Dead Canaries Don't Sing (40 page)

“Except when it comes to the dog show.”

“Hey, every parent has to show off some time. Maybe I don’t want Rufus’s name in lights, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want him to be appreciated for the glorious creature he truly is.”

Much to the bulldog’s dismay, Shawn stopped scratching and stood up. “I don’t suppose you have any pull, do you?”

“Me? Naw. I’m just the hired help.”

“Too bad. It’d be fun trying to get you on my good side.”

Now
my
cheeks were flushed. I was sure of it. How could I not be, when Shawn Elliot was flashing me the boyish grin that, along with his startlingly blue eyes, had gotten him voted “America’s Sexiest Man” three years running in T.V. Guide’s annual poll?

I quickly tried to come up with some other topic of conversation.

“By the way,” I asked, “who was that obnoxious man taking all those pictures of you at the farm stand?”

“That idiot? Devon Barnett.”

The expression on my face must have reflected my confusion.

“You’ve never heard of him?”

I shook my head.

“Probably because you have too much sense to read those ridiculous supermarket tabloids.”

“You mean those rags at the check-out counters with headlines like ‘Hundred-Year-Old Woman Gives Birth to Kittens?’

“Exactly. Or ‘Shawn Elliot Assaults Animal Doctor with $300,000 Car.’”

My eyes grew as big as headlights. “Is that how much your car cost?”

I didn’t get an answer.

“Devon Barnett is one of the sleaziest celebrity photographers that ever lived,” Shawn went on. “Here, let me show you some of his handiwork.”

He reached into a desk drawer and pulled out a stack of newspaper clippings. They were all the front pages of supermarket tabloids. I leafed through them, noting that each one sported accusatory headlines. Underneath, there was invariably a photograph that was just as incriminating.

“But don’t all those photographers do pretty much the same thing?”

“Up to a point. But Devon Barnett is the absolute worst. He has no sense of fair play, no notion of what it means to respect other people’s boundaries. Here, look at this one.”

He leafed through the pile. The photograph he pulled out showed Shawn scowling at a group of crazed fans huddled at the bottom of some steps, frantically thrusting pens and paper in his face.

“Shawn Elliot: ‘I Have No Time For Foolish Fans!’” the headline read.

“Do you know where that was taken?” he asked.

I shook my head.

“No, of course not. That’s the whole point. The answer is, outside a funeral home. I was coming out of my father’s wake, for God’s sake.”

“I think I’m beginning to understand,” I told him.

“It’s not just that Barnett captures people at their very worst moments and then twists them into something they’re not,” Shawn continued. “What’s even more despicable is the fact that he’ll stop at nothing to get a photo. One time I was really sick. I’d been in seclusion for almost two weeks. All kinds of rumors were springing up, and somehow, Barnett got hold of my private number. He called me and told me he’d just hit Rufus with his car, right in front of my house. I raced outside, half crazed. Rufus was perfectly fine, of course. But Barnett got exactly what he wanted: a picture of me looking like a madman, running across the lawn in my underwear.”

I took a moment to appreciate the fact that I wasn’t famous or important. I hadn’t realized what an invasion of privacy it was, having someone devote his entire life to capturing your worst moments on film so they could be plastered over every newsstand and supermarket check-out in the country.

Rufus picked that moment to waddle over to Shawn and nudge him. I guess he’d decided it was his turn to be the focus of his master’s attention again.

Which made me remember I had some canine lovables of my own.

“My dogs!” I cried. “I mean, I have two of them, a Westie and a Dalmatian, and right now they’re probably wondering if I’ve deserted them forever. If I could just get the key to the guesthouse—”

“Sorry. I know I got carried away. But I can’t help it. Just thinking about that Barnett character makes my blood boil.”

He got the key, then walked me to the door.

“Keep that robe as long as you need it. Make yourself comfortable, and let me know if you need anything.”

“I’m sure I’ll be fine,” I told him.

“And remember, it’s just me and Rufus, all alone in this big house,” Shawn said. He hit me again with that grin. “Don’t be a stranger, okay?”

DEAD CANARIES DON’T SING
A Bantam Book / February 2004

Published by Bantam Dell
A Division of Random House, Inc.
New York, New York

All rights reserved

Copyright © 2004 by Cynthia Baxter

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eISBN : 978-0-307-41797-8

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