Putting on the Dog (6 page)

“And
your
dogs had nothing to do with it,” Shawn interjected glumly.

I just stared at him. “Shawn, what happened tonight was an accident. There’s no reason to feel you had anything to do with Devon Barnett’s death.”

“Aside from the fact that if I’d hung on to Rufus’s leash, he wouldn’t have even
been
in that gazebo in the first place. Not only do I have to deal with feeling horribly guilty about what happened tonight, I have to consider the possibility of being sued over it.”

“I’m no lawyer,” I told him, “but I find it hard to believe you could get sued over something like this. Especially since the medical examiner himself said that no one can be certain that Rufus was responsible. I understand that you feel bad, Shawn, but there’s simply too much uncertainty about the circumstances surrounding Devon Barnett’s death for you to feel as if you’re to blame—or to worry about a lawsuit.”

“You’re probably right,” Shawn muttered. “I guess I should just chill. Anyway, there’s nothing I can do about it right now. Hey, how about something to calm our nerves?”

“Maybe that’s not a bad idea.”

“Great. I’ll open a bottle of champagne.”

I was about to protest. Even though Devon Barnett hadn’t exactly been the most popular guy in town, his death didn’t strike me as cause for breaking out something I associated with happy times.

But it was already too late. I heard a definitive pop. The next thing I knew, Shawn was handing me a crystal flute filled nearly to the brim.

“Just a sip,” I insisted, feeling guilty. But as soon as I tasted the cold bubbling liquid, I knew it was the good stuff. Much too good to waste.

I helped myself to a few serious gulps, settling back further into the comfortable cushions. But even drinking fine champagne amid palatial surrounds wasn’t enough to distract me from the hard reality of what had just happened—and the person it had happened to.

“Shawn,” I mused aloud, “do you think it’s possible Devon Barnett’s death
wasn’t
accidental?”

He looked startled. “But the medical examiner seemed sure that it was an accident. It’s not as if there’s any reason for him to lie.”

“True. It’s just that...well, you told me yourself that Barnett was one of the most hated men in the Bromptons. His death is a bit bizarre. Doesn’t that mean it’s possible that it wasn’t an accident at all? That somebody deliberately pushed that ice sculpture over the side of the gazebo?”

Shawn shrugged off the jacket of his tux and sank onto the couch next to me, draping one arm across the back so that it came dangerously close to being around my shoulders. He leaned toward me, his face so close that I was afraid I’d drown in his blue eyes. “Know what I think?”

“What?” Funny; even though I’d been drinking, my throat was suddenly strangely dry. I took a few more gulps, hoping the bubbly would help me relax.

“That you’ve seen too many movies.” He moved even closer. Even through my champagne-induced haze, I could tell where this was going. Instinctively, I leaped off the couch, frantically searching the room for a distraction. My eyes lit on a cluster of framed movie posters hanging on one of the walls.
The African Queen,
starring Katharine Hepburn and Humphrey Bogart.
High Noon,
with Gary Cooper and Grace Kelly.
On The Waterfront,
with Marlon Brando.

“Speaking of movies,” I said brightly, “which one’s your favorite?”

He let out a little sigh. “As you can probably tell, I prefer old films,” he replied. “Especially the classics, like
Citizen Kane
and
The Grapes of Wrath.
They sure knew how to make movies in those days. I have tremendous respect for the old-time actors, too. My idols are the truly great ones: Jimmy Stewart, Cary Grant, Orson Welles, Henry Fonda...”

“Want to hear something I’ve never told anybody before?” The champagne had seriously gone to my head. I didn’t care.

“I can hardly wait.”

I smiled dreamily. “Sometimes I pretend I’m Audrey Hepburn.”

Shawn just nodded, as if it was the most understandable thing in the world. “She was pretty incredible. But you seem more like the
Katharine
Hepburn type to me.” He pointed at the
The African Queen
poster.

“Really? Why?”

“She was strong. Accomplished. The type of woman who didn’t let anybody push her around.”

I was still basking in the compliment when he said, “How about if I put on some music?”

“Sure.”

The romantic instrumental that filled the room surprised me.

“Recognize this?” he asked.

I shook my head.

“It’s the theme song from one of my movies.
Afternoonin Paradise.
I don’t suppose you saw it.”

Twice, I thought. And once more on tape. But I just nodded.

“Remember the part where I dance with Jennifer Miller?”

“Sure. The scene where you confess that you’re not really the billionaire’s son; you’re his chauffeur.” But make her fall hopelessly in love with you anyway, I was tempted to add.

“That’s the one.”

“I remember that when I saw it, I was struck by what a good dancer you were.”

“Actually, filming that scene was a breeze. For one thing, I had an excellent dance instructor. One of the best in the business. But it’s pretty simple. Here, I’ll show you.”

He jumped to his feet, holding out his arms as if he were Clark Gable playing Rhett Butler, daring Scarlett O’Hara to dance with him at the Confederate soldiers’ charity ball.

But I was no Vivien Leigh.

“I’m not much of a dancer.” I shrank into the cushions.

“I find that hard to believe.”

“No, really. I—”

“It’s easy. Honest.”

He pulled me up, keeping one of his hands in mine and encircling my waist with the other. Just like some of America’s best-known film actresses, I suddenly found myself in Shawn Elliot’s arms. I wondered if they’d handled it more coolly—or if, like me, they suddenly found it as difficult to breathe as if a Saint Bernard had plopped down on their chest.

“Just follow my lead,” Shawn instructed. “It helps if you look into my eyes.”

Even though I had the horrible feeling my cheeks were bright red, I raised my eyes to meet his. He was only a few inches away, so close I could practically feel myself melting into the warmth of his body.

“Now relax and move with me. Just let your body follow mine. Use my hips as your guide.”

Forget
Gone With The Wind.
The room was spinning so fast, I felt like I was in the opening scene of
The Wizardof Oz.

“I can’t,” I gasped. “Really, I’m not a dancer.”

“You’re doing great!” Shawn held me tighter. Now I could feel more than the warmth of his body. I could feel his thigh pressing against mine, his chest brushing against my breasts, as gentle as a whisper...

The sound of someone clearing his throat loudly made me lose my concentration completely. I snapped my head around, then froze—except for my right foot, which somehow managed to crunch down on top of Shawn’s.

“Nick!” I yelped.

“Ouch!” Shawn cried.

Nick didn’t say anything. He just stood in the doorway with his arms folded.

It took a few seconds for the room to stop spinning. This time, my dizziness had less to do with too much champagne than it did with the sudden appearance of the last person in the world I was expecting.

“What a surprise!” I finally said.

“So I gather,” Nick observed dryly.

I took a giant step backwards, away from Shawn.

Shawn frowned. “Do you know this guy, Jessie, or should I call for help?”

“I know him.”

“That’s a relief,” Nick returned. “That you remember me, I mean.”

“Shawn, this is my, uh, boyfriend. Nick Burby.”

A strange look crossed Shawn’s face. “A real pleasure, Mick.”

“That’s
Nick,
” I corrected him. “And this is—”

“I know who he is,” Nick interrupted. “I own a DVD player.”

“In that case,” Shawn asked evenly, “may I ask why you’re not home watching it instead of breaking into people’s houses?”

“I didn’t have to break in. The door was wide open.”

“My fault,” I admitted. “I was the last one in.”

Shawn glared at Rufus, who lay with his head on his paws, watching the whole scene with his large, woeful eyes. “Some watchdog you are,” he muttered.

I was struck by the contrast between the two men. Shawn Elliot, looking as cool and sophisticated as James Bond in his custom-tailored tux. Nick Burby, decked out in tattered cutoffs, a scruffy pair of Nikes, and a Led Zeppelin T-shirt so faded that Robert Plant and Jimmy Page looked more like ghosts than aging rock stars.

I turned to Nick. “I thought you’d decided to stay home.”

He shrugged. “I changed my mind.”

“Who’s taking care of Cat and Prometheus and Leilani?” I persisted. An image flashed into my mind of my aging pussycat, my endearing blue-and-gold macaw, and my Jackson’s chameleon languishing in my empty house.

“Betty,” he replied. “They’re in good hands, and they were all perfectly fine as of two hours ago.”

“How did you know I was here?”

“I saw your van parked outside, and I heard the music
inside,
so I figured I’d knock.”

“That would have been an excellent idea,” Shawn said.

“I did knock. Several times. Tried the bell, too. It doesn’t seem to work. Or else you two didn’t hear it because you were so busy doing...what exactly is it you were doing?”

“Dancing,” I said weakly.

“Actually, we were reenacting a scene from one of my movies.” Shawn’s cheerfulness sounded forced. For a professional actor, he wasn’t doing very well. “I was trying to take Jessie’s mind off the events of the evening.”

“What events were those?” Nick pushed back the piece of straight brown hair that was always falling into his eyes. “Or shouldn’t I ask?”

“A man was killed tonight, right here in East Brompton,” I told him, certain that presenting him with such terrible news would make him realize how ridiculous he was being.

“Who did it?” Nick asked. “A jealous boyfriend?”

“Maybe you two should be on your way,” Shawn suggested. “It’s getting late, and I’m sure you want to fill Mick in on what happened.”

“That’s
Nick,
” we said in unison.

“I didn’t mean to spoil your evening.” Nick walked a few steps behind me as I led the way across the lawn. He was carrying the small suitcase he’d retrieved from his car, along with his laptop and a plastic shopping bag that appeared to contain a large portion of his collection of classic rock CD’s. “If I’d known I was going to interrupt—”

“Here’s the guesthouse,” I said pointedly. “It’s pretty comfortable. It’s got a little kitchen and its own bathroom—”

“Is there a reason why you’re acting like a tour guide?”

“Is there a reason why you’re acting like a complete idiot?”

“Hang on, Jess.” Nick caught up with me right outside the guesthouse and took hold of my shoulders. “Look, I thought it’d be fun to surprise you. I had this crazy idea that it would be really romantic if I just showed up and—”

He leaned forward and sniffed. “Is that alcohol?”

“Champagne.”

Nick dropped his arms to his sides. “You and that Shawn guy were
drinking
?”

“No. I mean, yes. But it was because we were upset. About what happened tonight, I mean. So Shawn opened a bottle of champagne.”

“I’ve heard of calming your nerves with sherry. Or a few shots of whiskey. But never with champagne.”

“That’s because you’re not a movie star.”

“You’re right. I’m not.” The hurt look on his face instantly made me regret my flippant comment.

I opened the cottage door, expecting that Max’s and Lou’s reaction to the reappearance of a man they hadn’t seen for almost twelve hours would give us a temporary break. I was right.

“At least these guys are happy to see me,” Nick mumbled once the leaping and barking had settled down.

“They’re probably not in shock, the way I was. Which leads to the obvious question: How come you changed your mind? I thought you were too busy to waste your time with something you characterized as—what was the word? Oh, that’s right. ‘Frivolous.’ ”

“I missed you. How’s that for a reason? And I guess I just assumed you missed me, too, and that you’d be glad I showed up.”

“I
am
glad. It’s just that if I’d had some warning, I would have had the presence of mind to
look
glad.”

“You looked glad, all right. It’s just that it seemed like it was Shawn who was making you feel that way.”

“We were
dancing.
”

“I noticed. I also noticed you didn’t waste any time finding male companionship. A
movie star,
no less.”

“Oh, right.” My voice was dripping with sarcasm. “I’m the woman of Shawn Elliot’s dreams. He could have any woman in the world, but I’m the one he’s drooling over.”

“He certainly looked as if he was enjoying himself.”

“He’s an
actor
! It’s his
job
to look happy, even when he’s not!”