Putting on the Dog (5 page)

“I’m very impressed,” Kara said. “You’ll have to meet Anastasia while you’re here.”

“I’ll look for her tomorrow at the show.”

“All this dog talk is making me furious that I can’t enter Zsa Zsa,” Chess said sullenly.

“Why not?” Kara asked.

“Nettie, what else? He simply
refused
to let me participate. As usual, he wants to keep all the glitter and glamour for himself!”

“That’s too bad, but—oh, look, there’s Russell Bolger,” Kara said. “I’d better go say hello to him. After all, he was kind enough to let us use his backyard tonight. And this event is for such a worthy cause.”

“Don’t look now, but it’s time to pay the piper.” Chess gestured toward the stage, where a small group was gathering. “Speech time. My cue to disappear.”

As I watched him head off in a completely different direction from the route Kara had chosen, I wondered if I was a fool not to do the same. But then I heard someone tapping a mike to get everyone’s attention.

It was too late to escape. An elderly woman wearing a cream-colored pantsuit and enough makeup to qualify for Cirque du Soleil had just climbed onto the podium.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” she began in a high, quivering voice. “I’m Celia Cromworthy, president of the East End Chapter of the SPCA. On behalf of our entire organization, I’d like to welcome you to the opening festivities of Funds for Our Furry Friends. I know each and every one of you shares my
complete
devotion to the puppies and dogs, kittens and cats, rabbits, ferrets, hamsters, gerbils, and even the tiny little mice who so wonderfully enrich our lives. Some people refer to them as pets, but we know they are
so
much more. They are extensions of ourselves, sweet, lovable little beings who embody the qualities that are the best of all of us....”

Her droning voice had a hypnotic effect. I realized that Chess had been smart to duck out before the speeches began.

Glancing around, I saw that at least I wasn’t alone in my misery. The tent was packed. Not only were about two-thirds of the tables full, but people stood in clusters along the edges of the tent. I looked behind me, checking the gazebo to see if it was too late to sneak back for some of that gorgeous shrimp, but I saw that the lights had been turned off, and the charming little building was empty except for one lone figure standing near the ice sculptures. Cleanup time, I figured. I’d missed my chance at the shrimp.

I was wondering how I would ever get through the rest of the night when I felt a light tap on my shoulder. I glanced up and saw Shawn Elliot smiling at me. He was dressed in a tuxedo that looked custom-made. As if the hand-stitching wasn’t dazzling enough, his ensemble included a bow tie and a cummerbund that were the exact same shade of blue as his eyes.

His date for the evening, standing patiently at his side, didn’t quite fit in with his elegant look. Still, what Rufus lacked in sophistication, he more than made up for with charm.

“Hello, again,” Shawn said softly, leaning closer so he wouldn’t disturb anyone who was actually listening to Celia Cromworthy’s opening remarks. “I see they tricked you into coming tonight, too.”

“I wish I’d thought of bringing a date—probably Lou, my Dalmatian. He’s got both the build and the coloring to look totally awesome in a tux. Of course, Rufus here cuts a pretty mean figure in his birthday suit.” I bent over to scratch the bulldog’s ears and was rewarded with a big slurping kiss on the wrist. “Aren’t
you
a lucky dog!” I told him. “Out having fun while all the other doggies in the show are home in bed. But I guess you’re just a party animal, huh?”

“Is the guesthouse working out okay?” Shawn dropped Rufus’s leash and sat down next to me. With a loud sigh, the bulldog plopped down between us, resting his chin on his paws. “Did you find everything you need?”

“... And of course, I’d like to thank Dr. Jessica Pepper, who has agreed to enlighten us all with information on how to keep our beloved animals happy and healthy....”

I jumped at the sound of my name—or at least a name close to it—amplified by a sound system that seemed to have been designed for rock concerts.

“Dr. Pepper?” Celia Cromworthy asked in her tremulous, high-pitched voice. “Are you here tonight?”

“Stand up, Jess,” Shawn urged.

I rose to my feet. Hundreds of faces blurred in front of me, and I was vaguely aware of a smattering of polite applause.

When I sat down again, I could feel my cheeks burning. I suspected I looked like a shy third-grader who’d just taken her turn at a spelling bee.

Shawn wore a wicked grin. “See that, Dr. Pepper? You’re famous. Practically a household name.”

“Right up there with Coke and Pepsi.”

“Just as sweet—and probably just as addictive,” Shawn commented coolly.

I didn’t know how to respond, so I was relieved that a final burst of applause signified that the speech portion of the evening was over. Shawn and I were both distracted by the catering crew, who instantly shifted into high gear. The folks in black and white swarmed through the tent, distributing salads with alarming efficiency.

When I felt a hand on the back of my chair, I expected to find a waiter hovering behind me. Instead, I turned and found Kara Liebling.

“I’ve got to run,” she said, “but I wanted to say good-bye—”

The temperature in the immediate area suddenly dropped about forty degrees. Confused, I looked at Kara, then Shawn. The expression on both their faces told me where the deep freeze was coming from.

“Hello, Shawn,” Kara said crisply.

“Kara.” He nodded.

She quickly turned her attention back to me. “If you see Chess, please tell him I said—”

A loud scream suddenly cut through the pleasant din of the party. The incongruity of a sound that was so dreadfully out of place was chilling, and within moments, complete silence had descended over the entire dinner party.

Like everyone else, I swiveled around in my seat, craning my neck and trying to figure out what on earth was going on. I finally focused on a young woman dressed in the black pants and white shirt of the catering staff, standing at the back of the tent, gesticulating wildly. Her face was twisted into an expression of horror.

“Back there!” she shrieked. “Behind the gazebo... a body! There’s a
dead body
lying on the ground!”

Chapter 3

“Some of my best leading men have been dogs and horses.”

—Elizabeth Taylor

What is this, one of those Murder Mystery Din-ners?” a man behind me grumbled.

“I think it’s a marvelous idea!” a woman exclaimed. “I
love
those!”

“They could have warned us,” someone else complained. “I’m not big on this kind of thing.”

I was as confused as everyone else. I was looking around the tent, amazed at how quickly a calm evening had turned chaotic, when I heard Shawn demand, “Where’s Rufus?”

“What?” I responded distractedly. “He’s right here. At least, I thought he was.”

“He’s gone,” Shawn announced, jumping to his feet. “I hope he didn’t get too far....”

I watched him dart off through the crowd in search of his wayward bulldog, then turned my attention to the podium as Celia Cromworthy took the microphone once again.

“Please, everyone, take your seats,” she instructed shrilly. “There’s no reason to panic. There’s been an accident near the gazebo, and it appears that someone has been injured. The police have been notified, and an ambulance is on its way. If you will all just remain calm, we will relay any information we receive.”

“Who’s hurt?” someone called from the back of the tent.

Ms. Cromworthy hesitated. “I’ve been told it was Devon Barnett, the photographer.”

I was instantly overcome with guilt. Less than half an hour earlier, I’d been standing in the gazebo myself, poised above the infamous paparazzo and contemplating dropping cruciferous vegetables on his head. Now he was lying behind that same gazebo, badly hurt...or maybe even dead.

Glancing around the tent, I could see from the guilty expressions on the faces of many of the other guests that I wasn’t the only one having that thought. A lot of these people had undoubtedly wished bad luck upon Devon Barnett at one time or another.

The atmosphere of the elegant party had become strained. The guests appeared to be in a waiting mode, resisting the urge to dig into their salads so they wouldn’t appear coldhearted. There was such a mood of uncertainty that it was actually a relief when the tension was interrupted by the wail of sirens and the flash of police lights.

The arrival of the police prompted me to stand up and make my way closer to the gazebo so I could get a better look at what was going on. Two official-looking cars had just pulled up, the words “Town of East Brompton Police Department” printed on the doors. They parked at odd angles, as if wanting to make the point that these weren’t just any vehicles. A cop climbed out of each, both holding their heads at cocky angles that made it clear that
they
were in charge here. An ambulance from the East Brompton Fire Department quickly joined the two police vehicles, with a third sedan arriving a few seconds later. The police sergeant, I surmised, as I watched its sole occupant ease out of the driver’s seat and make his grand entrance alone.

The cops positively strutted across the back lawn. I wondered if part of the appeal of doing police work in a town like this was feeling important. While they undoubtedly knew they were surrounded by famous actors and rock stars and supermodels with fan clubs and multimillion-dollar deals and even their own websites, suddenly
they
were the main attraction.

As for the impressive roster of guests, they had been reduced to onlookers. They moved toward the back of the tent, talking to one another in low tones as they watched the police cordon off the area with yellow tape. The EMT workers, meanwhile, rushed behind the gazebo.

From where we all stood, we couldn’t see much. But the expressions on the medics’ faces as they came back into view told us everything.

“Oh, my God,” I gasped. “Devon Barnett is dead!”

The appearance of the county medical examiner a few minutes later verified my suspicions. The crowd lapsed into respectful silence as the EMT workers carried Barnett’s body away on a stretcher.

Two women and a man, who had to be reporters, crowded around the medical examiner as he started to leave.

“What happened, Dr. Stokes?” one of them demanded.

A stocky man with enough lines in his face to indicate he’d been doing this for a long time barely glanced over. “My preliminary determination is that Devon Barnett died accidentally when a block of ice fell on him from a height of approximately ten feet. The police will be conducting a full investigation, but someone from the catering staff has informed me that he saw a small dog moving around inside the gazebo prior to the incident. I suspect that the dog bumped into the table on which the ice sculptures were displayed, causing one of the pieces to fall over and kill Mr. Barnett. We’ll examine the body to determine the exact cause of death.”

“Which sculpture fell?” another reporter asked.

Dr. Stokes looked uncomfortable. “I believe it was, uh, the cocker spaniel from the movie about the two dogs...Lady and the Tramp, I think it’s called. So that would be, uh, Lady, I suppose.”

“And you’re convinced it was an accident?” the first reporter persisted.

“Aside from the possibility of the dog being in the wrong place at the wrong time, there’s no reason to suspect foul play at this time,” Dr. Stokes replied, his irritation only thinly masked. “The police can answer any additional questions, but since there were apparently no witnesses to the actual event, this is just one possible scenario. That’s all I have to say.”

Just then, Shawn emerged from the crowd, wearing a distressed expression and clutching Rufus’s leash tightly. The sturdy bulldog trotted alongside him, his furrowed face seemingly drawn into a frown. I noticed a few people in the crowd whispering and pointing at them.

The two of them headed in my direction. “It’s over,” Shawn announced grimly. “Let’s get out of here.”

It wasn’t until we’d retreated to Shawn’s house and I was cradled by the overstuffed cushions of a remarkably soft couch that I realized how shaken up I was. Finding myself in a mansion that looked more like a movie set than an actual home only added to my disconcerted feeling. My eyes traveled around the cavernous rooms, the imposing floor-to-ceiling windows framed by flowing white drapes and the silky Oriental carpets with their rich colors and intricate designs. The eclectic furnishings were all well-designed and beautifully crafted, from the stark modern pieces that somehow gelled with the fussy antiques to the carefully chosen accessories like the beaded floor lamp and the needlepoint pillows in pastel tones. Somehow, the spectacular show of wealth that epitomized the Bromptons only made the fact that a man had died here tonight seem even more surreal.

Shawn, meanwhile, looked as if he was even more upset than I was. His expression was grim and his eyes were clouded. Even Rufus seemed agitated. Somehow, I got the feeling he sensed he had something to do with his master’s tense mood. The sour-faced beast refused to leave Shawn’s side, and he kept looking up at him woefully, his dark liquid eyes clouded with concern—or maybe even guilt. His master reached down, distractedly fondling his ears as if to let him know there were no hard feelings.

I stared off into space, unable to shake the feeling that I was in a dream.

“It’s so hard to comprehend,” I mused, sounding as dazed as I felt. “One minute somebody is alive, flashing lights in your eyes with his camera, and the next minute he’s...”I couldn’t quite bring myself to utter the word. “And the strange thing is that I actually
knew
him. Well, maybe I didn’t actually
know
him, but I encountered him three different times—and I’ve only been here in the Bromptons for a few hours.” Apologetically, I added, “I guess even I’m surprised at how hard I’m taking this.”