magic word. “ABC, NBC, CBS... even CNN. And we have a ‘Maybe’ from Regis—”

  “What time did you say this lunch thing was?”

  “One o’clock, at Russell Bolger’s estate on Ocean Spray Drive. I’ll fax you over a press release....”

  I felt warm and fuzzy as I hung up the phone. I’d just taken a giant step toward putting all the pieces in place to present my evidence and expose the murderer to Lieutenant Falcone.

  But the feeling faded as soon as I reminded myself that I didn’t know who had killed Devon Barnett, much less have any evidence.

  My next stop was Suzanne’s office, where I’d have easy access to a computer and a fax machine. After assuring her she should feel free to ignore me, I typed up a one-page press release, using a flowery font to invent an address for the imaginary public relations firm Louis Max Associates.

  Louis Max Associates

  255 Third Avenue

  New York, New York 10025

  East Brompton, New York—Hugo Fontana, Shawn Elliot, and Kara Liebling are just a few of the stars who will light up the final event of the SPCA’S Funds for Our Furry Friends fund-raising dog show, a luncheon this Sunday at 1:00. The luncheon will be held at the home of Russell Bolger, president of North Star Studios, at 112 Ocean Spray Drive, East Brompton.

  The gala will include the screening of a video made during the dog show, featuring such highlights as the Best of Breed and Best of Show competitions, plus interviews with many of the entrants’ celebrity owners.

  Along the bottom, I scrawled, “Hope you can make it! Besides ABC, CBS, NBC, and CNN, we now have a ‘Probably’ from Regis!”

  I reread it several times to make sure it sounded professional, then pulled out a small white business card from my wallet. “Lieutenant Anthony Falcone, Chief of Homicide” it read, the embossed letters lined up evenly beneath the official Norfolk County seal. I located the fax number, punched it into the fax machine, and waited for the paper to feed.

  “Fax is complete,” the machine informed me in its robotic voice.

  Done, I thought, experiencing a twinge of anxiety. It wasn’t that I was worried about delivering what I’d promised Falcone—except the part about Regis, which was completely made up. But I was concerned about whether or not I’d manage to come through on what I’d promised myself: using the occasion to resolve the mystery of Devon Barnett’s murder.

  I checked my watch and felt another flutter of fear in my stomach. I now had exactly forty-six hours—and the ticking of that imaginary clock was starting to give me a headache.

  As I trundled along East Brompton Road, a shop I hadn’t noticed before caught my eye. On impulse, I stepped on the brake, then eased into the next parking space I found.

  I craned my neck and studied the sign above it more carefully. The word Giorgio’s was written in large gold letters in an elaborately curving script. Underneath, smaller, easier-to-read letters spelled out, “Fine Italian Footwear.”

  “Time for some shopping,” I muttered, opening the van door.

  As I neared the store, I got a better look at the display window beneath the blue-and-white striped awning. From what I could see, Giorgio’s specialized in high-heeled sandals, barely-there slips of shoes that were held on by narrow strips of supple leather. It wasn’t until I ventured inside that I saw any price tags. Behind each pair of shoes on display was a white card not much bigger than a postage stamp, printed with the price. Without leaning over to study them, I could see that most of them had four digits on them—as in $1200 for the faux leopard skin and $1800 for the shiny gold.

  The shop had the air of an expensive restaurant. Every element was elegant and understated, done entirely in subtle shades of beige that I suspected had names like Buff and Ecru. Plush upholstered chairs were clustered in five or six separate groupings, as if each and every custom
er was treated to a private consultation on how best to maximize the fashion potential of her feet. The carpeting—a shade I’d call sand—was so thick it probably made every pair of shoes feel comfortable. Then again, I thought, glancing at the flimsy bits of leather that passed for soles and the long, spindly heels that resembled nine-inch nails, maybe that was the idea.

  Within seconds after I’d entered, a trim, well-groomed man emerged from out of nowhere. His hair, dark with dignified streaks of gray, looked perfectly cut, and his suit fitted him so well it had to have been custom-made. I was glad I’d left my two sidekicks home. I could picture them pouncing on the expensive leather sandals, mistaking them for chew toys.

  “Good morning. I am Giorgio,” the man greeted me in a thick continental accent. “How may I be of service today?”

  I half-expected him to kiss my hand. Instead he gave a curt little bow. I was tempted to curtsy in return.

  I decided not to waste this gentleman’s time. Not when the Bromptons were undoubtedly filled with feet that were much more likely to benefit from Giorgio’s podiatric expertise than mine.

  “I’m not here about shoes,” I began. “I mean, not to buy shoes.” Especially since doing so would require taking on a second job, I thought. “I was wondering if you’d be kind enough to give me some information about a particular brand of shoe.”

  “Yes, of course.” Giorgio gestured grandly toward the first cluster of chairs. “Please, sit down. Can I get you something? Coffee? Tea? How about a nice cappuccino?”

  “Thanks, I’m fine.” I did take him up on his offer to sit, however, and sank into one of the velvety chairs. It was so comfortable that I half-expected it to start vibrating. The only negative was that my half-sitting, half-lying position thrust my own feet into center stage. My shoes were a dramatic contrast to all the Cinderella slippers around me. My sturdy, practical sandals, designed for trekking in the Himalayas, looked as out of place as a plastic mug embossed with Ronald McDonald amid a display of Baccarat crystal.

  If Giorgio noticed, he was much too polite to let on. Instead, he perched on the chair next to mine and focused on me as if I were the most fascinating creature in the universe. “Now, what brand of shoe are you interested in?” he asked.

  “Have you ever heard of an Italian shoe designer named Emilio Fratelli?”

  “But of course. His shoes were very much in style three or four years ago. Fratelli made a name for himself working for some of the best-known designers in Europe. Paris, Milano, all the top houses. Then he tried branching off on his own, but...”

  Giorgio gave a little shrug, as if Emilio’s foolhardiness were something that people in the shoe biz still gossiped about.

  “What happened?” I prompted.

  “At first, it looked as if he had a promising future as a designer. His shoes began gaining popularity because they were so distinctive. The designs themselves were simple. He started with comfortable shoes, the type someone would wear every day. Low-heeled pumps, espadrilles, some athletic footwear, even loafers. But he added a special little touch to each one—a ribbon or some beading on the women’s shoes. Tassels or even buttons on the men’s. And he priced them high, very high. Of course, the materials he used were all of the very finest quality. Unfortunately, before long, his shoes got a reputation for being . . . how do you say, ‘shoddy’? They did not hold up.”

  Giorgio shook his head sadly. “I believe his designs were good, but he had bad advice from his manufacturers. I seem to recall hearing something about a factory that was cutting corners to save money because of its own financial hardships. But people in the high-end shoe market are very unforgiving. Once they have paid one or two thousand dollars for a pair of shoes that lasts only a few weeks, they are not likely to buy shoes from that designer again. Emilio Fratelli was out of business in a matter of months. The last I heard, he was designing shoes for one of the big discount stores, working out of their headquarters in Des Moines.”

  “I see.” I was already feeling deflated. While Giorgio’s story might have made an interesting case study for students at the Harvard Business School, it didn’t provide me with much insight. All I’d learned was that paying big bucks for designer shoes wasn’t necessarily a guarantee of quality.

  “Well, thank you for your time,” I said politely, grabbing hold of the padded arms of the chair and pulling myself up. “And the information.”

  “I am sorry I could not be of more help, although I don’t know exactly what you were hoping to learn.”

  “To tell you the truth,” I told him sincerely, “I’m not sure, either.”

  “You are certain I cannot interest you in a cappuccino?”

  “Thank you, but I’ve already taken up enough of your time.”

  I felt much more at ease the moment I walked out of the store. While having unlimited wealth at one’s disposal no doubt had its rewards, being able to buy shoes that cost as much as a first-class ticket to Australia didn’t impress me as one of them. I figured it was just as well that I was destined for a life of shopping at the outlet mall.

  Of course, I was a little disappointed over not having found out anything particularly helpful. Then again, I’d been telling the truth when I’d told Giorgio I didn’t exactly know what I was hoping to learn. But my short interview hadn’t been a complete waste of time. At least I’d gained a new appreciation for my Himalayan trekkers.

  Chapter 16

  “Not Carnegie, Vanderbilt, and Astor together could have raised money enough to buy a quarter share in my little dog.”

  —Ernest Thompson Seton

  My morning’s errands completed, I retreated to the guesthouse. As I stepped out of the van my hand went automatically to the key I’d removed from Hilda’s key ring earlier that day. It was still tucked into my shorts pocket.

  But instead of feeling encouraged, I was filled with apprehension. I was running out of ideas, and the key was my last hope for solving the mystery of Devon Barnett’s murder. The problem was, I was acting on nothing more than a hunch. My greatest fear was that the paparazzo’s photography studio, like the truth behind Emily’s mom’s hospitalization, would turn out to be a dead end.

  That is, if I ever found a way to sneak in.

  As I neared the guesthouse, my heart sank at the sight of a white square of paper, wedged between the door and the jam. What now? I thought.

  Fortunately, the note turned out to be from Nick. “Ran out to do a few quick errands. Dogs inside. Back soon. N.,” I read. At the bottom, he’d scrawled “I love you,” underlining the words three times.

  “Glad I got you,” a voice behind me said.

  I turned, startled. Shawn was standing on the lawn, wearing a shiny black Speedo. Aside from the pair of shades and the fluffy white towel draped around his neck, that was all he was wearing.

  “Oh, it’s only you.” Realizing how bad that probably sounded, I stammered, “I mean, it’s only somebody I know, as opposed to somebody frightening, somebody who—you know what I mean, don’t you?”

  He frowned. “You seem really stressed, Jessie. Hey, why don’t you put on a bathing suit and join me at the pool? It’s such a great day, and you’ll be leaving the day after tomorrow. Besides, you seem like you could use a break.”

  I opened my mouth to present him with my excuse. The problem was, I couldn’t think of a single one. “Okay.”

  I took the dogs out for a quick walk, then headed into the bedroom. I wriggled into my bathing suit, then checked the mirror hanging above the white wicker dresser. Somehow, my two-piece suit seemed to have gotten tinier and more revealing since the last time I’d worn it.

  Stop, I told myself firmly. There’s a murderer at large; someone is sending you anonymous threats in the form of dead animals; Gary Frye is about to watch his ice-sculpting business go down the tubes; and you’ve got less than two days to set everything right before you go back home to all the demands of your real life. A plunging neck-line is the least of your problems.


  Still, I pulled on a big, baggy button-down shirt—one that just happened to belong to Nick.

  “Come on, doggers,” I said to my Dalmatian and my Westie while grabbing my cell phone, a towel, and a comb and tossing them into a tote bag. “We’re going to a pool party.” Max let out a shrill bark, while Lou wagged his tail hopefully before loping after me.

  I found Shawn lying on a teak lounge chair, a glistening glass of lemonade in his hand. Rufus lay underneath, having zeroed in on the only shady spot around. The bulldog had flattened his stocky body so that his belly was pressed against the cool concrete. He thumped his tail at Max’s and Lou’s arrival, but didn’t budge.

  A second lounge chair was placed next to Shawn’s, with a glass of lemonade waiting for me on a small table.

  “Most people come to the Bromptons to relax,” he greeted me with a grin. “Seems to me you’ve been doing anything but.”

  “Believe it or not, relaxing was my original intention.” Gingerly I sat on the lounge chair, tugging at the big shirt and wishing it were a little bigger. My dogs were busy sniffing Rufus as the three of them sized one another up.

  “I know exactly what you need.” Shawn leaped up, planted himself behind me, and put his hands around my neck.

  I jumped. “What are you doing?”

  “Relax, Jess! It’s just a massage!”

  “But—”

  “I won’t bite. Trust me.”

  I sat stiffly, irritated by the feeling of his strong fingers kneading my neck and shoulder muscles. But little by little, the motion began sending rivers of warmth through my tense upper body.

  “There. I told you this would be good for you. In fact, why don’t we flatten this thing out so you can lie down....”

  Before I had a chance to protest, Shawn lowered the back of the lounge chair. Then he motioned for me to lie on my stomach.

  “I don’t think—”

  “You’re always taking care of other people—and animals,” he insisted. “Now it’s your turn.”