“So far, so good,” I breathed. I moved toward my van as quickly as I dared, given the awkward box I was carrying. The files were now jutting out of the top at haphazard angles, threatening to spill out if I jerked the box too hard. It wasn’t until I reached for the door handle, balancing the box on my bent knee, that I realized I was biting my lower lip so hard that I could taste blood.
I’d just opened the van door when everything went dark. The light on the side of Devon’s house only stayed on for a relatively short period. My time was up.
I figured I’d take advantage of the darkness. I backed out of the driveway without turning my headlights on. Of course, my red taillights helped me find the way. They also made me realize that if anyone was watching, that person would have no trouble keeping track of every move I made.
No one is watching, I told myself firmly. It was more than an attempt at keeping my heart from pounding as hard as if it were about to burst right out of my chest. I really was pretty certain that no one had seen me go into Devon Barnett’s house . . . or sneak out of it, bearing his secret treasure that he could well have been on the verge of converting into a charming vacation château in the south of France.
I flicked on my headlights as soon as I hit the street. From that point on, I acted like just another driver who was heading toward some perfectly legitimate destination—someone who wouldn’t be the least bit interesting to anyone else. Even so, the trip to Suzanne’s office seemed endless. I hit every red light. I also ended up behind every slow driver in Norfolk County.
“Come on, come on,” I muttered. I checked my watch and saw that it was getting late. I had to hurry if I was going to return the files to the basement studio before Chess got back.
When I reached Suzanne’s office, I wasn’t surprised to find it dark. Fortunately, an overhead light hung above the front door. It was fairly dim, but at least it cast enough light over the parking lot to allow me to get in through the back door without too much trouble.
Just to be cautious, I parked my van behind the building so no one could spot it from the street or the parking lot in front. No need to advertise the fact that I was alone in an office building, late at night. Not when someone was so enraged by my investigation of Devon Barnett’s murder that they’d kidnapped my Maxie-Max.
Suzanne’s office seemed strangely eerie. During the day, the rooms had been noisy and bright, filled with bustling activity. Now, they were deadly silent, except for the humming of the refrigerator and the ticking of a clock. I was actually relieved when one of the dogs spending the weekend recuperating in back let out a few questioning barks.
Fortunately, the room with the copying machine was windowless, so even turning on the light didn’t give away the fact that I was in there.
Without hesitation, I turned on the copier. I realized immediately that it was going to take a while to copy Barnett’s files. Not only did I have to make copies of all the payment sheets, I also had to copy the photographs that had made Devon Barnett’s blackmailing scheme possible in the first place.
Which presented another challenge. I didn’t know how well the glossy black-and-white photographs would reprint. I desperately hoped they would be clear.
I held my breath as I tried the first one. I deliberately chose the shot of Shawn with Delilah Raines and Kara Liebling, kind of a personal payback to myself for being foolish enough to flirt with him.
The photograph came out fine, and I let out a sigh of relief. I grabbed the entire contents of Shawn’s folder and began copying each page, working as quickly and steadily as I could.
“So far, so good,” I exhaled, as I tucked all the pages back into place and picked up the next file.
I froze at the sound of footsteps.
Oh, my God! I thought, my heartbeat immediately escalating to sickening speed. Someone was watching me. Someone saw me come out of Devon Barnett’s house— with his files!
And that someone was outside. I could hear the person who had followed me here trying to get in through the main entrance, rattling the door gently as if trying not to make any noise.
I crept into the next room, Suzanne’s office. Crouching beside the window, I peered out just in time to see a figure slink by right outside the window, heading toward the back door. I even got a glimpse of him. Still, it wasn’t much of a glimpse. It was difficult to see, since the parking lot outside Suzanne’s office was so poorly lit. All I could tell was that he was wearing pants, a baggy jacket, and a baseball cap.
And then I remembered.
The back door! I’d left it unlocked.
At least, I thought I had. Telling myself not to panic, I struggled to remember if I’d bothered to turn the lock as I came in.
The back door creaked open, giving me my answer.
Oh, my God! I thought, panicking. He’s in the building!
I stepped behind an open door, the first hiding spot I noticed. My heart fluttered, and my mouth was coated with the metallic taste of fear. I glanced around for something I could use as a weapon. Nothing. I thought about escaping through the front door, climbing out a window, even letting out the caged animals in back in the hopes that they’d rush at the intruder and give me a chance to slip out....
None of them were very good ideas. As I listened to the footsteps growing closer, I realized I’d be easy to spot. The gap between the door and the wall I stood against was large enough that anyone passing by was bound to notice me.
Yet there wasn’t enough time to dart anywhere else.
Suddenly I heard the most unexpected sound: Suzanne’s loud, high-pitched laugh, right outside in the parking lot.
I blinked, wondering if fear was making me imagine I was hearing voices. Could she really be here? It wasn’t possible, not at this hour....
“Marcus, you stop that!” It was Suzanne’s voice, all right. “You can wait at least two seconds until we get inside, can’t you?”
“I don’t think I can,” I heard Marcus reply. “You make me crazy, you fox. You’re the most scrumptious, delicious, foxy thing, and you can’t expect the Marc Man to wait. . . .”
“Stop, Marcus!” More giggling. “I have to get my key out. How can I open the door when you’ve got your hands—watch that, you naughty boy! Seriously, I’m still not sure this is such a good idea....”
“Are you kidding?” Marcus countered. “It’s inspired!”
I heard the front door swing open, then slam shut. Then more footsteps. Only this time, the sound was welcome.
“There’s not really a lot of room in here . . . Jessie?” Suzanne cried, her hands flying to her heart. She stopped in her tracks and peered at me through the gap in the doorway. “You scared me! What on earth are you doing here?”
“I came to copy some photographs,” I replied, as astonished as I was relieved. I stepped around the door, no longer afraid of being in plain sight. “But what are you two doing here on a Saturday night?”
“It was Marcus’s idea,” Suzanne said, grinning at him. “We had dinner again—this time, just the two of us. Afterward, he wanted to come back to my place. But I told him about my lawyer’s warning that my divorce negotiations are at a very sensitive stage and how I should be careful not to let Robert get anything on me. I was instructed to keep my nose clean, so I was afraid to bring him to my house. That’s when Marcus came up with the idea of us coming here.”
“The Marc Man is very good at thinking outside the box,” he informed me proudly.
I felt like throwing my arms around him—something I never would have believed could happen. The man’s overly active sex drive could well have saved my life.
But at the moment, I had something more important to do.
“Look, there’s somebody in here. Somebody who followed me—”
“What are you talking about?” Marcus demanded.
We heard the back door slam. The person who had followed me had ducked out, scared off by Suzanne’s and Marcus’s arrival.
“Excuse me,” I mumbled
, dashing in that direction. I flung the door open just in time to see a car I didn’t recognize, tear out of the parking lot. I squinted hard, trying to make out the license plate. But with practically no illumination besides the car’s dim red taillights, I couldn’t see a thing.
“Jessie, what’s going on?” Suzanne asked as she and Marcus joined me in the doorway.
I was so frustrated I could have screamed. Devon Barnett’s murderer had been right in front of me, but I hadn’t been able to see who it was. I stared out at the street, watching the taillights fade—and watching the answer to the question I’d been agonizing over drive away.
“Let’s go back inside,” I said with a sigh. “I’ll tell you the whole story.”
I was about to close the door, when something lying on the floor caught my attention. I blinked, not sure my eyes weren’t playing tricks on me.
I leaned over to pick it up. Even in the dim light, I was able to make out what it was.
“Oh, my God,” I breathed, closing my eyes as understanding swept over me like a chill.
I opened my eyes and focused on what I’d found, something so tiny it could practically have gotten lost in the creases of my hand.
But it told me who had murdered Devon Barnett.
Chapter 18
“He that lieth down with dogs shall rise up with fleas.”
—Ben Franklin
Sunday morning I awoke with the same heavy feeling in my chest Napoleon must have faced whenever he woke up the morning of a battle. But there was no way I’d let this turn into my Waterloo. Not with Max’s life at stake—and only a few hours left to do something about it.
Figuring out who had murdered Devon Barnett—and most likely kidnapped my Westie—had been critical. Now it was time to prove it to Lieutenant Anthony Falcone.
“All set?” Nick asked as he and I piled into his car with Lou. He was trying to keep his tone light, but I could tell he was worried.
To be perfectly honest, I was, too. “As ready as I’ll ever be,” I answered, wishing I sounded more convincing.
As he drove to Russell Bolger’s house, I kept my fingers clutched tightly around the handle of the tote bag I’d brought with me. In it, I’d crammed the evidence I’d need to present my case—that is, assuming things went the way I hoped they would. Staring out the window in silence, I ran through the list I’d carefully constructed in my mind. Step one, step two, step three...Just thinking about the next hour sent a wave of anxiety ballooning through my chest. I had a lot to accomplish—in a very short time.
As soon as the three of us got out of the car at Russell Bolger’s estate, Lou began acting agitated. He darted from place to place, sniffing the ground frantically and barking for no apparent reason. I had several theories about the odd behavior he’d begun to exhibit. He could have developed a phobia about new places. Or he simply could have begun to find being around other animals disconcerting.
There was a third possibility, however, one that seemed even more likely. I desperately hoped I was right.
I turned to Nick. “Would you please do me a favor and take Lou out for a run? He could probably use the exercise.”
“Yeah, he does seem kind of freaked out,” Nick agreed.
I immediately figured out a way to calm my Dalmatian down. Halfway across the Bolgers’ property, I spotted Emily sitting at the edge of the pool. She was dangling her bare feet in the water and looking bored.
“Emily!” I called.
She rose to her feet, shielding her eyes from the sun and peering in our direction. The look of confusion on her face instantly melted into a grin, and she started waving furiously. I dropped Lou’s leash, then watched him bound toward her gleefully.
“I don’t blame him for wanting to hang out with Emily,” I commented to Nick. “She’s probably the most interesting person here.”
“In that case, maybe I’ll do the same.”
Once my two charges had been taken care of, I made my way toward Russell Bolger’s house, following all the other well-dressed guests who were heading inside. I was glad to see a couple of local cops on site, uniformed officers from the Town of East Brompton Police Department, who stood around with walkie-talkies, looking as if they felt very important.
I was also pleased to see so many familiar faces. So many familiar dogs, too. Many of the people who’d participated in the dog show had brought their animals with them today to watch the home movies. I found that endearing. Even though these celebrities regularly saw their names in lights and their faces on magazine covers and billboards, at the end of the day, it still mattered to them that they had a loyal fan at home who, as Shawn had once put it, liked them for themselves.
But my appreciation of the human–canine bond only lasted a few seconds. I had more important things to attend to. I scanned the room, my heart thumping wildly as I searched for the one face that mattered most.
I let out a sigh of relief when I spotted it. Lieutenant Falcone stood in one corner of the lobby outside Russell’s theater, flirting with a beautiful woman. I recognized her as the supermodel I’d spotted on the first day of the dog show, the one with her own cosmetics campaign and her own viszla. From the looks of things, she’d recently acquired something else desirable: the blue ribbon for Best of Show. Her rust-colored dog stood beside her, his chest puffed out and his head held high, as if he was as proud of the blue ribbon fastened to his collar as his mistress was.
Falcone and the supermodel made an interesting pair: the striking darked-haired beauty, as willowy as a palm frond, looking positively radiant in a pale green linen dress, and the Norfolk Country Chief of Homicide in his slightly shiny off-the-rack suit, barely skimming her shoulders even though his posture would have put a U.S. Marine to shame.
“Step one,” I breathed, pleased that I’d managed to accomplish the first item on my mental checklist. I even let myself relax—at least, for a few seconds. Then I remembered that luring Falcone to this event was just one small step in a whole staircase of events that still needed to proceed according to plan.
I perked up when I noticed him squaring his shoulders, puffing out his chest as if he were in competition with the viszla. Almost immediately, I saw the reason: the approach of a man balancing a gigantic video camera on his shoulder. Marching alongside him was a pretty blonde woman in a tailored suit who had to have been a television reporter.
I watched from across the room as they chatted. Then, both Falcone and the model nodded their approval. A bright light from the video camera flashed on, and the two of them were suddenly being interviewed.
I’m glad Falcone got what he came for, I thought with grim satisfaction. I just hope he leaves here with something even more meaningful.
The next item on my mental “to do” list, step two, was much more technical. More than a decade had passed since I’d been part of the stage crew for the Junior Show at Bryn Mawr. Suzanne Fox played the role of an absentminded physics professor in our class’s spoof on college life, but I’d preferred to stay behind the scenes. At the moment, I was grateful I’d opted to stay out of the spotlight—and instead, learn something about the way things worked backstage.
Doing my best to look casual, I sauntered down the short hallway that ran alongside the theater, pretending I was heading toward the ladies’ room—or, in this case, the Actresses Room. Instead, I hesitated outside the unmarked door that came before it, just long enough to glance around and make sure no one was watching me. Then, I ducked into the backstage area and quickly closed the door behind me.
This time, I’d had the presence of mind to bring a flashlight. I’d picked it up that very morning at an old-fashioned hardware store in the heart of East Brompton, one that combined the old-fashioned smell of wooden floors and mustiness with an impressive inventory of nuts, bolts, and twelve-piece sets of Le Creuset cook-ware. Instead of turning on any lights that might call attention to the backstage area, I was able to focus the beam precisely where I needed it.
I worked
with fast, steady movements, making a few critical adjustments in the way things were laid out. Miraculously, everything I’d learned at college about being a stagehand came back to me—something I suspected wouldn’t have happened if I’d tried to recall the knowledge I’d once absorbed about the Lake Poets or the German Expressionist Art Movement.
It didn’t take me long to complete step two. But instead of feeling heartened, I found myself even more overwhelmed.
What I’d done so far had been the easy stuff. Orchestrating the other events I needed to make happen was going to be a lot more difficult.
I sneaked out of the backstage area, trying to buoy up my spirits by pretending I was one of Charlie’s Angels. After taking a few deep breaths and forcing my facial muscles to relax, I ambled back to the lobby and grabbed a crystal flute of champagne.
“Jessie!”
I turned and saw Chess heading in my direction with a carefully brushed and fluffed Zsa Zsa in his arms. Both were dressed in pale pink, he in an expensive-looking silk shirt the color of roses, she in a matching pink ribbon perched perkily on her head. He was beaming from ear to ear.
“Hi, Chess,” I greeted him. “I—I didn’t realize you’d be here today.” I was finding it hard to look him in the eye. For the first time since I’d concocted this plan, I found myself experiencing some serious doubts about revealing Devon Barnett’s murder in such a public arena.
“Just because I wasn’t part of the dog show doesn’t mean I can’t be part of the cast party,” he chirped. “But I’m so glad you’re here, Jessie! Phyllis Beckwith called me early this morning. She said she could hardly sleep last night, she was so excited about my iced tea. In fact, she’s absolutely convinced that it’s going to be the hit of the summer season!”
“That’s great, Chess,” I told him, doing my best to sound enthusiastic, even though my stomach was in knots.
Putting on the Dog Page 32
