Putting on the Dog (28 page)

“Hey, doggies!” Emily cried, obviously delighted by their no-holds-barred greeting. “I sure missed you guys!”

She glanced up, her hazel eyes sparkling. “I missed you, too,” she said, quickly adding, “and coming here, of course. I had nothing to do yesterday.”

I pictured the swimming pool, the tennis courts, the roller-skating rink, and the boats that were all right in Emily’s backyard. I was about to protest when I realized that none of them would be much fun without someone to enjoy them with.

“Looks like we’re going to make up for it today,” I commented, nodding toward a man making a beeline in our direction. He had no fewer than five dogs in tow, ranging in size from a toy poodle to a Saint Bernard. He also had an extremely determined look on his face.

“That’s why we’re here,” Emily replied proudly. “To help people. We’re the experts, right?”

The man with the eclectic taste in breeds turned out to be just one in a series of dog owners who were anxious to talk to us “experts.” As I answered their questions and examined their dogs, Emily handed out brochures, gave directions to the “Refreshments” tent, and admired the animals so enthusiastically that most of their owners left our booth with big smiles on their faces.

The independent filmmaker Shawn had mentioned also wandered by. From what I could see, the intense young man never stopped looking at the world through the lens of his video camera. I made a point of ignoring him as he shot some footage of Emily and me talking to one of the dog-owners, not wanting to ruin the
cinema
verité
effect. I didn’t even look up when he leaned over to place a sheet of yellow paper on our table. When I finally glanced at it, I saw it was an invitation to the screening of his documentary at Russell Bolger’s estate at one o’clock on Sunday.

Even though Emily and I dealt with a steady stream of visitors to our booth, I managed to steal away for a few minutes. Leaving her in charge of both the booth and my dogs, I hurried over to the Yellow Tent, where the Group judging was underway. According to the schedule, I was just in time to catch the end of the Toy Group.

While I’ve treated my share of the miniature breeds that fell under this classification, I couldn’t help melting over the spectacle of so many cute little animals in the ring. Seeing them together instead of one at a time, cheerfully parading around the circle with their handlers, was as much fun as peering into the window of a toy store.

Yet while they all had the same small size in common, that was about the only characteristic they shared. The frisky black-white-and-tan cavalier King Charles spaniel with the shaggy fur and long ears of all spaniels bore no resemblance to the sleek black-and-white Italian Greyhound that barely stood a foot high. The fluffy Pekingese that reminded me of one of those woolly bedroom slippers was light-years away from the toy Manchester terrier that looked like a tiny Doberman.

Still, each one was already a winner, having captured Best of Breed in the event’s earlier competitions. They were all beautiful dogs, groomed to perfection and well-versed in dog show etiquette. How a judge would ever manage to choose just one as the group winner, I couldn’t imagine.

“Every one of them is absolutely darling, don’t you think?”

I turned, curious about who had been reading my thoughts. Glancing over, I saw that Kara Liebling had joined me.

“Hello, Kara,” I said. Sincerely, I added, “Running into you like this is certainly a nice surprise.”

“I’m glad I ran into you, too, Jessie.”

For today’s event, Kara was dressed casually, her pale blond hair piled on top of her head and fastened with a clip that left soft tendrils curling around her face. She wore white capris, a sky-blue tank top, and canvas tennis shoes, with a white sweater tied loosely around her shoulders. Every article of clothing looked expensive, with handstitching and unusual detailing. Even on a day like today, she managed to look radiant. I reminded myself what Chess had said: that Kara was simply another human being, just like the rest of us.

Another dog-lover, as well. I reached down to pet Anastasia, who stood regally at Kara’s side, wagging her tail and gazing up at me with her clear, brown eyes.

“And how about you, Anastasia?” I asked, caressing the silky white fur of the Borzoi’s small folded ears. “Are you having fun?”

“She’s doing more than that,” Kara said, beaming. “She competed in the Hound Group event this morning—and won second prize.”

“That’s great! You must be so—”

My thought trailed off as the Pekingese that had been gliding around the ring in a spirited manner suddenly stopped, turned, and let out an indignant yip. His owner, a middle-aged man in green golf pants and a loud plaid shirt, instantly looked panicked. At the same moment, the dog right behind him, the greyhound, skittered forward, growling angrily. The two canines appeared to be after the same booty—whatever it was. The greyhound’s owner, a gaunt-faced woman with the same spindly build, let out a shriek, snapping the leash and pulling her dog back.

Misbehaving in the ring was the ultimate no-no. Just like everyone else who’d witnessed the scene, my eyes automatically traveled to the judge. I recognized him as the same man who’d judged the wirehaired terriers on Monday. He was wearing another seersucker suit, this time white with narrow green stripes, and the same straw hat. But this time, the expression on his face was one of pure displeasure.

Almost immediately, he pointed to the cavalier, identifying him as the winner. The dog’s handler, a fit young man in shorts and a tight white T-shirt, broke into a huge, triumphant smile.

Instead of the polite applause I expected, I cringed at the sound of the greyhound owner’s shrill voice piercing through the din.

“This competition was sabotaged!” she shrieked. “Someone threw something—food, probably—into the ring! Someone
cheated
!”

As for the Pekingese’s owner, he just looked confused. I couldn’t help examining the faces of all the other dog owners who’d been competing—especially the cavalier’s handler. I wasn’t certain, but I thought that for just a fraction of a second, I saw a smug look flicker across his face.

“Just like show business,” Kara commented, smiling slyly. “The best actor for a particular role isn’t necessarily the one who gets it!”

I laughed. “I guess it really is a dog-eat-dog world.”

“Which brings me to the real reason I’m glad I ran into you. I owe you an apology.” In response to my blank look, she added, “For the way I acted at the screening the other night.”

I waved my hand in the air. “It was nothing, Kara. Not even worth mentioning.”

“It wasn’t ‘nothing’ to me,” she insisted. “I’m sorry I sounded so catty. I’m afraid Shawn Elliot is a bit of a sore spot.”

“I don’t blame you for being upset. But I meant it when I said that he and I are just friends.”

“I know, and I hope you can forget about how I acted.”

“Absolutely.”

“Good.” She smiled sincerely. “There’s another reason I’m glad I ran into you. I keep meaning to invite you over. I’d love the chance to just sit and chat. Even though the whole point of coming to the Bromptons for the summer is to relax and ‘get away from it all,’ it’s much too easy to get involved with all the same people that I see at home. It’s really refreshing to get to know somebody who’s not in the business. How about stopping over for a drink this evening around seven?”

“That sounds great,” I told her sincerely.

“Here, let me just jot down my address. . . .”

I had to admit, I was surprised by her invitation. After our encounter at the
Pulverizer
screening, I thought my friendship with Kara was over. Yet I genuinely liked her. Aside from that surprising encounter, she had always seemed like such a warm, sincere person.

But as much as I hated to admit it, I had an ulterior motive, as well. Kara was one of Chess’s closest friends, and I hoped she might be able to provide me with some clues about the life he shared with Devon Barnett.

Then there was Shawn’s puzzling claim that appearances aside, Kara Liebling was actually a “nut case.” Tonight, maybe I’d have a chance to find out for myself.

By the time noon rolled around, I was more than ready for a break. I was wondering how to spend my long lunch hour when Emily said, “Could I ask you a favor?”

“Anything, Em.”

“Would it be okay if I brought Max and Lou home with me during lunch? My dad’s picking me up in a couple of minutes, and I want him to see how great they are to have around. That way, maybe he’ll let me get a dog.”

“Be my guest.”

Her face lit up. “Thanks! I’ll take
real
good care of them. I
promise
!”

Her expression grew serious. “But what should I feed them? We don’t have any dog food at home.”

“They eat once a day, at dinnertime,” I told her. “Just make sure they have plenty of water and they’ll be fine.”

I watched Emily skip across the field happily with her two charges in tow. Lou loped beside her on his long, spindly legs, while Max scurried along in fourth gear, his short legs moving so quickly they were a blur. I couldn’t tell who was the most excited.

I decided to take advantage of my free time to drop in at 145 Beach Street. Between my meeting with Sizzle and Hugo Fontana’s contention that Dev’s current heartthrob had some interesting skeletons in his closet, I was anxious to scrutinize Chess a little more closely.

I stood on the steps of the pastel-colored mansion, ringing the doorbell repeatedly and hearing it echo through the cavernous first floor. Even though Chess’s car was in the driveway, there was no response.

Just for the heck of it, I tried the door. Surprisingly, the knob turned easily in my hand.

“Hello?” I called, stepping inside. “Anybody home?”

Nothing. I ventured a little farther inside the house. I moved cautiously, afraid of suddenly finding myself face-to-face with a bucket-wielding Hilda—or something worse.

I jumped at least three feet into the air when I felt something brush against my leg. Letting out a yelp, I looked down—and was instantly relieved to see that my attacker was nobody more threatening than Zsa Zsa.

“Hey, Zsa Zsa,” I crooned, picking up the little ball of fur. My face was immediately drenched in dog kisses, her postage stamp-sized tongue working overtime to cover the expanse of my left cheek. Despite the fluffed fur and the faux leopard-skin bow perched atop her tiny head, the sweet-faced Havanese was just another puppy dog, looking for affection. “Where’s your daddy, huh? Where’s Chess?”

While the soft bundle in my arms didn’t answer, the sound of a crash somewhere on the second floor gave me a clue. Zsa Zsa and I both jumped.

“Go find Chess,” I instructed, depositing her gently on the ground.

Dutifully, the dog trotted toward the dramatic round staircase. I followed her upstairs, calling, “Chess? Are you up here?”

If he was, he still didn’t seem to have heard me. I continued trailing after my guide, turning a corner and following Zsa Zsa into the master bedroom. It was a large, sunny space with trendy
toile
wall coverings. The white silk was printed with deep red renderings of horse-drawn carriages attended by footmen, and refined ladies who looked as if they spent way too much time in front of a mirror. I’d learned all about
toile
by watching the Home and Garden Channel. Very expensive stuff, as were the coordinated drapes, bedspread, carpets, and every other element that picked up the same deep tones and Marie Antoinette ambiance.

While I’d been impressed when Chess had first shown it to me, I was even more bowled over this time. But the sudden lump in my throat had nothing to do with the décor. Instead, it was the tableau I found in the walk-in closet.

Chess was standing amid the linen shirts and Armani suits and Gucci loafers, holding a shoebox in his hand. It was white, printed in green with what I figured was probably some hotshot designer’s name, Emilio Fratelli.

But it wasn’t only the lettering on the box that was green. So were the bundles of cash that had clearly just spilled out of it and were now lying haphazardly all over the closet floor.

“Chess?” I asked quizzically. Searching his face, I saw an expression of astonishment.

“
Look
at this, Jessie!” he cried. “They’re all twenties and fifties. There are thousands and thousands of dollars here!”

Zsa Zsa hovered outside the closet, eyeing the pile of greenery suspiciously. She looked just as confused as the rest of us. She tried barking at it, and when it didn’t respond by either attacking her or running away, she eased a little closer, sniffed it a few times, and immediately lost interest.

Not so with Chess and me.

“Where did all this money come from?” I asked.

“Jessie, I have
no
idea. I was just scrounging around on the closet shelf, looking for a pair of sandals I remember buying last year when Dev and I were at the Cannes Film Festival.” Defensively, he added, “Well, with him snapping pictures all day, what
else
was I supposed to do but shop? Anyway, I couldn’t find them anywhere, so I thought I’d check the shelves on
his
side of the closet— and the next thing I knew,
this
came tumbling down on my head!”

“Gee,” I muttered, “the only surprises I ever find in
my
closet are pants that don’t fit anymore.”

Zsa Zsa leaped onto the bed with amazing ease, flopping down and resting her head on the soft fabric as she watched Chess and me gather up the neat packets of bills, each one bound with a strip of cream-colored paper. Chess placed them neatly in the shoebox, probably putting them right back where he’d found them because he didn’t know what else to do with them.

“Maybe this was just cash Dev kept around the house for incidental expenses,” he mused.

“Sure, we all need pocket money,” I said. “Two thousand dollars here, another thousand there . . .”

He stopped. “You’re right. This looks
very
suspicious, doesn’t it?”