Putting on the Dog (29 page)

“Do you know how long that box has been there?”

Chess shook his head. “I never paid attention to Dev’s side of the closet. I mean, my feeling was always what’s his is his and what’s mine is mine. Besides, we didn’t exactly have the same taste. He dressed
so
conservatively. Of course, being a bit older than me, he was starting to put on a little weight around the middle, if you catch my drift.”

“What about this shoebox? Do you remember Devon bringing home a new pair of shoes by this designer?” I checked the box again, having already forgotten his name. “Emilio Fratelli?”

“I never heard of Emilio Fratelli.”

I didn’t mention that I hadn’t, either. Personally, my favorite designers were L.L. Bean and J.C. Penney.

When all the money had been put back into place, Chess sank onto the bed, still cradling the shoebox in his arms. Looking at me helplessly, he asked, “
Now
what should I do? With all this money, I mean?”

A few possibilities immediately came to mind. Then I realized that Chess probably wasn’t in the market for a better X-ray machine or a new set of snow tires. But it only took me a few seconds to come up with an even more practical idea.

“Chess,” I said tentatively, “would you consider having that money fingerprinted?”

He blinked. “What on earth for?”

“To help us find out where all that money came from.”

He still looked baffled. “What do you mean, where it came from? It must have come from a bank, right?”

“Not necessarily. Someone could have given it to Devon.”

“But who would...” I could practically hear the wheels turning in his head. And then the muscles in his face loosened. “Oh, I get it. You think whoever gave him this money might have had something to do with his death.”

“Exactly. At the very least, tracing it to a particular person might give us some idea of what Dev was involved in. Aside from taking pictures of celebrities for the tabloids, I mean.”

“What makes you so sure that he was involved in something bad?” Chess’s tone was suddenly defensive. Icy, even. I realized I’d gone too far.

“I’m not sure at all, Chess,” I said gently. “But it’s something we have to at least consider if we want to find out the real reason that Dev is dead.”

Chess frowned. “You know, Jessie, I’ve been thinking about what you said. About the possibility that Nettie was murdered, I mean. And I’m not so sure you’re right. I mean, how do you know that ice sculpture guy wasn’t just lying to cover his own butt? You don’t know anything about him!”

The vehemence of his reaction surprised me, especially since there was no longer any doubt in my mind that Devon Barnett had died under extremely suspicious circumstances. The more I learned about the photographer, the more convinced I became that the man had too many enemies to assume that the “freak accident” that had killed him had been an accident at all.

Besides, I’d heard the argument between Gary Frye and Phyllis Beckwith, and I’d talked to Gary myself the day after the incident. I wasn’t exactly Dr. Phil, but I thought I had a pretty good sense of what people were about. And at the time, I’d been completely convinced of his sincerity. Of course, I’d also seen someone lurking in the shadows of the gazebo just before the ice sculpture had fallen, then found the piece of wire at the crime scene, which backed up Gary’s story.

But what really piqued my interest was Chess’s sudden interest in steering me away from investigating Barnett’s murder.

After all, what did I really know about Chess? There were certainly enough indications that he wasn’t quite as sweet and easygoing as he pretended to be to make me wary. For one thing, there was that anonymous note about him not being “who I thought he was.” Then there was Gus’s report that he’d physically attacked his lover in the restaurant. True, he hadn’t exactly used a machete, and I was pretty sure the statistics would bear out my hunch that very few people were actually killed by butter knives every year. But the point was, that Chess had gotten angry enough to become violent—and that Devon had been the target of his outburst. And just minutes before, I’d walked in on him and found him holding a box of cold, hard cash that he swore he knew nothing about, even though it had been stashed right there in his closet.

My head was spinning. That, combined with Chess’s fervent rejection of the idea that Devon’s death had been anything but the result of an inept ice sculptor and a clumsy bulldog, motivated me to abandon any discussions of Devon Barnett’s murder, at least for now.

Still, I was dying to get my hands on some of that money. And buying new toys for my van had nothing to do with it.

I watched mournfully as Dev put the cover on the green-and-white shoebox and stepped back inside the closet. Standing on his toes, he slid it back onto the top shelf, between the Kenneth Coles and the Giorgio Armanis. It seemed like the ideal time to change the subject.

“How about some of that fabulous iced tea of yours?” I suggested cheerfully.

Chess brightened. “I
told
you it was good. People have told me I should go into business. Become the Mrs. Fields of iced tea.”

We sat at the kitchen table amid Andy Warhol’s cookie jars, a big icy pitcher of iced tea between us. Zsa Zsa lay sprawled across Chess’s lap, sighing as if she were in doggie heaven as he distractedly played with her ears.

“I had an interesting day yesterday,” I said in what I hoped was a casual tone. “I went to Cuttituck to meet Devon’s wife.”

Chess froze. The steeliness that came into his eyes made me recoil.

“What on earth did you do
that
for?”

“Just curious, I guess. I have to admit, I was pretty surprised when I read Devon’s obituary in the local paper and learned that he had a wife.”

He sniffed disapprovingly. “I bet that witch with a ‘B’ gave you an earful.”

“She certainly didn’t have a lot of positive things to say about him.”

“I suppose she told you all about their battle over the annulment.”

I frowned. I didn’t remember Sydney saying anything about an annulment. “Actually, what she said was that Devon had been in no hurry to end the marriage. Apparently, their divorce proceedings had been going on for years.”

Chess looked surprised. “You mean, she didn’t tell you the
reason
it went on for so long?”

“No. As a matter of fact, she said she couldn’t understand why he wasn’t in more of a hurry to get the whole thing over with.”

“Liar, liar, pants on fire! I can’t
believe
that wicked woman is rewriting history that way!”

I leaned forward, nearly knocking over my glass of iced tea. “What really happened?”

“What
really
happened is that, by the end, Nettie hated that woman’s
guts.
” Chess’s tone had become scathing. “And the
last
thing he wanted was for her to walk away with even a
cent
of his money. Believe me, by that point, he had quite a bit.”

“But if they’d been husband and wife, she was entitled to half of everything he had. What could he do about it?”

A smug look settled on Chess’s face. “Have the marriage annulled, of course.”

“I see.” And I
did
see, a whole lot more than I was letting on. Now
my
mind was clicking away madly. With Sydney and Devon’s divorce stretching on endlessly, and the threat of an annulment, that would leave Sydney with absolutely nothing from her ex. She was bound to be frustrated and angry. Perhaps even frustrated and angry enough to kill him—especially since, as the surviving spouse, she’d be likely to inherit his entire estate.

“She’s some piece of work,” Chess went on bitterly. I noticed that his grip on Zsa Zsa had tightened. Instead of caressing her ears, he was tugging at them. The little dog kept glancing up at him anxiously, her entire body tense. “You wouldn’t
believe
what a big deal she made about Nettie finally coming out of the closet! She took it personally, when it really had nothing to do with her. The way she threatened to ruin him and to destroy Hugo’s career—not that I have any fond feelings for Hugo, of course...”

Nor he for you, I thought.

“She’s a mean, vengeful woman,” Chess went on, his teeth clenched and his voice practically a hiss. “In fact, maybe you’re right. Maybe somebody really
did
murder poor Nettie, and maybe that someone was—”

Suddenly Zsa Zsa let out a yelp, leaping out of Chess’s lap so abruptly that she knocked over his tumbler of iced tea with her tail. A stream of clear brown liquid shot across the table, sending me springing to my feet.

“Oh, Jessie, I’m so
sorry
! I hope I didn’t get you!”

“No, I’m fine. Not a drop on me.”

“And you, my poor precious puppy. What have I
done
?” Chess scooped up the wary Havanese. “I am
so,
so sorry. I never meant to hurt you!”

It seemed like the ideal time to make my exit. The more time I spent with the love of Devon Barnett’s life, the more I found myself wondering who Chess LaMont really was.

I pretended to glance at my watch. “Look how late it is!” I exclaimed. “I had no idea the time had passed so quickly. I’d better get going or I’ll be late for the afternoon session at the dog show. Thanks for the iced tea. You really should go into business.”

I said my good-byes, then made a hasty retreat from Chess and Dev’s love nest. I was still wondering about the true character of Chess LaMont as I climbed into my van and drove away. And there seemed like no better time than the present to find out.

Driving away from 145 Beach Lane filled me with relief. Curiosity, as well. I wondered what I’d find out by following up on Hugo Fontana’s suggestion that I check into Chess LaMont’s past.

I drove my van into East Brompton, then pulled into the parking lot of a small supermarket where there were plenty of empty spaces. I whipped out my cell phone and dialed the phone number I’d jotted down the day before.

“Sweet Elm Public Library,” a cheerful voice greeted me. “How can I help you?”

“Can you connect me with Reference, please?”

“Certainly. Please hold.”

A few seconds passed before I heard a different woman’s voice, this one considerably more crisp. “Reference. Ms. Pruitt speaking.”

“My name is Jessica Popper,” I began before launching into the same story I’d given yesterday. “I live in New York, and I’m planning a surprise party for a friend of mine who grew up in Sweet Elm. I thought it might be fun to get hold of some pieces of his past, like his picture from his high school yearbook.”

“We keep all the Sweet Elm High School yearbooks on file, all the way back to 1928.” Ms. Pruitt’s voice had softened, and a distinct note of pride had crept in. “What year did your friend graduate?”

“I believe it was about ten years ago. I’m afraid I don’t know the actual year.”

“In that case, what’s his name?”

“Chester LaMont.”

The silence at the other end lasted so long I thought we’d been cut off.

“Hello?” I asked.

“Who did you say you were?” Ms. Pruitt asked. By this point, all traces of friendliness were gone.

“A friend. I’m just trying to find out something about Chester’s years in Sweet Elm.”

“If that’s what you want, I’ve got plenty of information,” Ms. Pruitt said frostily. “I’ve got pages and pages I can send you that spell out the whole story. In fact, if you’ve got a fax machine, I’d be more than happy to send them right now.”

I thought quickly, then pulled Suzanne’s business card out of my wallet. I read off her fax number slowly as, far away in Sweet Elm, Iowa, Ms. Pruitt jotted it down.

“I’ll be sending you articles from our local paper here in Sweet Elm,” Ms. Pruitt said crisply. “I believe they’ll tell you everything you need to know.”

“Thank you.” I was debating whether to ask her for a clue as to what they contained when she said, “I don’t recognize that area code. Where are you calling from?”

“East Brompton, New York.”

“That’s on Long Island, isn’t it?” Ms. Pruitt asked.

“Yes.”

“One of those fancy summer communities, right?”

“Well...yes.”

“Is that where Chester ended up?”

“Part of the time, anyway. He spends his summers out here.”

“Sounds like he landed on his feet. That type usually does.” She sniffed disapprovingly. “Well, I suppose none of that is any of my business. All I care about is the fact that he’s gone. I know the Montgomery boy—or ‘LaMont,’ as he calls himself now—is your friend. But I say good riddance to bad rubbish.”

What was
that
about? I wondered. But she hung up before I had a chance to say another word. Hopefully, I’d find out soon enough. I called Suzanne’s office, told her about the fax I was expecting, and sat back in my seat to ponder the situation.

The more dealings I had with Chess, I thought, the more complicated he seemed. My first impression of him was that he was a sweet, charming guy. But he clearly got into some kind of trouble back in his hometown, maybe even something bad enough that he packed his bags and hightailed it out of there.