Dead Canaries Don't Sing (39 page)

I picked my way across a parking lot that was quickly turning into mud. I’d made a few Sunday morning emergency calls in my usual work ensemble, but before corralling Max and Lou into my 26-foot van and embarking on the drive to the East End, I’d changed into an outfit I felt better suited my destination. I’d donned a pale blue silk blouse and black rayon trousers, the finest that Bloomingdale’s clearance rack had to offer. I only hoped the drops of rain that were turning them from solid colors into polka-dots wouldn’t have a lasting effect.

“Excuse me!” I called to the clerk standing behind the vegetable displays, protected from the rain by the awning.

“Be with you in a minute.” She turned her attention back to her customer, a woman who’d had the good sense to bring an umbrella
and
wear a slicker.

I glanced around frantically, looking for some friendly local who might be willing to help. And then I let out a screech.

Before I knew what was happening, I was blasted with water. It was as if someone—someone not very nice—had suddenly turned a hose on me.

“Wha-a-a...!” I sputtered.

I stood frozen to the spot, gradually realizing that the front of my silk shirt was splotched with huge, grimy wet spots, while my stylishly loose pants clung damply to my thighs. My dark blond hair felt plastered around my head, no doubt giving me the distinctive look of a sea otter.

I blinked a few times, struggling to get the water out of my eyes. As soon as I did, I saw that a low-slung sports car the same color as the ripe tomatoes on display had just squealed into a parking space less than five feet in front of me.

I just stared as the door of the Ferrari opened. The driver was dressed in torn jeans and a T-shirt. A Dodgers baseball cap was pulled down low over his eyes. With his shaggy hair and a sorry attempt at a beard, he looked like he’d stolen the car, not earned it.

I plunked myself right in front of him.

He peered up at me over his shades. “Gee, did I do that?”

“No, I’m on my way to a wet T-shirt contest,” I shot back. “I thought accessorizing with mud would be a nice touch.”

“Hey, I’m really sorry. I hope you’ll let me pay the dry cleaning bill.”

“That’s the least you can do. But if you don’t mind, I’d rather not discuss this in the pouring rain.”

“Okay.” He climbed out of the car, grabbed my hand, and pulled me after him. I would have protested except for the fact that he actually seemed to know where he was going.

I was so busy following him that I didn’t pay much attention to the Mercedes that had just driven up beside us, or the wiry man in tight jeans and a black silk shirt who jumped out.

The Ferrari driver led me through the farm stand’s side entrance, bringing us into a small room. It contained a few shelves lined with household basics like mango chutney and wasabi rice crackers.

He turned to me. “How much do you think is fair? To get your clothes cleaned, I mean.”

“Isn’t there something else I deserve?”

His expression tightened. “Don’t tell me you’re planning to hit me up for pain and suffering! Look, if you’re going to start screaming about your lawyer—”

I tossed my head indignantly. “Actually, I was looking for an apology. Or is that too much to expect from somebody who drives like this was the Indy 500—”

Suddenly, the man I’d seen get out of the Mercedes appeared in the doorway, holding an impressively large camera. He immediately started snapping pictures, one after another.

I was so startled I didn’t know what to think. But the Ferrari driver appeared to have figured it out immediately.

“Get the hell out of here!” he yelled. “You people are leeches—and you’re the worst, Barnett! Can’t I even go shopping for food without you harassing me?”

The Ferrari driver turned his back on the photographer. “Look, I’m getting out of here,” he told me. “Funny, but I’ve suddenly lost my appetite.” He reached into his pocket, took out a wad of bills, and pulled off two twenties. “Here. And I really am sorry.”

He thrust the cash into my hand and dashed out. The man with the camera took off after him.

I stood frozen, struggling to make sense of what I’d just witnessed. I was still trying to figure it out when the clerk who’d blown me off earlier came over, snaking her way between the aisles.

“Did you get his autograph?” she asked, her eyes glittering excitedly.

“Who?”

“Shawn Elliot, of course!”

“That was him? In the Ferrari?”

She looked at me as if I’d just climbed out of a U.F.O. “You didn’t recognize him?”

I shook my head. I knew who he was, of course. So did every other red-blooded woman between the ages of twelve and a hundred and twelve, at least if she’d been to the movies in the past five years.

“He didn’t look the way he does in the movies,” I told the clerk with a sheepish shrug.

She nodded knowingly. “He does that on purpose. When he’s out here, I mean. You know, grow a beard, dress all grungy...act like he’s a regular person.”

“How do you know all this?”

“I read it in the
Stargazer
,” she replied, looking smug. “Besides, that’s exactly what I intend to do. After I get discovered, I mean.” She leaned closer. “I’m not really a clerk, you know. I’m an actress, waiting for my big break.”

I sighed. I’d been in the Bromptons for less than twenty minutes. Famous actors who drove Ferraris and wore ratty jeans, photographers who leaped out from behind the cucumbers, cashiers who were really movie stars in disguise...it was more than I could handle.

I was beginning to wonder how I’d ever get through the next few days.

As I climbed back into my van, Max and Lou predictably acted as if I’d been away on a Himalayan trek, instead of spending ten minutes getting directions and getting soaked.

“Hey, Maxie-Max. Come here, Louie-Lou.” I patiently allowed my canines to slobber over me. As usual, Max got the best seat in the house, my lap. His four paws dug into my thighs like cleats.

“Okay, guys,” I finally said, shooing them over to their side of the front seat and shifting my van into gear. “Let’s try this again.”

I headed out of the parking lot and a few minutes later I slowed down to read a road sign that suddenly emerged from the gray mist.

“Yes!” I breathed when I saw it read “Darby Lane.” I had no idea if the clerk at the farm stand was any good at acting, but she’d turned out to be great at directions. Thanks to her, I’d finally found the Wiener estate.

Unfortunately, a wrought iron fence that looked like a leftover from Leavenworth separated me from it.

“Damn!” I muttered.

Through the rain splashing across my windshield, I could see something white clinging to the big lock smack in the middle of the gate. By that point, even the prospect of standing in the unrelenting downpour no longer fazed me, so I got out and retrieved the soggy piece of paper.

“‘Gate is locked,’”
I read aloud. “Now
there’s
a useful bit of information.
‘Use side entrance. Come to
the house for the guesthouse key. Thanks.’”

Sure enough, the side entrance was open. As I drove along the curving driveway, I spotted a small building nestled in the trees in the back corner of the sprawling grounds. The guesthouse, no doubt. It looked like a cottage out of a fairy tale, the kind of place the Seven Dwarves had lived in.

The main house was an entirely different story. I hadn’t seen anything that grand since my high school trip to Paris, which included a day at Versailles— white columns, dramatic marble steps, and enough square footage to spark a revolution.

I parked in the driveway, gave Max and Lou the usual warning about behaving themselves or else, and tromped across the lawn. I rang the bell, suddenly self-conscious. Not only was I covered with muddy streaks; the see-through effect of my wet clothing really did make me look like a competitor in a wet T-shirt contest.

Given the formal look of the house, I didn’t expect Mr. Wiener to have much of a sense of humor. As I heard someone inside unlock the front door, I prepared an apology.

I never got to use it.

“It’s
you
!” I gasped.

Standing on the other side of the doorway was the man who was responsible for my appearance in the first place—the person the clerk had insisted was Shawn Elliot.

“I guess I could say the same.” He didn’t look particularly happy to see me. “You haven’t had second thoughts about calling your lawyer, have you?”

It took me a few seconds to figure out what he meant. “Oh,
that
. No, I don’t even have a lawyer.”

“Good. You’d be surprised how many people think meeting up with somebody a little bit famous means their big pay day.”

A little bit famous?
My eyes drifted past him to the huge movie posters that decorated the entryway. Each one advertised a different Shawn Elliot blockbuster, box office hits that had made him the fantasy love object of a large percentage of the world’s female population.

He just stood there, looking at me expectantly.

“I read the note,” I said. “About the key to the cottage?”

He frowned. “Are you associated with Dr. Scruggs?”

“Didn’t anyone tell you? Marcus—Dr. Scruggs— isn’t going to be the veterinarian at the dog show. I am.”

He just blinked.

“I’m Jessica Popper.
Dr.
Jessica Popper.”

“Oh, boy.” Shawn shook his head. “Now I feel
completely
ridiculous.”

“It’s all right. If I could just have the key—”

“Please, come in. At this point, I’d consider it a personal favor.”

I only hesitated for a moment before following him into the house. I figured that just getting inside would make me feel more like a human being and less like a water mammal. Instead, the air-conditioning combined with my sopping wet discounted designer outfit made me so cold I started to shake.

Shawn noticed immediately. “We have to get you out of those wet clothes.”

“I’m fine. As soon as I get the key, I’ll —”

“There’s a guest room at the top of those stairs with a pool robe hanging behind the door. Why don’t you put it on? You must be so uncomfortable.”

The chance to put on something dry was hard to turn down. I climbed up to the second floor and, just as he’d promised, found a bedroom at the top of the stairs. It looked like something out of a design magazine, a perfectly-coordinated medley of soothing earth tones and rich, textured fabrics that made me want to curl up and go to sleep.

Instead, I closed the door and began unbuttoning my blouse. Immediately, something felt wrong. Maybe I was simply a little overwhelmed by all the bizarre events of the day, but I had the distinct feeling I was being watched.

I kept glancing around the room as I slipped out of my shirt and pants, then pulled on the white terry-cloth robe I found on a hook. It was as thick as shag carpeting, monogrammed with a swirling “S. E.” on the pocket. As I did, I could have sworn I felt somebody’s eyes on me. I was even convinced I could hear breathing. But there was no one in sight.

It wasn’t until I opened the door to go downstairs that I discovered I’d been right all along. The Peeping Tom who had watched the entire strip show slunk out of his hiding place under the bed, then tried to slip past me without getting caught.

But I was too smart for a bulldog.

“Oh, no, you don’t.” I grabbed him by his collar. “Think you’re pretty smart, do you?”

“Is that Rufus?” Shawn yelled up from the first floor. “Damn! I don’t know how he does it, but every time a woman’s getting undressed around here, he manages to get a front row seat.”

“Is that true, you rascal?” I demanded.

Rufus just looked at me, as innocent as could be. But I was certain I saw a twinkle in the jowly beast’s deep brown eyes before he toddled off, lumbering down the stairs toward the safety of his master’s side.

“Is anybody else lurking under beds or in dark corners?” I descended the staircase, carrying my wet clothes in a bundle so I wouldn’t drip on the expensive-looking carpeting. “Like maybe Mr. Wiener?”

“I’m afraid you’re looking at him.”

“Excuse me?”

“Wiener is my real name. Shawn Elliot Wiener. But when I started acting, I was advised to drop the last part.” He grimaced. “Think about it. Can you imagine somebody named Wiener doing a love scene in a movie?”

“I see your point,” I said as I followed him into what looked like a den. “By the way, thanks for letting me use your guesthouse.”

Shawn shrugged. “It’s the least I can do for such a good cause. I’ve been a strong supporter of the SPCA for a long time.

“Besides,” he added, “I figured it might help Rufus win a blue ribbon. Not that he couldn’t do it on his own. Right, boy?”

He crouched down in front of the animal at his feet, as squat and sturdy as a footstool, and scratched his neck vigorously.

“Wuzza, wuzza, wuzza,”
he said in a funny low voice that was almost a growl. “Who’s the best boy in the world? Who’s the
best boy
?”

I had to admit, it was pretty endearing—not only to me, but also to the fifty pound lump of dog. Rufus lay with his four short legs splayed out on the Oriental carpet, grunting and wheezing and obviously in a state of ecstasy. Shawn looked pretty happy, too. I suspected this was a side of the Hollywood heart-throb that few people ever got to see.

“I guess you can tell I’m pretty crazy about this guy.” Shawn glanced up at me, his cheeks flushed. “He’s one of the few individuals I know who likes me for myself.”

“Or else because you fill his food bowl every night.”

He laughed. “At least I know he’s not just kissing up to me because he wants to impress his friends with the fact that he knows a real live Hollywood actor. And he never nags me about introducing him to some casting director.”

“Maybe he should. He’s got real star quality.”

“You think?” He beamed proudly. “I guess I don’t have it in me to be a pushy stage father. I’d rather protect my loved ones from the heartbreaks of this business. So for now, Rufus is destined to remain just another ordinary house pet.”