Putting on the Dog

by Cynthia Baxter

  I switched on the light, illuminating the entire space at the bottom of the stairs. I blinked over and over again, every muscle tensed as I struggled to adjust to the glaring brightness.

  Instead of being shocked or horrified, I was overwhelmed with disappointment. So this was what Devon Barnett kept stashed away in his basement under lock and key. My overly active imagination had prepared me for anything except what I found: a photo lab. I scanned the room, taking in the developing tanks, enlargers, light boxes, shelves crammed with bottles of chemicals and boxes of photo paper, all neatly arranged and spanking clean. A dozen black-and-white photographs were clipped to a wire that was strung across the ceiling, looking like a row of handkerchiefs hanging on a clothesline.

  Chess had been right. This really was Dev’s studio, the place where he developed his photographs of celebrities. And, as far as I could see, that was all it was.

  So much for the awe-inspiring investigative abilities of Jessica Popper, Girl Sleuth, I thought grimly. I scanned the string of photos the paparazzo had left to dry. Nothing here but a few shots of movie stars coming out of bars or lounging on the beach, looking like they’ve had a little too much to drink.

  By this point, my eyes had completely adjusted to the light. I glanced around, still hoping to stumble across something that would give me a bit more insight into what made Devon Barnett tick—not to mention what made him tick people off. I spotted a wooden stool, more shelving, a two-drawer metal file cabinet, a large plastic bin filled with tongs and squeegees...and tucked into a corner, near the stairs, a plastic bowl of water and a rawhide chew stick.

  So this is where Hilda locks up Zsa Zsa during her cleaning frenzies! I thought. When I stopped over on Tuesday on my way to the Sand Bar and heard the poor little Havanese’s pitiful barks, she hadn’t been stuffed into a breadbox. She’d been locked in the basement. Which probably explained why the sweet little dog was so alarmed by my suggestion that she accompany me down here.

  At least I solved one mystery, I thought wryly.

  But it wasn’t much in the way of compensation. Sighing with disappointment, I turned around, planning to head back up the stairs. As I did, I nearly smashed my hip again Barnett’s metal file cabinet. Just for the heck of it, I opened the top drawer.

  The contents didn’t surprise me. True, the three- or four-dozen manila file folders weren’t labeled “Accounts Payable” or “Receipts,” like most self-employed business people’s. Instead, Devon Barnett had handwritten the names of his subjects on the tabs, the celebrities he stalked and photographed. They were filed alphabetically by their last names—and there were dozens.

  My eyes traveled to the file labeled “Fontana, Hugo.” I pulled it out and opened it, expecting to see copies of the photos of Hugo that Barnett had sold to the Stargazer and the Gossip Gazette over the years.

  Sure enough, several photographs were stuck inside. I glanced at the first one, bracing myself for a shot of the Pulverizer doing something mildly embarrassing.

  What I saw made my blood run cold.

  The subject of the photograph was Hugo, all right. But he wasn’t coming out of a nightclub with a starlet on his arm, or even brandishing his fist at an autograph hound.

  This shot looked like it had been taken at a bar—a gay bar. Hoards of men in various states of undress were crowded together, some dancing, most with drinks in their hands. A few of the couples were groping each other or kissing or even engaged in much more intimate behavior.

  But the focus of the photograph was the Pulverizer, who was vogueing for the camera, dressed in nothing but a leopard-skin thong. His sculpted torso gleamed as if it had been oiled, emphasizing his muscles so that he looked like a marble statue of a Greek god. Of course, unlike the man in this photo, Greek gods didn’t wear false eyelashes.

  I stared at the photograph for a long time, my mind racing as I tried to make sense of what I was seeing. A publicity stunt? I wondered. Maybe a photo taken on the set of a movie he was filming, one that had never made it to the big screen?

  I moved on to the next photo. This one featured Hugo again, along with a young, handsome man I didn’t recognize. He also had a well-toned body. It was certainly easy to tell, since both men were completely naked. These shots looked as if they had been taken by a Peeping Tom, since the windowframes and venetian blinds were clearly in view.

  A Peeping Tom named Devon Barnett.

  My head was spinning as I leafed through the rest of the photos. Each one featured Hugo, engaged in some behavior that was bound to have a detrimental effect on ticket sales. This was not the action hero audiences were used to seeing—the Pulverizer, capable of crumpling the trunks of cars with his bare hands as if they were made of aluminum foil. This was hardly the symbol of strength that men wanted to be—and women wanted to sleep with.

  No, I thought, still struggling to comprehend what I was seeing. This can’t be what I think it is.

  With trembling hands, I skipped to the papers in back of the folder. There were several white sheets, clipped together neatly. They looked like some kind of bookkeeper’s tally. Handwritten on top was Hugo’s name. A straight line had been drawn down the middle of the page. On the left side, a series of dates had been recorded, some in different colors of ink, but all in the same handwriting. To the right of each date, on the other side of the page, was a corresponding dollar amount.

  January 10—$10,000.

  February 9—$10,000.

  March 10—$15,000.

  There it was, spelled out so clearly that there was no longer any question about what Devon Barnett’s game had been.

  “Blackmail!” I breathed.

  I felt strangely light-headed as I slipped the stack of paper back into the manila folder. Even though I had seen it with my own eyes, I was having trouble processing the magnitude of what he had been involved in. Not only had the merciless paparazzo complicated celebrities ’ lives by publishing photographs and making up stories that cast them in the worst possible light. What was nearly impossible to comprehend was that he’d taken it a step further, terrorizing them by threatening to expose secrets that were guaranteed to ruin them—and collecting regular payments for his silence. Even his “first love” hadn’t been immune to his greed.

  I studied the contents of the file drawer more carefully, perusing the folders labeled with some of the biggest names in Hollywood. As far I knew, most of them weren’t spending the summer in the Bromptons.

  Then again, some were.

  With moist palms, I grabbed the file labeled “Elliot, Shawn.”

  I took a deep breath before opening it. Bracing myself turned out to be a wise move.

  I was fairly certain the photograph on top was the one Kara had mentioned, the shot of Shawn on the beach at Cannes with another woman. Both were naked except for thongs, and the two of them were clearly engaged in something other than making sand castles. Her description had been accurate. Shawn did, indeed, have his hands all over her, and the two were kissing in a way that looked too real for Hollywood.

  But Kara hadn’t prepared me for the fact that the woman in the picture was Emily’s mother, Delilah Raines.

  No wonder Emily dislikes him so much! I thought. For all I knew, Shawn could even have been the reason for her parents’ divorce.

  But that photo had been published in the Stargazer. If I was correct about Barnett being a blackmailer, there had to be even more incriminating photographs of Shawn.

  There were.

  The next photograph also featured Shawn. He was lying down again, but this time in a bed. A very large bed. This time, he wasn’t even wearing a thong. Delilah, who was also in the picture, was similarly naked. So was the third person in the shot.

  Kara.

  I stared at the photograph for what felt like a very long time, trying to reconstruct the scenario behind it. Perhaps Kara had learned about Shawn’s dalliance with Delilah, then tried to hold onto him by pretending to be tolerant of his attraction to the “other
woman.” Or maybe she figured that half of Shawn was better than none.

  Whatever the reason behind the star-studded ménage à trois, I hoped Emily would never learn anything about it.

  Emily aside, the media would have pounced on a photo like this. This one shot had the power to severely damage or even destroy three careers in a single swoop. The pictures that followed were variations on the same theme: the three familiar faces, with increasingly familiar bodies, engaged in an astoundingly wide variety of acts.

  A few of the photographs were marred by obstructions that had clearly separated the photographer from his subjects—the slat of a venetian blind, the hem of a curtain. As he’d clicked away, Barnett had most likely been standing on a balcony, or even balanced on a windowsill, no doubt having trouble seeing through the lens, for all the dollar signs that were dancing before his eyes.

  Once again, I found a record of payments stuck in front of the file. Shawn was another victim of Devon Barnett’s probing lens—and another victim of the paparazzo’s blackmailing scheme.

  Still feeling dazed, I pulled out the folder labeled “Liebling, Kara.” I opened it to find a stack of photographs fastened together with a paper clip.

  As soon as I focused on the photograph on top, I gasped. I recognized Kara right away, even though she was wearing oversized sunglasses and her hair was tucked beneath a French beret. But I also recognized the other people in the picture, even though all three subjects were cast in shadow.

  Christopher Vale and Richard Strathe. The two men who’d been convicted of attacking Delilah Raines.

  I studied the photograph more closely. It had been shot at a low angle, as if Barnett had taken it from a crouching position. Hiding behind a bush, maybe, or stooped behind a low wall. But it clearly showed Kara conferring with the two thugs in a dimly-lit alleyway.

  My hands were trembling as I moved on to the next photograph. This one featured the same three figures, standing in the same place. But in this shot, Kara and Strathe had their hands extended toward each other. She was handing him something. I couldn’t make out exactly what it was, but it looked like an ordinary business envelope.

  The third photograph proved me right. In this one, Richard Strathe had moved closer to the streetlight. While the setting was still pretty dim, I could easily see the stack of bills he’d removed from the envelope, as if checking to make sure the correct amount was there. It was a pretty thick stack, and the expression on his face was one of satisfaction.

  The fourth showed Kara and Strathe shaking hands. Strathe’s eyes had shifted so they were now looking in the same direction as the camera’s lens. He was wearing a startled look, as if he’d heard something or gotten some other clue that someone might be lurking there. The coldness in his eyes was chilling.

  But it was the expression on Kara’s face that literally sent a chill running down my spine. She was smiling. In fact, she looked as pleased as if she’d just won a prize.

  There was one last photograph: Kara walking off in one direction, the two men heading in the other. So Barnett hadn’t been discovered, after all. The deal had been made, and as far as all three of them knew, no one was the wiser.

  How wrong they had been! Taken together, the five photographs were solid evidence that Kara Liebling had hired Christopher Vale and Richard Strathe to attack Delilah Raines. While I didn’t know what Kara’s motivation had been, the most likely reason was their love triangle with Shawn.

  I felt sick as I returned Kara’s folder to the file cabinet. I was beginning to believe that no one was who I thought they were. Nearly every person I’d met since I’d come to the Bromptons turned out to have secrets—devastating secrets that could destroy them with the publication of a single photograph.

  As I slid the manila folder into place, one more name caught my eye: “Bolger, Russell.” I pulled it out of the drawer.

  The first photograph in the file didn’t look particularly incriminating. It showed Russell poised at the doorway of what looked like a private club. He was glancing around nervously, as if he was worried that someone might be watching.

  The building was made entirely of brick, with no windows. A small sign hung on the door, and I noticed a street sign with lettering that was too tiny to make out. I searched around the studio until I spotted a magnifying glass, a vital tool in the photography business. When I held it over the photo, I understood what I was looking at.

  The street sign said “Mulberry Street,” the heart of Manhattan’s Little Italy district. And the letters on the door spelled out “Friends of Sicily Society. Members Only.”

  There was only one other photograph in Russell Bolger’s folder. It showed him standing with a man who looked familiar, but whom I couldn’t quite place. The two beefy bodyguards standing on either side of him, both their faces and their physiques reminiscent of Rufus’s, jogged my memory.

  Of course! Vinny “The Finger” de Ponzo, a reputed mobster whose guilt had never been proven. Oddly enough, during each of his three highly publicized trials, the witnesses kept disappearing, either committing suicide, skipping the country, or turning up floating in a swimming pool.

  In this shot, Russell and Vinny were shaking hands. And the corner of a white envelope protruded from Russell’s jacket pocket, a white envelope that didn’t appear in the first picture.

  Is this how Russell Bolger has been financing his movies? I wondered. Or perhaps something else, like a drug habit or a gambling addiction? The reason he needed money wasn’t even the point. What really mattered was that Russell’s creditors weren’t exactly his local savings bank.

  And publicizing Russell Bolger’s wheelings and dealings with well-known mobsters wasn’t likely to go over well with either the general public or The Finger’s cohorts. He clearly recognized that fact, as proven by the handwritten list of payments I found neatly filed away behind the photographs.

  So Devon Barnett had something on just about everybody in Hollywood, I thought, my mind racing as I slid the folder back into place. He was blackmailing all of them. And any one of them could have murdered him: Hugo Fontana, Kara Liebling, Russell Bolger, Shawn Elliott, or any one of the other victims of his deviousness. I scanned the thick stack of files, reading one name after another, overwhelmed by the number of blackmailing victims—and possible suspects.

  Of course, I still couldn’t discount the possibility that Barnett’s murderer had been someone other than the people he’d been blackmailing. Perhaps Sydney had been part of his evil scheme. The two of them could have embarked upon this little sideline together, back when they were still married. Maybe the female half of the husband-and-wife team had finally decided it was high time she became the sole beneficiary of their little blackmailing enterprise. After all, she was just as capable as Devon of extracting large amounts of money as payment for her continued secrecy.

  Then there was Chess. I still couldn’t figure out what his true relationship with Devon had been. Was he just a gold-digger, hoping to cash in on his good looks by living off his lover’s wealth? And what about the schoolteacher who had been killed in his hometown? Was Chess really innocent, or were people like the town librarian correct in assuming that his alibi had been nothing more than a fabrication—and that he really had been responsible for Edmund Sylvester’s murder?

  I even wondered if Hilda had been involved. My mind reeled with possible scenarios. For all I knew, Hilda the Housekeeper was really Devon Barnett’s mother, his partner in crime, who kept up appearances by pretending to be someone other than who she really was....

  I snapped back to the moment, remembering that it wasn’t wise for me to linger. Chess—or anyone else, for that matter—could show up and find me here at any time.

  My heart pounded furiously. Think! I ordered myself, struggling to figure out what to do next. The safest thing, I knew, was not to let anyone know that I’d been here— and that I’d stumbled upon Devon Barnett’s secret stash of files. Yet I needed proof that he’d been blackmailing celebr
ities, and that meant having copies of enough of the career-damaging photographs and the payment sheets he’d kept so meticulously to incriminate him.

  Instinctively I reached down and patted the pockets of my jeans. My keys were right where I’d put them. And not only did my key ring include my own keys, but it also contained the key to Suzanne’s office, where there was a copying machine.

  I glanced around, looking for something to carry the massive stack of papers in. I realized immediately that I didn’t have a lot of choice. Chess hadn’t been exaggerating when he’d characterized his lover as a clean freak. Devon’s studio contained only the bare necessities, without a single empty carton or even a discarded shopping bag in sight.

  The best I could do was a cardboard box filled with plastic jars of chemicals. I grabbed it off a shelf, dumped out the contents, and began placing the files inside, keeping them in the exact same order in which I’d found them. The box wasn’t really high enough, and the cardboard was on the flimsy side. But if I held onto it carefully, I was pretty sure I could use it to transport the files to my van.

  Before leaving Dev’s studio, I glanced around one more time, just to make sure I’d left everything exactly the way I’d found it. Then I headed up the stairs, moving as quickly as I dared while cradling the heavy box in my arms.

  I snuck out the back door, wanting to stay out of sight as long as possible. As I passed the edge of the house, however, I had to cross a stretch of bare lawn at least fifty feet wide before reaching my van.

  At least it’s dark, I thought as I stepped onto the grass.

  I’d barely formed the thought when a blinding light suddenly flashed on. I froze, a sick feeling coming over me as I assumed I’d been caught red-handed. Then I realized the light was one of those automatic jobs that come on whenever somebody passes by a sensor.

  Still, it was as bright as a spotlight, and I was as exposed as if I were standing on a stage. The last thing I wanted was for someone to see me leaving Chess’s house with Barnett’s files—at least, if that someone knew the records were a possible link to the paparazzo’s murderer. Frantically, I looked around, checking the street, the backyard, the driveway. From what I could see, no one was around.