Putting on the Dog (10 page)

He sank into the chair behind the desk.

“Are you all right?” I asked.

“No.” He laughed bitterly. “How can I be all right when I’m probably looking at a multimillion-dollar lawsuit—not to mention being accused of causing someone’s death? All because some
nut
decides to use one of my ice sculptures as a murder weapon.”

I felt as if I’d been slapped. “Murder? Is
that
what you think happened?”

“There’s no doubt in my mind.”

My heartbeat raced. I could scarcely believe what I was hearing. Sure, it had occurred to me that Devon Barnett’s death might not have been an accident, given his widespread unpopularity. But I’d chalked that idea up to my overly active imagination. Now, hearing Gary voice what I’d thought was nothing more than my own far-fetched rumination chilled me to the bone.

It also set off a little bell in my head. Murder was a subject I happened to find fascinating. I’d even put my intellectual interest into practice a few months earlier when I’d found myself smack in the middle of a murder investigation just a mile or two from my home in Joshua’s Hollow. But long before that, I’d found the process of finding answers to seemingly unanswerable questions intriguing. In fact, Nick had once accused me of being more interested in the cases he handled in his private-investigation practice than he was. He’d compared me to Nancy Drew—and I had to admit that he hadn’t been far off base.

“Look, I’ve been in this business for eighteen years,” Gary went on, shaking his head in disgust. “I’ve done parties for the governor and for U.S. Senators and even presidential candidates who were campaigning out here in the Bromptons. I’ve done events for the biggest companies you can think of—and the richest, most important, most
litigious
people imaginable. Don’t you think that by now I’ve figured out I have to do everything I possibly can to protect myself?

“Last night,” he continued, “after you left the gazebo, I did exactly what I told you I was going to do: secure the sculptures so they wouldn’t fall. Even though Phyllis insisted it would look bad and forbade me to do it, I stretched strips of wire behind the dogs and tied them to the gazebo’s columns. They were solid—strong enough that even a Saint Bernard couldn’t have shaken one of my ice sculptures loose, much less a fifty-pound bulldog.

“After that waitress started screaming and all hell broke loose, I ran back to the gazebo as fast as I could. Those strips of wire were
gone,
man. Like they’d never even existed. Somebody must have cut them down.”

“What about your helper? Couldn’t he—or she—have taken them down?”

Gary looked at me quizzically. “ ‘Helper’?”

“Your assistant, or whoever was cleaning up in the gazebo.”

“I didn’t have anybody else from Ice Castles with me last night, if that’s what you mean. I was working alone.”

I decided not to mention that I’d seen somebody lurking behind the ice sculptures after everyone else had moved into the tent. At least, not yet. My thoughts were still too muddled as I tried to sift through everything Gary was telling me, and I wasn’t about to complicate things even further. “In that case, is there any chance Phyllis removed them?”

“No way. I made a point of keeping my eyes on her the rest of the time—until just before disaster struck, anyway. I made sure she didn’t go near the ice sculpture display because I had a feeling she’d go nuts if she saw what I’d done.”

“How about someone on her staff?”

“I kept an eye on the gazebo until the cocktail hour was over. I’m positive nobody messed with it. I watched while the caterers cleaned up the hors d’oeuvres. They took everything away except the ice sculptures. It was my job to get rid of them, and I figured I’d wait until dinner was underway.”

Gary looked at me earnestly. “But once everybody was out of there, I went back to my truck to get some paperwork I needed to leave behind with Mr. Bolger. I swear on my life that the only way that ice sculpture could have fallen over is if somebody
wanted
it to fall over. Somebody had to have pushed it over the side of the gazebo. There’s no other way it could have fallen.”

“What about the police’s theory that Rufus—Shawn Elliot’s bulldog—was responsible?”

Gary shook his head. “Highly unlikely if not impossible. I’m telling you, those wires held the sculptures firmly in place.”

“Have you heard from any lawyers?” I asked, struggling to sound matter-of-fact. “Or the police?”

“Not yet. But I’m sure it’s only a matter of time.” He sighed. “But, hey, you didn’t come here to listen to me complain, did you?”

I blinked in confusion.

“Lulu? Her conjunctivitis?”

“Oh, right.” For a moment, I’d forgotten all about the profession I’d spent nearly a decade of my life training for. I was too busy thinking about Gary’s startling contention that Devon Barnett hadn’t been the victim of a freak accident, after all, but that his death had been deliberate.

“So let’s have a look at Lulu,” I suggested, determined to focus on his cat—at least for now.

He retrieved the sleek white feline from the windowsill. She didn’t seem happy about giving up her primo spot.

With Max and Lou in tow, I led Gary and Lulu out to my van and set the cat on the examining table. While Gary filled out some paperwork, I ran my hands along her spine, then palpated her internal organs to make sure everything was in order. She seemed just fine. Then I checked her eyes. Lulu appeared to have a superficial ocular infection.

“Your diagnosis was right on target,” I told him. “I’m going to give you this oxytetracycline HCL ointment. You need to put it right on the eyeball itself, twice a day. I’ll show you how. Do it for two weeks, to be safe. I’m also giving Lulu a course of doxycycline. There’s a chance it could be chlamydia, which could become a chronic problem, so I’d like you to give her fifty milligrams twice a day for fourteen days. Just make sure you give it to her when there’s food in her stomach.”

“Whatever you say, Doc.”

“I see she hasn’t had a rabies shot in a while,” I said, checking her tag. “What vaccines does she normally get, just upper respiratory?”

“She got her regular shots about a year ago. That was the last time I brought her in.”

“Any adverse reaction?”

“Not that I remember.”

“I have to give her a rabies shot, by law, and she’s due for her distemper and upper respiratory booster,” I told him. “That’s something we can do right now. I’ll give her the rabies in her right hind leg. If you notice that a small lump develops in about a week, don’t be upset. It’ll go away by itself in a month. Call your regular vet if it doesn’t.”

I inoculated Lulu against rabies, then gave her a feline distemper booster in her right shoulder. She was surprisingly cooperative. “I’m going to give you a new rabies tag, too. They’re a different color and shape every year, so if she’s ever outside and bites somebody, they can see that she’s had her rabies vaccine.”

“Thanks,” Gary said, scooping up his cat and fondling her ears. “I really appreciate this—even though I probably seem pretty crabby. This isn’t exactly the best day of my life. Send me a bill, okay? I really am grateful that you came by today.”

After I’d given him a quick lesson in how to apply the medicine, he grunted his thanks and turned to leave. He was halfway out the door of my van when I called, “Gary?”

“Yeah?” He barely turned, instead looking back at me over his shoulder.

“I believe you. That Devon Barnett may have been murdered, I mean.”

“Great,” he said sourly. “Now all you have to do is convince the police, the insurance company, the newspaper, the guy’s family, and anybody else who’s the least bit interested.”

I didn’t tell him that exact same thought had already occurred to me.

As soon as Gary was out of earshot, I dialed the Town of East Brompton Police on my cell phone. It wasn’t easy. The first obstacle was the crazed Westie in my lap, repeatedly thrusting his four spiky paws into my thighs with the force of a jackhammer as he policed the flock of birds that dared to perch in the tree right outside the window. The second was the whiny Dalmatian who was also trying to crawl into my lap, no doubt convinced he deserved some cuddling, too.

“Come on, you guys,” I pleaded. “Can’t you—”

“East Brompton Police,” a woman’s voice answered crisply.

I immediately switched to a more professional tone. “Good morning. My name is Dr. Jessica Popper, and I believe I may have been a witness to a crime. Last night, I was at Russell Bolger’s estate when Devon Barnett was killed by the falling ice sculpture, and—”

“You mean the accident, right?”

I hesitated. “I’m not so sure it
was
an accident. I’ve spoken to the—”

“I’ll have to take your name and number,” the woman interrupted me, sounding about as interested in what I had to say as if I was a telemarketer. “There’s nobody here who can talk to you right now. That was Dr. Pepper, right?”

“Popper,” I corrected her patiently. “P-O-P-P-E-R.” No relation to the soft drink, I was tempted to add. Instead, I gave her my cell phone number, repeating it three times before she got it right.

I felt an odd mixture of excitement and dread as I tucked away my cell phone and turned the key in the ignition. Murder was a subject I found absolutely fascinating, and it was beginning to look like one might have occurred right under my nose.

I checked my watch and saw I didn’t have much time before I was due back at the dog show. By that point, my stomach was growling loudly enough that Lou kept staring at it, cocking his head and growling back. I decided to grab something to go.

I cruised along Main Street, hoping to find a place whose prices weren’t too shocking. Nothing looked promising. I turned down a side street, wondering if I’d be lucky to find an eatery the locals frequented.

After spotting a couple of possibilities, I pulled into the first parking space I found that was sufficiently shaded. I locked Max and Lou in the van once again, pouring cool water into a bowl for them and being sure to leave the windows open. As usual, I apologized profusely for leaving them alone and assured them I’d be back ASAP.

I decided to start with the small gourmet shop on the corner, the Pampered Pantry. As soon as I stepped inside, I saw from the posted price list that this place was way out of my league. Forget the lobster salad and the caviar plate. Even a tuna on rye would have required taking on a second job. Still, stopping in wasn’t a complete waste. I bought a copy of the local newspaper,
The East Brompton
Banner,
even though it only came out weekly and was dated the previous Tuesday. And on my way out, I noticed a stack of booklets titled
Guide to the Bromptons.
The sign above read, “Free! Take One!” I did.

The Lucky Shamrock, half a block farther down, tucked between a video store and a dry cleaner, was a much better bet. Inside, the bar-and-grill was cool and dark, with rough wooden floors and booths with high backs. The decorations ran along the lines of a neon Bud Light sign and an inflatable Cuervo Gold bottle. Only a few patrons sat at the bar and the booths, most of them alone. Nearly all of them kept their eyes glued to the television suspended from the ceiling.

“What can I get you?” the bartender asked congenially. With his red hair, freckles, and wide grin—not to mention his bright green shirt—he looked like he belonged in a place called the Lucky Shamrock.

I ordered a sandwich and iced tea to go, then let my eyes drift up to the television screen, just like everybody else around me. The Channel 14 logo permanently lodged on the lower right told me we were all watching the local news, like it or not. I half-watched a segment on a high school cheerleading squad headed for some national competition. But the next segment snapped me to attention.

“Today, members of Norfolk County’s top brass came out to celebrate the opening of a new athletic complex for children and teens.” Behind the blond reporter who stood in front of the camera, I could see a sprawling collection of buildings surrounded by green fields. “The new Jose Nunez Center in East Metchogue will house a swimming pool, basketball courts, and outdoor facilities for soccer, baseball, and track.”

The camera panned across a group of dignitaries standing on a podium, a half-dozen men and women who looked like they were dying for their turn at the microphone. I zeroed in on one of them, standing toward the back.

“Also in attendance at the ribbon-cutting ceremony was Lieutenant Anthony Falcone. Lieutenant Falcone became Norfolk County’s new chief of homicide back in December.”

My mouth dropped open as I watched Falcone practically elbow his way through the crowd of dignitaries, doggedly making a beeline for the microphone. He was a small, wiry man with eyes so dark they looked as if they could burn holes in you. I noticed that as he snaked through the crowd, he straightened his tie, then reached up to slick back his shiny, carefully styled black hair.

He had to stand on his toes to get close enough to the mike to speak. That didn’t deter him in the least.

“This is truly a great day for Norfolk County,” he announced in a thick Long Island accent. “Our children are our future. I’m proud to be part of this great recreational facility, which will go a long way in helping young people all over Long Island achieve their potential—”

He was still talking when the camera cut to the news-room.

“Here you go.” The bartender handed me a brown paper bag. “That’s seven-twenty-five. Need a straw?”

After we’d settled up and I headed out of the Lucky Shamrock, I was still thinking about Falcone. I’d noticed his picture in the newspaper before, but this was the first time I’d seen him in action. I was struck by his intensity. I was also surprised by what a media hound he was. His predecessor, Lieutenant Harned, had preferred to stay in the background. But from what I could see, this Falcone character was something else entirely.

I wondered how he felt about amateur sleuths.