Helplessly I glanced toward the cameraman, trying to will him to have the good sense to shift the focus away from my wayward guest. Instead, my eyes lit on Patti, who was standing right next to him. And she didn’t look at all pleased.
“Dr. Scruggs,” I tried again, this time letting my irritation show, “we really need to get back to the discussion at hand.”
I might as well have been talking to one of the stuffed animals behind me.
“At Blooming Tails,” Marcus went on, staring into the camera as intently as if it was a lover, “you’ll find a truly unusual boutique packed with a wide range of hand-selected items that every pet owner will want to stock up on. For example, check out this little gem.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out the same flashy dog collar he’d shown me before, the pink suede one decorated with real diamonds.
I glanced at Patti and saw that her mouth had dropped open. And not in a good way.
And then a minor miracle occurred. I discovered a way out. The red light was blinking on the telephone in front of me, the one I used to answer questions from viewers who called in. Maybe I wasn’t having any luck saving the show, but hopefully someone out there in TV land could.
“We have a caller!” I exclaimed, pressing the speakerphone button. “Hello! Thank you for calling Pet People!”
“Hi, Dr. Popper?” the female caller began hesitantly. “This is Jane from Eastbury.”
“Hello, Jane. We’re on the air. How can I help you and your pet?”
“Actually, my question is for your guest,” Jane from Eastbury said. “Dr. Scruggs, does that collar come in purple? I mean, the pink is cute and everything, but my cockapoo’s favorite color is purple.”
By the time the show ended, it was all I could do to keep myself from strangling Marcus with his ridiculous tie. Either that or pouring water on him so that there’d be a short in his shorts.
But I didn’t have a chance, since he immediately sprang out of his chair and made a beeline for the best-looking female in the room, who happened to be the show’s production assistant, Marlene. Besides, Patti the Producer was marching toward me. And for the first time since I’d met her, she looked mad. Really, really mad.
“Jessie,” she hissed, “what on earth was that?”
I shrank away from her like a kid who’s just been called into the principal’s office. That, I thought, is a stellar example of what’s generally known as bad judgment.
“Tell me again why we’re spending our Friday night having dinner with Suzanne and some stranger instead of eating Chinese food and watching a video,” Nick said that evening as he and I pulled up in front of Kieran’s residence.
“Because Suzanne is a good friend and we’re both anxious to get to know the new man in her life,” I replied.
I made a point of leaving out the part about the new dog in her life. Even though I was primarily here to make firsthand observations about the dynamics of a threesome that Suzanne claimed was troublesome, I didn’t see any reason to have my opinion colored by someone else’s. Especially someone of the male variety, since it was possible he wouldn’t be sympathetic to my role of undercover relationship counselor.
As I climbed out of Nick’s black Maxima, I studied the modest-size tract house that looked as if it had been designed by an architect who had stolen the blueprints for Levittown. Actually, the tiny, one-story house on an equally compact piece of land looked pretty nice for a bachelor pad. Or at least my preconceived notion of a bachelor pad, which I had to admit had been formed primarily by movies like Animal House. The lawn was mowed and the shrubs running along the front of the house were neatly trimmed. White impatiens lined the walkway. True, they were still in the plastic pots they’d originally come in, with the white price tags in full view. But that didn’t keep them from making the front yard look pretty.
The house was also well cared for. It looked as if it had been repainted recently—not only the white shingles, but also the dark blue shutters. Between the cheerful little touches Kieran had added and the fact that it was well maintained, it had a homey, welcoming feel.
In fact, as Nick and I strolled up the front walk arm in arm, I was psyched for a really pleasant evening of good friends, good food, and good conversation.
So I was taken aback when I saw how our hostess for the evening looked when she opened the door.
“H-hello, Jessie. Hi, Nick.” Suzanne’s cheeks were flushed and she’d screwed up her face in a way that meant she was on the verge of tears.
I glanced at Nick. He already looked ready to bolt. I grasped his arm more tightly.
“Hi, Suzanne!” I greeted her brightly. Of course I wondered what was wrong. It was just that I wasn’t going to start off the evening by giving Suzanne a chance to tell me.
Instead, I thrust the bakery box that contained our contribution to the evening’s meal at her and announced, “We brought dessert.”
“Thanks,” she said morosely. With a loud sigh, she added, “You might as well come in.”
As Nick and I stepped into the hallway, I noticed that there was a big red blotch on Suzanne’s snow-white shirt. Frankly, I thought the shirt would have been pretty unflattering even without the stain, given the fact that it was made of clingy fabric that emphasized every twist and turn of her complicated silhouette.
“Suzanne,” I said softly, not sure if this was going to turn out to be one of those occasions when honesty was not the best policy, “I think you may have, uh, spilled something on your shirt.”
“It was Skittles’s fault!” she shot back in a hoarse stage whisper. “She did it, not me!”
I blinked. Kieran’s canine partner was undoubtedly smart, but I doubted that even a well-trained German shepherd of her caliber possessed that much fashion sense.
Nick, clever man that he is, took this as his cue. “I’ll go find Kieran and introduce myself,” he said, dashing away before I had a chance to grab him.
“Suzanne, I really don’t see how a dog could do something that vengeful—”
“This is my favorite shirt!” she wailed, her lower lip puckering into a pout. “I absolutely adore it! It’s Dolce & Gabbana. I paid a fortune for it!”
Yet you got such a small amount of fabric, I thought.
“I guess Skittles decided it was a little too sexy,” she continued, her tone bitter. “I’d barely had it on for five minutes before she poured merlot all over it.”
Somehow, I couldn’t picture a German shepherd—even one capable of sniffing out and chasing down perpetrators—picking up a glass of red wine and flinging it at her rival for Officer Hottie’s affections. While Skittles probably possessed the smarts, I didn’t think she had the required paw-eye coordination.
“I guess I’m missing something,” I confessed. “Like how a dog could possibly manage to pour wine on someone’s shirt.”
“Oh, she didn’t do it directly,” Suzanne replied tartly. “She’s much too clever for that. She waited until I was pouring myself a glass. As soon as it was full, she hurled herself against me. Of course, she knew full well that would cause me to spill it all over myself!”
“I see.” Even though I did my best to sound sympathetic, I still thought Suzanne was overdoing it in the accusation department. Especially since she was attributing such evil actions to a creature whose idea of a good time was sniffing another dog’s butt.
“I’m telling you, Jessie, she hates me!” Suzanne whined. “She’s doing everything she can to drive me away!”
I opened my mouth, prepared to try to convince her that she was reading way too much into Skittles’s behavior. But before I’d uttered a single word of my logical, carefully thought out argument, I snapped it shut again. I could see there was no point in trying to change her mind.
“I’d put cold water on that stain if I were you,” I advised. “That’ll probably take it right out.”
“You think?” Suzanne’s expression softened for the first time since I’d walked in the door. “Thanks, Jess!�
� She turned and dashed through a door I assumed led to the bathroom, no doubt to try some emergency stain removal.
It’s going to be a long night, I thought with a deep sigh.
I ambled toward the kitchen, where I could hear Nick and Kieran engaged in an enthusiastic discussion about the respective pennant potential of the Mets and the Yankees this season. When I reached the doorway, I saw that Nick was perched on a stool with a bottle of beer in his hand. Kieran was standing at the counter, emptying a box of sesame crackers onto a plate. Skittles stood at his side. In fact, she was practically glommed on to his left leg, as if somehow the Velcro on the pockets of his cargo pants had gotten stuck in her fur.
As I was about to step into the room, she let out a low growl.
“Quiet!” Kieran commanded. Glancing at me sheepishly, he said, “Sorry about that, Jessie. I don’t know what’s gotten into her lately.”
“You mean she’s become nervous around strangers?” I asked.
“That’s the funny thing,” he replied, frowning. “Only around female strangers. And it only happens when we’re at home. Whenever she’s on the job, she’s her usual self.”
Aha, I thought. So maybe there is some basis for Suzanne’s complaints about the other female in Kieran’s life.
I edged my way around the kitchen, giving Skittles wide berth. Even though I’m comfortable around dogs—even king-size ones with king-size teeth—I also have a healthy respect for the damage they can do if they feel threatened. Once I made it over to Nick’s corner of the room, I plunked down on a stool next to him.
“Can I get you something to drink, Jessie?” Kieran offered. “Soda, beer, wine—”
“Wine sounds great.”
“Red or white?”
“White,” I replied quickly, glancing down at my shirt. “Definitely white.”
While Kieran and Nick dissected New York’s two baseball teams, I worked on my wine and marveled over how much the male half of the species’ endless fascination with ball playing resembles terriers’ passion for the very same activity. A few minutes later, Suzanne appeared in the doorway. Instead of an unattractive red wine stain, her blouse was covered with an even less attractive wet spot.
I wasn’t the only one who noticed her entrance. Another growl emerged from Skittles. Actually, this time around it was more like a snarl.
“Quiet, Skittles!” Kieran barked. “Honestly, I don’t know what’s gotten into her.”
Skittles stopped growling, all right. But as Suzanne took a step into the room, the powerful German shepherd stepped directly in her path, as if to block her.
Kieran didn’t notice. He was too busy reliving the 1969 World Series, when Tom Seaver went 25–7 with a 2.21 ERA and 208 strikeouts. This was apparently a good thing.
From across the room, Suzanne cast me a look of desperation. See? she seemed to be saying. I told you so.
True, it looked bad. But I still wasn’t entirely convinced that Skittles wasn’t simply reacting to having a stranger—any stranger—in the house. Or that something hadn’t happened to her on the job that was affecting her behavior at home.
Or that she wasn’t just being a dog and we humans were reading all kinds of motives into her behavior.
Kieran finally seemed to have noticed that his ladylove—the human one, that is—had entered the room. “What are you drinking?” he asked Suzanne as he emptied a can of mixed nuts into a wooden bowl.
“I think I’ll stick with water,” she answered quickly.
Kieran suddenly seemed strangely interested in the beverage issue. “I thought you were drinking red wine.”
“I was,” she replied, “but, uh, I don’t want it to go to my head.”
Or her skirt, I thought ruefully.
“Why don’t we go into the living room?” Kieran suggested once we all had a glass in our hand. “We’ll be more comfortable in there.”
The four of us paraded into the next room, carrying our drinks. After Kieran arranged the snacks he’d prepared on the coffee table, he sat on the couch. Suzanne plopped down next to him.
Skittles immediately jumped up onto the cushions, wedging her sleek butt between the two of them. As she did, the water in Suzanne’s glass went flying, landing all over her pale pink skirt.
“Eeek!” she cried, jumping up. As she did, she bumped against the coffee table, knocking over the bowl of nuts and sending almonds and cashews flying all over the carpet.
“Down, Skittles!” Kieran commanded sharply. Skittles reluctantly crawled off the couch, then glared at him.
So did Suzanne. “My whole outfit is ruined!” she shrieked.
“They’re just clothes,” Kieran replied. Frowning, he added, “I don’t know what’s going on with Skittles. I’m really worried about her.” He reached down to scratch the fur on the dog’s neck. In a soft, concerned voice, he asked, “Are you all right, Skittles? Huh? Is my best girl doing okay?”
I couldn’t tell if the look Skittles cast Suzanne was one of triumph or disdain. But I could see for myself that my friend was absolutely right. She really was caught in a love triangle.
And the fact that one of the three members happened to have four legs didn’t make it any easier. Especially since she was using every one of them to walk all over her rival.
Chapter 14
“Just ’cause you got the monkey off your back doesn’t mean the circus has left town.”
—George Carlin
By Saturday morning, I’d forgotten all about the trials and tribulations of Suzanne’s love life. I was too focused on the fact that I had an entire day with no responsibilities ahead of me—that is, aside from acting surprised at my unsurprising wedding shower that night.
That meant I finally had a chance to do more research. I hadn’t stopped hoping that somehow I’d be able to use the Internet to make some progress in deciphering the writing on Erin’s cocktail napkin.
Right after breakfast was the ideal time. Nick and I lingered on the patio, each of us hunched over our laptops as we sipped coffee and basked in the warmth of the perfect June day.
I began by opening Google and typing in the keywords 100 and brown once again. Only, this time, I added the words Long Island.
The screen that appeared was completely different from the one that had come up the last time. There was no mention of any Christmas lights, leather recliners, or baby-proof electrical outlet covers.
Instead, the first listing was for Norfolk Self-Storage, located at 100 Brown Street in Bellpoint Beach.
“Oh, my God,” I breathed. “Nick, you’re not going to believe what I just found.”
He looked up from his computer screen and blinked. “Something good, I hope.”
“Something important,” I replied. “Anyway, I think it is. You know the words 100 brown BB plus?”
“Of course. From the cocktail napkin.”
“I’m pretty sure they refer to a self-storage facility I just found. There’s a place called Norfolk Self-Storage located at 100 Brown Street. And it’s in Bellpoint Beach.”
Nick came over to check my screen. “ ‘Your Best Bet on Long Island,’ ” he read aloud. “ ‘Clean! Private! Secure!’ Jess, I think you hit the jackpot. That conversation you had with Drayton at his store makes it pretty clear the guy is involved in the illegal animal trade. And that means a self-storage unit could come in pretty handy.”
“Exactly what I was thinking,” I agreed. “It would be a great place for him to stash the animals he’s selling—the ones he doesn’t want every Tom, Dick, and Harry to know about.”
“If he is hiding something illegal,” Nick mused as he sat back down, “it’s possible that even his business partner doesn’t know what he’s up to.”
“Good point,” I said thoughtfully. “If Drayton had a storage facility that Ben knew nothing about, that would help exonerate him, wouldn’t it?”
It wasn’t until that point that I realized just how badly I wanted to prove that Ben wasn’t doing anything illeg
al. I especially wanted him to be innocent of Erin’s murder.
“Speaking of Donald Drayton,” Nick remarked, “I was just doing a little research on him myself, like you asked me to.”
“Have you found out something?” My heartbeat had already kicked up a notch.
“Here’s the thing,” he said, frowning, “Donald Drayton doesn’t appear to be that wealthy.”
“But I saw for myself—”
“At least in legitimate terms. I’m talking about his company. All those Pet Empawrium stores are doing well, but not that well. The venture is pretty new, after all. Besides, there’s only so much money to be made selling pet supplies.”
“Maybe he has family money,” I ventured. “Or maybe his wife does.”
“Not that I can see,” Nick replied, peering at the screen of his laptop. “At least not if you believe his tax returns. I’m usually pretty good at locating hidden assets and even unreported income. When I was a private investigator, I had my share of clients who were getting divorced and wanted to find out how much money their spouses really had. In fact, it became kind of a specialty. But this guy looks like he’s barely getting by—at least on paper.”
Trips to exotic places, a luxurious lifestyle with no legitimate income to support it, an expensive trophy wife, and on top of all that, a casual offer of a gorilla or an endangered snail . . . The more I learned about Donald Drayton, the more convinced I became that he really was involved in the illegal animal trade.
Anxious to learn more, I Googled the keywords animal, trade, and illegal, then hit Enter.
“Wow, where should I start?” I mumbled when a long and varied list of websites came up.
Monkey See, Monkey Die Page 20
