Putting on the Dog (7 page)

“Actually, I never thought he was a very good actor. Just another bland Hollywood hustler with decent features and a lot of ambition.”

“Don’t you want to hear about the man who was killed by the falling ice sculpture?” I really was glad that Nick had shown up, and the last thing in the world I wanted was to argue. Besides, I still hadn’t recovered from the fact that I’d just come home from a party at which a man had been killed.

“I’m much more interested in how you ended up at Shawn Elliot’s house—alone. Dancing, no less. If you can even call it that.”

“That’s exactly what I’d call it,” I said indignantly. “Surely you don’t think anything else was going on?” I tossed my head and raised one eyebrow. Maybe there was a little Vivien Leigh in me, after all.

“Why don’t you tell me?” Nick’s voice had changed. Instead of cranky, his tone was more along the lines of pleading. “
Was
anything else going on?”

My prickliness was suddenly gone, too. I snapped my renegade eyebrow back into position. “No, Nick. Of course not.”

“Good. That’s all the reassurance I need.” His expression softened. “I do trust you, you know.”

I nestled my head against his shoulder. “Please don’t worry about Shawn Elliot. The only reason I was at his house tonight was that I ran into him at the kick-off party for the dog show. Then this terrible thing happened to the photographer, and the police showed up and we cleared out. We were both pretty shaken up, so we went back to his place to calm down. He’s harmless, Nick. I promise.”

“Okay.” Nick put his arms around me. “If you say so.”

I was about to add that if the evening hadn’t been bizarre enough, the police thought Shawn Elliot’s dog might have been partly responsible for the horrific accident that had resulted in a man’s death. But he didn’t give me a chance.

He was too busy showing me just how much he’d missed me.

Chapter 4

“Children and dogs are as necessary to the welfare of the country as Wall Street and the railroads.”

—Harry S. Truman

I expected the entire East End to be buzzing about Devon Barnett’s demise and the surprising circumstances that surrounded it. Instead, as Max, Lou, and I headed to East Brompton Green, the location of the first annual Funds for Our Furry Friends Charity Dog Show, I discovered that when it came to dog-lovers, even a bizarre death right in their own backyard couldn’t deter them from their passion.

The triangle-shaped stretch of grass looked as if a team of experts from the Home and Garden Channel had taken over. Beyond the huge banner out front, multicolored streamers flowed from what looked like two Maypoles on either side of the entrance to the field. Several huge tents had been set up, differentiated by masses of different colored balloons bobbing outside. A courtesy tent was well-stocked with coffee for humans, bottled water for canines, and plenty of edible goodies for both.

While I was impressed by the magnitude of the operation, I was much more interested in the dogs. I held onto Max’s and Lou’s leashes tightly, since they were at least as intrigued as I was. Max was barking his head off, trying to show the competition who was boss. Lou seemed a bit overwhelmed, his entire body trembling as he took in all the excitement around him. He made a point of standing as close to me as he could.

Looking around at the competitors, I concluded that although a few regulars had come out for the event, most of the entrants were new to the dog-show world. It was easy to spot the few seasoned canines. They were the ones behaving themselves. It was easy to spot the experienced handlers, too. They were the ones wearing practical shoes.

Yet all the dogs, even the pros, looked like they were having a blast. Sure, each and every one looked good enough to star in a dog-food commercial: the poodles and Yorkies with perky ribbons in their freshly shampooed fur, the spaniels with their painstakingly fluffed ears, the sleek Rottweilers and greyhounds, their flanks shining from all the brushing that had brought them to such a luminous state.

But most of the dogs couldn’t help acting like...well, like dogs. They darted about, barking joyfully or, in some cases, angrily. I watched an incensed Chihuahua give a piece of his mind to an Alaskan malamute at least ten times his size. You had to admire his spirit, if not his common sense.

As for the breeds, I’d expected to see the usual assortment of beagles, cocker spaniels, and pugs. So nothing prepared me for the Who’s Who of exotic specimens prancing around with their proud owners. An impish affenpinscher, a sturdy black little dog whose name means “monkey terrier”—and who has a mug that lives up to it. A Chinese crested dog, completely hairless except for the long, wispy fur on its head, feet, and tail. A Lowchen, or “little lion dog,” that resembles a miniature English sheepdog who’d had his back half-shaved. A sturdy black Schipperke, an imposing breed that looks like the inspiration for the Big Bad Wolf.

The celebrities on parade were almost as impressive as the dogs. The first familiar face I spotted belonged to Hugo Fontana, his muscles bulging beneath a tightfitting black polo shirt. Strutting alongside the extraordinarily popular actor was an equally muscular specimen I recognized as a Chesapeake Bay retriever.

Figures, I thought wryly, given the fact that the breed is generally considered the hardiest of the retrievers. Macho guy, macho dog.

I was pretty sure the owner of the Chinese crested dog was a soap opera star that even I’d heard of, since her career as one of the best-known villains on television spanned three decades. I also recognized a supermodel whose face had become synonymous with an expensive line of cosmetics, striding alongside a sleek, rust-colored vizsla, one of the more imposing members of the pointer family. I was trying to remember the model’s name when I noticed someone hurrying across the field, heading in my direction.

“
There
you are, Dr. Pepper!” Celia Cromworthy exclaimed. Her thickly powdered cheeks were flushed with excitement. Or maybe it was just too much rouge. I noticed that she eyed my outfit for the day with approval. Of course, I was wearing the same official-looking polo shirt embroidered with “Jessica Popper, D.V.M.” that I wore almost every day. But I knew that the crisp khaki shorts I’d paired with today’s forest-green selection gave me a particularly authoritative look—as if I were a game warden on a preserve in the Serengheti, or at least an extra on
The Crocodile Hunter.
“Thank you
so
much for agreeing to be part of our little fund-raiser! It was
so
good of you to fill in for that
charming
Dr. Scruggs. What a shame he suddenly had a personal emergency to deal with!”

Calling the “emergency” Marcus was dealing with “personal” was a real understatement, I thought wryly. He’d telephoned me three weeks earlier, explaining that he’d had another offer—one that was too good to turn down. After plying him with questions, I learned that an admirer—a woman he described as “mature”—was desperate for him to accompany her on an all-expenses-paid trip to a tropical island. Frankly, it had taken me a few seconds to get over the shock. While the man was convinced he was God’s gift to the female half of the species, to me he was more like the lump of coal that someone on Santa’s “Naughty” list might find in her Christmas stocking.

But I wasn’t about to bore Celia Cromworthy with the unsavory details of Marcus Scruggs’ love life. I just smiled politely. “I’m glad I could help. It’s for such a good cause.”

“Indeed. Now let me show you to your booth....”

She led me to the tent placed at the far end of the Green. It was lined with tables and booths. In addition to the representatives from local organizations like an East End animal shelter and the Guide Dog Foundation who were standing behind tables, considerably more elaborate displays had been set up by a few major dog-food companies, an “invisible fencing” firm, and a chain retailer specializing in canine-related paraphernalia. When I spotted a six-foot placard emblazoned with a giant deer tick that looked like it was posing for the cover of a Kafka novel, I had a feeling I’d found my home away from home. Sure enough, the banner draped above it read “Ask The Vet!”

“Here you go!” Celia Cromworthy beamed. “We’ve left some brochures on health issues that you might want to hand out. If you need anything else, just ask your assistant.”

“ ‘Assistant’?” I asked.

But she’d already dashed off. No matter; as I neared my booth, I understood what she was talking about. Standing inside, glancing around nervously, was a serious-looking girl about twelve or thirteen, with straight brown hair and hazel eyes. Stick-thin, she was dressed in a striped shirt and flowered shorts that even I could tell didn’t go together. Every few seconds, she slid the thick eyeglasses she wore up the bridge of her nose. Overall, she had the gawky look of someone whose body hadn’t yet decided upon its long-term plan.

Max and Lou bounded over to her, eager to introduce themselves. As soon as she noticed them, her face lit up.

“Hey, you cute little doggies!” She crouched down to their level, laughing gleefully as they both climbed all over her in a manic effort to cover her face with dog saliva. “Hey, cut that out!” she protested between giggles. “You’re getting me all wet!”

“Sorry!” I cried as I jogged over. “Whenever they’re out in public, they act like they’re the most attention-starved beasts in the universe. You’d never guess they’re really the most spoiled.” I reached for my wild canines’ collars so I could pull them off her.

“They’re okay,” she insisted. “I love dogs. I really wish I had one, but my parents won’t let me. They say our lives are too complicated.”

Much to the dismay of both my Westie and my Dalmatian, the girl stood up. It only took another two seconds before they resumed harassing her; Lou nudged her hand roughly with his nose in a desperate attempt at prolonging physical contact, and Max tried to climb up her leg.

She glanced at me shyly, grinning. For the first time, I noticed that her teeth were covered with shiny metal braces. “They really like me!”

I wasn’t about to tell her they were shameless at soliciting affection from any living, breathing being they encountered. Instead, I nodded. “I’ll say they do. You have a real way with dogs. If you want, you can pick up Max. Lou’ll go nuts, but that’s the price you pay for being a Dalmatian. When you weigh sixty-six pounds, only weight lifters can carry you around like a baby.”

“Hey, Maxie,” the girl cooed, reaching for the crazed Westie. “Want me to hold you? Come here, little doggie.”

Max was more than happy to comply. When she started to scratch his belly as she cradled him gently in her arms, pure ecstasy was written all over his furry face.

“What happened to Max’s tail?” the girl asked earnestly. “He’s hardly got any of it left!”

“Both my dogs lived with other people before they came to live with me. Their original owners weren’t exactly the nicest people in the world, so somewhere along the line, Max lost part of his tail. Lou had an accident, too. See? He lost an eye.”

“You poor things!” she whispered.

“By the way, I’m Dr. Popper,” I said. “I’m supposed to stand in this booth all day, handing out advice.”

“My name’s Emily Bolger.” Once again, she jabbed at her thick glasses. “I’m your volunteer helper.”

“Emily, huh? I had a feeling that was your name.”

“
Really?
How?”

“Your name tag.”

She grinned. “Oh, yeah. Forgot.”

“Glad to have you aboard, Emily. Thanks for helping out.”

She studied me for a few seconds. “Are you really a veterinarian?”

“Got the diploma to prove it.
And
the scars.”

“Huh?”

“Just joking. What about you? What do you do, when you’re not volunteering at charity dog shows?”

“Nothing much. I’m still just a kid, you know?”

“I guess I noticed that. Do you live around here?”

“Not really. I kind of don’t live anywhere. My dad has a summer place out here, but he really lives in California and New York. My mom lives in a bunch of places, too. Paris, mostly. And me, well, I don’t spend much time at any of their houses because I go to boarding school in Virginia during the year.”

“Do you like boarding school?”

She shrugged, sending her glasses slipping down the bridge of her nose again. She stopped scratching Max’s belly long enough to push them back into place. “It’s okay, I guess. I like the school part. But it’s not like I have tons of friends or anything.”

“Personally, I’ve never found that having tons of friends mattered. Having one or two really good ones always seemed a lot better.”

She brightened. “Yeah, you’re right. Hey, maybe you and I could be friends! I don’t know a lot of people out here.”

“Haven’t you met other kids out here over the years?”

“This is the first summer I’ve spent on the East End. I usually go to summer camp. Or else one of those travel programs where you spend the summer biking around Italy or kayaking on the Colorado River.”

“Wow! Lucky you!”

“I guess. Except the only reason my parents send me is to get rid of me.”

“I doubt that!”

“You don’t know my parents.” She puckered up her face into a sour expression. “I’m kind of a disappointment to them.”

“Oh, Emily! I hope you don’t really believe that!”

Another shrug. “It’s true. The only reason I’m here this summer is that my father decided it was time to start turning me into somebody who fit into his world.” She grimaced. “You know, the whole scene out here.”

“What about
your
world?” I asked in a gentle voice. “What matters to you?”

“I think I’d like to work with animals, like you,” she answered shyly. “They’re so...honest. They always let you know exactly what they’re thinking, you know?”

Lou chose that moment to lift his leg on the giant tick.

I moaned. “Sometimes I wish they’d try just a little harder
not
to!”