Putting on the Dog (25 page)

“Marcus?” His name came out like a gasp. True, I hadn’t forgotten about the interest my college pal had expressed in Marcus Scruggs the last time I’d dropped in. But I was hoping against hope that
she
had.

“Yeah, that’s the guy.” Suzanne’s tone was casual, but there was a glint in her blue eyes I remembered seeing before. I knew her well enough to recognize it as a sign of determination. “Do you know if he’s back from his trip yet?”

I couldn’t bring myself to lie. “As a matter of fact, he is. Apparently, it didn’t work out the way he expected.”

“Great. In that case, I was wondering if you’d invite him along as a fourth.”

“But I don’t even know if he’s free—”

“Try him,” she urged. “Tell him you’ve got someone you want him to meet.”

“But Marcus is...he’s...” How could I possibly put it into words?

Suzanne didn’t wait. “Look, Jess, just because you don’t like him doesn’t mean
I
won’t.” Impatience had crept into her tone. “Besides, he’s a vet, right? He and I already have something in common!”

She had me there.

With a little shrug, Suzanne added, “I figure this Marcus guy is young, available, and breathing, so how bad could he be?” Young, more or less, I thought morosely. Available, definitely. Breathing, probably. As for answering Suzanne’s last question, I wouldn’t have known where to begin.

Suzanne went back to work, and I went back to my van. I dialed Marcus as soon as I got inside, figuring I might as well get it over with.

“Scruggs here.”

“Is this the Marc Man?” I asked dryly.

“You got him,” he replied, his tone morphing into a seductive murmur. “And what lovely lady am I lucky enough to have calling me today?”

“It’s Jessie.”

“Popper.” I could hear the disappointment in his voice. But it only took him a few seconds to remember that I was stationed in the Bromptons—as in “Glamour with a capital G.” “How’s life on the East End?”

“Fabulous. Famous stars of stage and screen, champagne flowing like water, luxurious mansions...it’s like being in a movie.” A
Hitchcock
movie, I thought, deciding not to add the part about the dead body. “In fact, the reason I’m calling is to invite you to dinner. I’ve got a friend out here who’s very anxious to meet you.”

“A movie star?”

“Uh, no.”

“Supermodel?”

“Not exactly. She’s a vet.”

“I get it. The brainy type.”

Once again, I could hear his disappointment. I wanted to reach through my cell phone and strangle him. Unfortunately, the technology hadn’t yet developed to that point.

“Come on, Marcus,” I insisted. “You owe me. I filled in for you at the last minute so you could run off to a tropical island with somebody’s oversexed grandmother, remember?”

“All right, all right,” he grumbled. “If the evening’s a total waste, I can always hit the bars afterward.”

“Right. You can ‘make the scene.’ ”

I gave him the name and address of the restaurant Suzanne had picked, then experienced a sinking feeling as I ended the call. I hope I’m not making a mistake, I thought. Then I reminded myself that my pal Suzanne was a grown-up—old enough to make her
own
mistakes. And in this case, I was certain it wasn’t going to take her very long to figure out she’d made a whopper.

I hurried home, figuring I’d grab a quick snack before jumping in the shower and heading over to Hugo’s. I hadn’t counted on running into Shawn. He was poking around the flower beds in front of his house, brandishing a large pair of scissors.

Given the way my mind was working these days, my first thought was that he was acting awfully suspicious. Then I realized he was simply cutting flowers.

He brightened when he saw me. “There she is!” he cried. “The inimitable Dr. Pepper!”

“That’s Popper,” I corrected him crossly.

A look of confusion crossed his face as he thrust a bouquet of bright pink peonies at me. “These are for you,” he said. “I thought they’d cheer up the guesthouse.”

I ignored the flowers. “I don’t know how you can look me in the eye,” I challenged, making no effort to hide my anger.

Shawn blinked. “What am I missing here, Jess?”

I could see that his confusion was sincere. That didn’t make me any more forgiving. “Last night? The
Pulverizer
screening?”

He shrugged. “I thought we had a good time. I know I did—at least until I woke up this morning and realized that somewhere along the line, a rhino had trampled on my head.”

“You really don’t remember? Then allow me to refresh your memory,” I said crisply. “First of all, you had way too much champagne. And then you announced to everybody that I’m investigating Devon Barnett’s murder!”

“Is that bad?” he asked, looking baffled.

“Of
course
it’s bad!” I cried. “It would be one thing if I were a ... a homicide detective, with an entire police department behind me. It wouldn’t even matter if I were a real private investigator. But I’m just doing this on my own! Now, when I go around asking questions, the people who know what I’m doing are going to be suspicious. They’ll probably be more careful of what they say to me—which means I’ll find out a lot less than I would have if they’d thought I was just a veterinarian making conversation!”

“I see your point.” Shawn’s face fell. “Gee, Jess, I’m really sorry. I hope I didn’t screw things up for you
too
badly.” He thought for a few seconds before adding, “Is there any way I could make it up to you?”

Startled, I asked, “What do you mean?”

“I was thinking . . . I found this stretch of beach that, believe it or not, nobody else seems to know about. I go there all the time, and I almost always have it all to myself. I’d love to show it to you.”

“Shawn, I’m not really sure—” I was thinking of Nick, of course. But I stopped midsentence. At the moment, I reminded myself, Nick wasn’t speaking to me. He wasn’t even
around.
So much for
me
spoiling our romantic little getaway.

Then again, I was furious with Shawn. At least, I was supposed to be. But he was looking at me with those intense blue eyes of his, waiting for my answer. I could feel my anger melting away.

“Shawn, I’d love to see your private beach,” I finally said, telling myself I was only human, after all. Human— and of the female gender. “Right now, I’ve got to make a house call—veterinarian stuff. But as soon as I’m done, I’ll stop over. How does that sound?”

“It sounds...terrific.” He smiled at me, that same smile that had made millions of women all over the world instantly fall in love with him.

I wondered if I was any different.

Chapter 11

“Speak softly and own a big, mean Doberman.”

—Dave Miliman

Hugo Fontana’s house was a dignified Tudor so big that Henry VIII himself would have undoubtedly felt at home in it. Just beyond the expansive property, the calm waters of East Brompton Bay provided the summer hideaway with another one of the spectacular water views the Bromptons were so famous for.

The house was so vast that I expected it to be staffed with uniformed servants. So I was surprised that Hugo answered the door himself when I showed up promptly at six-thirty. He was dressed casually in jeans and a navy-blue polo shirt. True to his usual style, the shirt looked as if he’d purposely bought it one size too small to show off his cantaloupe-sized biceps and his massive, sculpted chest. His thick, shiny black hair dissolved into a mass of tiny curls at the back of his neck. No doubt a team of hair stylists agonized over those recalcitrant locks every time a director shouted “Action,” forcing them to blend in with the rest of his sleek, black hair.

“I’m Dr. Popper,” I announced in my professional voice. “I’m working with Dr. Fox—”

“Yeah, yeah, she told me all about it,” Hugo interrupted.

I was interested to hear that he really did talk in the gruff, heavily Brooklyn-accented voice that had become his signature. I was also struck by the fact that, up close, he had the same bigger-than-life presence in person that he projected on-screen. The way he fixed his dark, smoldering eyes on me definitely had a jarring effect.

My focus quickly shifted to another muscular being covered with exceptional hair. Brutus stood at Hugo’s side, eyeing me suspiciously. He kept glancing up at his master, as if he wanted help deciding whether he should growl or cover me with dog kisses.

“She’s okay, Brutus,” Hugo told him.

Right on cue, he stepped forward and stuck his nose in my crotch. Nothing I hadn’t dealt with more times than I could count. I sidestepped him, crouching down so that he and I were at eye level.

“Hey, Brutus,” I greeted him, giving him an expert neck-scratching designed to show him I was someone who knew her way around dogs.

“What a fine animal,” I commented, glancing up at Hugo. It was true; the Chesapeake Bay retriever was beautifully proportioned, with a broad head, an oily brown coat, and small amber eyes. Like all retrievers, he had well-developed hindquarters, designed to put him in good stead for swimming.

The breed had an interesting history. In the early 1800s, two Newfoundland puppies were rescued from a shipwreck off the Maryland coast. After they turned out to be exceptional water retrievers, they were bred with several other types of dog to create a brand-new breed. Their nickname was “Chessies”—wonderfully ironic, I thought, given what I now knew about Hugo’s romantic history.

“Brutus must love it out here,” I said, rising to my feet. I gestured toward the tremendous property and, behind it, East Brompton Bay. “All this room to run around.”

“This guy’s in heaven,” Hugo agreed heartily. “He’s always jumpin’ into the bay. The seagulls drive him nuts.”

I laughed. “Those are Chessies for you. Born to retrieve. But let’s take a closer look at him. If you could just bring him into my van...”

“Sure. Come on, boy. Let’s follow the lady.”

Once the three of us had crossed the immense lawn to the driveway and climbed into my van, Hugo looked around and let out an appreciative whistle.

“Whoa. Nice place you got here,” he said. “And I thought the trailers we get when we shoot on location were nice. You got everything you need right here, dontcha?”

“Pretty much. Now, let’s just get Brutus up here....” I stepped on the foot pedal that lowered the mechanized examining table, steadying the dog and wondering how my back would ever survive without such a valuable invention. “How’re you doing, Brutus? You sure are being brave. Thatta boy. You’re doing fine.” I continued to murmur encouragement as I checked Brutus’s eyes, then looked in his ears with an otoscope.

“I’m glad I’m having the chance to chat with you, Mr. Fontana,” I commented congenially. “I was afraid I’d be dealing with a handler.” I had to resist the urge to say “one of your people.” “I always like to speak directly with the animal’s owner, since that’s usually where the real bond lies.”

“I’m very involved in Brutus’s care,” Hugo assured me. “I wouldn’t trust my dog to nobody. He’s too much a part of my life, y’know? Always has been, ever since the days he was eatin’ canned dog food and I was livin’ on peanut butter. These days, we’re both filet mignon guys.”

I couldn’t resist giving him a quick lecture on the importance of giving a dog a balanced diet, one that included calcium rather than just meat. Hugo listened, but he didn’t look convinced. Meanwhile, I ran my fingers along Brutus’s spine and belly, palpating his internal organs to see if anything felt out of the ordinary. Everything seemed fine—until I noticed a moist area on his left hind.

“Looks like we’ve got a hot spot,” I noted.

Hugo looked alarmed. “What’s that?”

“See this moist area, over here?”

“Sure. I figured it was just a bruise.”

“It’s infected, no doubt an allergic reaction.” The sturdy retriever had decided he’d had enough of being poked and prodded. He made a move toward the edge of the table, skittering across the stainless-steel surface. Fortunately, I’d maintained a strong hold on him just in case it turned out he didn’t enjoy being in the spotlight as much as his master. “It’s okay, Brutus. Just hang in there....”

“ ‘
Allergic
’? To what?” Hugo sounded a little defensive, as if I might be questioning his ability to care for Brutus responsibly.

“It’s very common,” I assured him. “It could be from swimming in the bay, or even just a reaction to pollen.”

“So what do we do?” he asked nervously.

“First, I’m going to clip the hair around the wound to keep the infection from creeping under the hair coat. Then, I’m going to use an antibiotic anti-inflammatory spray on it.... Would you hold onto him? He’s a little skittish, poor guy.” The apprehensive animal looked at me woefully, and his entire body shook. “Hey, Brutus, we’re not going to hurt you. Mr. Fontana, come around to this side, so he can see your face. He’ll feel a lot more comfortable that way.”

I noticed that as Hugo held eighty pounds of well-developed muscle in place, his own muscles bulged impressively. I remembered the female audience member who had walked out of the screening ahead of me, practically swooning over Hugo Fontana, Hunk Extraordinaire. The thought made me smile.

“All done, Brutus!” I finally announced, turning to Hugo. “Mr. Fontana, I’ll give you this corticosteroid spray to use for at least another week. At that point, you should bring him into Dr. Fox so she can have a look. We won’t bandage it, because it’s important to keep it open to the air. I’ll also give you an antibiotic for him to take orally, twice a day for a week. First, I’ll weigh him, so I can determine the correct dosage....”

When I was done, I fondled Brutus’s ears. “All done, sweetie. What a good boy! Yes, you’re a
very
good boy....”

Hugo was patting the pockets of his jeans. “Shoot. Guess I left my checkbook in the house. D’ya mind coming in for a sec?”

“Not at all.” I thought you’d never ask, I was tempted to add.

Not surprisingly, the inside of the house was as grand as the outside. Just past the foyer, I could see a gigantic room with cathedral ceilings. The entire back wall was glass. A large swimming pool stretched beyond, framed by the awe-inspiring water view.