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Authors: Cynthia Baxter

Putting on the Dog

BOOK: Putting on the Dog
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Praise for
DEAD CANARIES DON’T SING

“Clever, fast-paced and well-plotted,
Dead
Canaries Don’t Sing
stars an appealing heroine
and furry sidekicks sure to enchant pet lovers.
Five paws up for Cynthia Baxter’s first in the
Reigning Cats & Dogs
series.”

—Carolyn Hart

“Dead canaries don’t sing, but you will
after reading this terrific mystery!”—Rita Mae Brown,
New York Times
bestselling author

“A little bird told me to read this mystery, which
is awfully good. For the record, I would shred any
canary who insulted me.”—Sneaky Pie Brown,

New York Times
bestselling cat


Dead
Canaries Don’t Sing
is top dog, the cat’s
pajamas, and the paws that refresh all rolled into one
un-fur-gettable mystery entertainment.”

—Sarah Graves

“Loads of fun! Baxter’s veterinary sleuth and her
menagerie of animal companions are a great way to
spend an afternoon. So pull up a chair and dive in.”

—T. J. MacGregor, Edgar Award winner
for
Out of Sight

“An auspicious debut... Messages, murder and a
menagerie of odd animals are along for the fun.”


Mystery
Scene

“Charmingly humorous...[Baxter is] funny without
being fussy. Along with lovable Jessica and her
menagerie, the author has created a subtle yet
creepy antagonist whose unmasking is as intense
as it is surprising.”—
Romantic
Times

“A truly refreshing read that moved the plot right along.
I’m looking forward to more in this new series.”

—Rendezvous

“A lighthearted mystery with a strong convincing plot.
Recommended.”
—I
Love a Mystery
newsletter

“Baxter’s lighthearted, enjoyable mystery is an
entertaining debut featuring a likable menagerie of
characters, a few surprising plot twists, and a
touch of romance.”
—Lansing State Journal

To Jesse

Acknowledgments

I would like to express my gratitude to the many people who assisted me in writing this book, overwhelming me with their generosity, their creativity, and above all, their patience:

Dawn Rella, Scott Rella, and Roy Curnuck of Ice Sculpture Designs, Inc. of Deer Park, Long Island, New York;

Martha S. Gearhart, D.V.M. and the staff of the Pleasant Valley Animal Hospital in Pleasant Valley, New York;

Dorothy Hayes, V.M.D., Judy Lombardi, V.M.D., and the staff of the Corner Animal Hospital in Setauket, Long Island, New York;

Dan and Amy Wagner, Lisa Pulitzer, and of course, my gem of an agent, Faith Hamlin, and my editor from heaven, Caitlin Alexander.

A Note to Readers

Putting On the Dog
is a work of fiction, and all names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual events, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental. Although some real Long Island places are mentioned, all are used fictitiously.

Chapter 1

“All men are intrinsically rascals, and I am only sorry that not being a dog, I can’t bite them.”

—Lord Byron

Damn you, Marcus Scruggs!” I grumbled, leaning closer to the windshield of my van and peering through the sheeting rain. “Be honest, guys: Am I totally nuts?”

Max and Lou, scrambling around on the seat beside me, offered no opinion about my sanity. They were too busy acting like unruly preschoolers, wrestling for the space nearest the window. It was a close contest. Lou, my one-eyed Dalmatian, had longer legs. But Max, being a terrier, was infinitely more determined.

I sighed. Somehow, this wasn’t the way I’d pictured my arrival in the Bromptons, a cluster of posh seaside communities famous for their palatial summer estates, spectacular white-sanded beaches, and four-star restaurants featuring twelve-dollar desserts. Between the area’s attributes and the fact that it was less than two hours from Manhattan, it wasn’t surprising that the movers and shakers from New York City and Los Angeles had claimed Long Island’s East End as their own. For decades, the Bromptons had been known as the summer playground of movie stars, rock legends, writers, and artists, as well as the agents, managers, and executives whose names weren’t as well-known, but whose summer homes were at least as large.

So it hadn’t been difficult for Marcus Scruggs, a fellow Long Island veterinarian, to sell me on the idea of spending the last week of June standing in for him at a charity dog show, answering pet owners’ questions at the “Ask The Vet” booth. I could practically hear his voice, floating over the phone as low and smooth as an FM disc jockey’s: “I’m telling you, Popper, I’m talking Glamour—with a capital G.”

But in the pouring rain, the area’s main east–west route, Sunset Highway, looked more like Main Street in a ghost town. Few cars crawled along the puddle-strewn thoroughfare, and fewer yet stood parked outside the pool-supply shops and imported-tile boutiques lining its edge. Even the scrubby trees and shrubs that dotted the two-lane highway looked pathetic.

Gritting my teeth, I veered around a body of water only slightly smaller than Lake Superior. I was no stranger to the Bromptons. As a vet who makes house calls in my clinic-on-wheels, I routinely travel all over Long Island. That includes visiting clients who live on what’s popularly called the South Fork, the lower of the two fish tails that make up the Island’s eastern end. And Marcus had given me detailed directions for getting to the estate of someone named Wiener, the man who’d volunteered to put me up during the weeklong event. I’d followed his directions to the letter, but I still couldn’t find Darby Lane. Of course, not being able to make out the street signs through the pouring rain didn’t help.

I clamped down on the brake when I spotted a yellow-and-white striped awning, a sure indication I was approaching a farm stand.
Somebody
around here had to know where the Wiener estate was, and it seemed as likely a place as any. I made a sharp turn, sending Max and Lou collapsing against each other in a heap.

“You guys okay?” I asked as my van rocked along a badly pitted parking lot that no one had ever bothered to pave—no doubt, a self-conscious attempt at capturing the rural charm of Tuscany or the South of France.

I didn’t need an answer. By the time I pulled into a space, the two of them were already climbing all over each other again, making little yelping sounds and occasionally nipping each other playfully in the butt. I was glad somebody was having fun.

I stared out at the rain morosely, wondering why I hadn’t brought along an umbrella, and with a loud sigh of resignation, I opened the door of my van.

“Stay!” I instructed my two canines. They paused in their shenanigans, both shooting me surprised looks that said they wouldn’t even have
considered
venturing out in weather like this.

“You guys are much too smart,” I muttered. “You make the humans do all the dirty work.”

I picked my way across the dirt parking lot, noticing that it was quickly turning into a
mud
parking lot. I regretted dressing up. I’d made a few Sunday morning emergency calls in my usual work ensemble, khaki trousers and a polo shirt embroidered with “Jessica Popper, D.V.M.” But before corralling Max and Lou into my twenty-six-foot van and embarking on the drive to the East End, a good hour-and-a-half trip from my hometown of Joshua’s Hollow on Long Island’s North Shore, I’d changed into an outfit I felt better suited my destination. I’d donned a pale blue silk blouse and black rayon trousers, the finest that Bloomingdale’s “Clearance” rack had to offer. I only hoped the drops of rain that were turning them from solid colors into polka dots wouldn’t have a lasting effect.

I scurried past the displays that ran along the front of the farm stand, mounds of vegetables and fruit so large and richly colored they looked like they were made of wax: bright orange-red tomatoes the size of baseballs, slick dark green cucumbers that could have doubled as baseball bats, and an impressive selection of exotic-looking fruits that had probably been flown in from so far away that they’d amassed more frequent flyer miles than I had.

“Excuse me!” I called to the clerk standing behind the displays, protected from the rain by the awning.

“Be with you in a minute,” she returned coolly. She turned her attention back to her customer, a woman who’d had the good sense to bring an umbrella
and
wear a slicker.

I glanced around frantically, looking for some friendly local who might be willing to help. And then I let out a screech.

Before I knew what was happening, I was blasted with water. It was as if someone—someone not very nice— had suddenly turned a hose on me.

“Wha-a-a! . . .” I sputtered.

I stood frozen to the spot, gradually realizing that the front of my silk shirt was splotched with huge, grimy wet spots, while my stylishly loose pants clung damply to my thighs. I could feel cold rivulets dripping off my face and down my neck. My dark blonde hair was plastered around my head, no doubt giving me the distinctive look of a sea otter. When I ran my fingers through the soggy strands in an attempt at pushing them off my face, I actually encountered clumps of mud.

I blinked a few times, struggling to get the water out of my eyes. As soon as I did, I saw that a low-slung sports car the same color as the ripe tomatoes on display had just pulled into a parking space less than five feet in front of me. Because it was going ridiculously fast, its wheels had thrown up a tremendous spray of water.

I just stared as the door of the Ferrari opened. The driver was dressed in torn jeans and a T-shirt. A Dodgers baseball cap was pulled down low over his eyes, which were hidden behind a pair of sunglasses. With his shaggy hair and a sorry attempt at a beard, he looked like he’d stolen the car, not earned it.

I plunked myself right in front of him.

He peered up at me over his shades. “Gee, did I do that?”

“No, I’m on my way to a wet T-shirt contest,” I shot back. “I thought accessorizing with mud would be a nice touch.”

“Hey, I’m really sorry. I hope you’ll let me pay the dry-cleaning bill.”

“That’s the least you can do. But if you don’t mind, I’d rather not discuss this in the pouring rain.”

He gestured toward the seat next to him. “Climb in.”

“Thanks, but my mother taught me never to get into cars with strange men.”

“Good advice. Unless you happen to be in the middle of a downpour.”

I stood firm.

“Okay, have it your way.” He climbed out of the car, grabbed my hand, and pulled me after him. I would have protested except for the fact that he actually seemed to know where he was going.

I was so busy following him that I didn’t pay much attention to the Mercedes that had just driven up beside us. When a wiry man in tight jeans and a black silk shirt jumped out, I just assumed he’d come in search of vegetables big enough to stage a baseball game.

The Ferrari driver led me through the farm stand’s side entrance, bringing us into a small room. It contained a few shelves lined with household basics like mango chutney and wasabi rice crackers.

BOOK: Putting on the Dog
8.82Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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