Putting on the Dog (23 page)

“This is the place,” I muttered, making a sharp left into the driveway. I drove only a few more feet before rounding a bend and spotting a squat, dilapidated-looking farmhouse covered with weatherworn cedar shingles. Between its architectural style and its advanced state of decay, I figured it had to be at least a hundred years old. The white paint on the windowframes was peeling, and the roof looked as if it might collapse if I huffed and puffed just a little too hard. Farther back on the property was a barn of the same vintage. The grass in between was overgrown, happily living side by side with an impressive crop of weeds.

The grounds seemed deserted, the silence broken only by the chirping of birds and the thud of my footsteps. Fool’s errand? I wondered. But I took a deep breath and knocked on the door.

Then groaned when there was no response.

I tried again, this time knocking harder. Finally, I resorted to banging.

I stood with my fist in midair, about to give the door one more pounding, when I heard a voice behind me.

“You don’t give up, do you?” someone growled. “You’ve already broken my concentration, so this better be good.”

I turned around and saw that the person who’d spoken was standing in the doorway of the barn. For a few seconds, I just stared, caught completely off guard by the incongruity of the gravelly voice and the woman who produced it. Even though she sounded like a trucker with a cigar habit and a sinus infection, Sydney—
Sizzle
—was barely five feet tall and probably weighed about ninety pounds. Purple velour stretch pants clung to her bottom half like skin, while her tiny torso was encased in an equally tight white shirt printed in black with words and photographs so that it looked like a newspaper. Layer after crusty layer of mascara made her eyelashes stand out like spikes, and her lips were thickly smeared with scarlet lipstick. She was sucking on a cigarette—the reason behind the rasping voice, I concluded.

Yet it was her hair that was her most outstanding feature. It was dyed the color of overripe cherries and shaved into a crewcut.

I couldn’t stop staring. But it wasn’t simply her bizarre appearance, or even its jarring contrast with such a rustic setting, that intrigued me. I couldn’t shake the feeling that I’d seen her before.

“Ms. Barnett?” I asked, trying to get a grip.

She just looked at me, not saying yes but not saying no, either. I went on.

“My name is Jessica Popper.” I walked toward her slowly, the way I do when I approach an animal whose temperament is still in question. “I, uh, knew Devon.”

I studied her face, wondering what kind of reaction I’d get. I was prepared for anything except the one I got: icy laughter.

“I noticed you didn’t say you were a
friend
of Devon’s. Probably because the man didn’t have any friends. Or know the meaning of words like ‘friendship’ or ‘loyalty’ or—God forbid—‘love.’ ”

“Uh, I was wondering if I could speak with you for a minute.”

She sucked up more smoke as if it were the only thing keeping her alive, then studied me as she slowly breathed it out. “Since you’re here, I suppose you might as well come into my studio. It’s not like I’ll be able to get anymore work done
now.
”

I stepped into the barn, an expansive space that looked as if it hadn’t been updated since the day it was built. Its walls were made of wood that was so rough that simply touching them practically guaranteed a serious splinter. The floor, made from even wider slats of wood, was just as crude.

Sydney apparently used the space to produce artwork. Or at least her version of it. In addition to an expensive-looking camera and a tabletop setup edged with a sophisticated lighting system, dozens of framed black-and-white photographs leaned against the walls of the barn.

At first glance, they looked like ordinary still lifes, attractive groupings of everyday items. But as I focused on them, I saw that each one told a story. One featured a tube of lipstick, a lacy bra, a strappy shoe with a spiked heel, a champagne glass, and a pregnancy test. Another was a photograph of pastries slathered in whip cream, chocolate truffles, delicate petit fours, and a prescription bottle of heart medication.

I turned to Sydney. “I had planned to start out by offering my condolences,” I told her, “but I get the feeling that may not be appropriate.”

“Probably not, considering I haven’t even seen the man for at least a year.”

“You were Devon’s wife, right?”

“Technically. Although we’ve been separated for close to four years, so I tend to think of myself as his ex-wife.”

That explained a lot.

She leaned against a table, puffing away maniacally and peering at me more closely. I hoped there was a fire extinguisher on the premises. “What’s
your
interest in Devon?”

“He and I got to know each other a bit because I, uh, was his veterinarian. At least, when he was out at the East End. You know Zsa Zsa, don’t you? The Havanese?”

Sydney’s mouth twisted into a sneer. “Most vile beast I’ve ever encountered. But that ridiculous lover of his simply had to have it. Checkers, or whatever his name is.”

“Chess.”

“Like I said, whatever.” She ground her cigarette into the coffee cup sitting on the edge of the table. It was stained with brown, and its edges were smeared with blood-red lipstick. Just glancing at it was enough to make my stomach convulse. “So you live in the Bromptons?”

“Actually, I live on the North Shore. But I have a mobile services unit, so I have clients all over Long Island. How about you? Do you spend much time on the South Fork?”

She shook her head as she lit up another cigarette. The acrid smell of the sulfur irritated my nose. “I can’t remember the last time I was there. I absolutely despise the entire scene, all those pretentious people who flock there like lemmings every summer. It’s gotten as bad as Manhattan—which is why I don’t live
there
anymore.” She paused for only a second before asking, “How did you find me?”

At least I could be honest about that. “You’re listed in the phone book. And I knew Devon had a wife because it was mentioned in his obituary in
The East Brompton
Banner.
”

“My, my. Somebody did their homework.” She narrowed her eyes. “That Checkers person probably told them about me. What did it say, exactly?”

“Not much. Just that Devon Barnett was survived by his wife, Sydney Hornsby Barnett.”

“ ‘Barnett,’ ” she repeated, sneering. “I never should have changed my name. Now I’m stuck with Devon’s name for the rest of my life. It’s like a tattoo.”

“But people know you as ‘Sizzle,’ don’t they?”

“Hah!”

I jumped. The raw sound of her laughter jabbed me in the ribs.

“Actually, I got the name ‘Sizzle’ from Dev, too.”

“So it was his idea?”

“Only indirectly.” She lit up another cigarette. “He loved that tired old line from the advertising world, ‘Sell the sizzle, not the steak.’ It was his motto. To me, it epitomized his whole disgusting attitude toward concentrating on the superficial—the
flashy
—instead of on substance.” She shrugged. “But he influenced me. I admit it. And as soon as my work started generating some interest, I decided to follow his lead. Of course, we were already separated by then.”

“How long were you married?”

“Seven years.” Sydney stared at me in silence, the only sound in the room her relentless puffing on her cigarette. “You still haven’t told me why you’re here. What exactly are you trying to find out?”

“I’m anxious to learn as much as I can about Devon. I’d like to find out who killed him.”

She froze, refraining from breathing cigarette smoke in and out for the first time since she’d opened the door. “Say again?”

“The medical examiner ruled his death accidental, but I suspect otherwise.”

In a strained voice, she asked, “Because of who he was?”

“Partly. And partly because of the circumstances. The block of ice that fell on him had been secured with wires. There’s no way it could have fallen unless someone deliberately cut them and pushed it over.” I hesitated. “Do you have any idea who might have wanted him dead?”

“Hah!”
she barked.

Once again, I jumped.

“I could give you a list as long as my
arm
of people who would have loved to see Devon Barnett dead!”

“I’d love to see that list,” I told her sincerely.

She grimaced, once again bringing her cigarette to the brilliant red gash on her face that constituted her lips. “I didn’t mean that literally. I only meant that half the people on both coasts are probably celebrating the fact that he’s dead with a champagne toast. Surely you know he wasn’t exactly Mr. Popular.”

“From what I’ve heard, that’s a real understatement. Which is why I’m curious about what motivated him.”

“Money, mainly,” Sydney replied with a shrug. “Isn’t that pretty much what motivates everybody?”

“Not necessarily. For example, I became a veterinarian because I love animals and find it very rewarding to make things better for them. You probably do what you do”—I gestured around the studio vaguely, not quite sure how to describe what she did—“because you’re naturally creative and having an outlet for that creativity is as vital to you as breathing.” Or at least your version of breathing, I thought grimly, wondering how much time all this secondhand smoke was taking off my life.

“Well, Dev sure didn’t love animals,” she said scornfully. “Or people or plants or anything else that’s alive. And he was no artist. I’d say I knew him pretty well, and he was just greedy. He went where the money was.

“Believe it or not, Dev started out as a legitimate photographer. In fact, that’s how I met him. He was working for the
New York Post
and I was with the
Daily
News.
We both ended up covering the same stories— usually crimes.” She smiled coldly. “There’s nothing like snapping pictures of a mutilated corpse lying on a river-bank at two o’clock in the morning to bring people together.”

“Is that how you two got together?”

“Pretty much. We kept running into each other, through our work.” She grew pensive as she paused to take a few puffs. “And it wasn’t just the drama and the emotion of seeing humanity at its lowest levels. It was also that we understood each other. You know, the strange life we’d both chosen. Sure, some of it was the horror of what we saw every day, although you do get used to it. Kind of. But also the craziness. Running around the city at all hours of the night, schmoozing with homicide cops and DEA guys and the medical examiner, the people who are also out there as part of the circus...At the time, I was fine with it. But after a while, you start to realize how insane the whole thing is.

“Anyway, at the beginning Dev and I used to joke that we had to get married since we were the only two people in New York City who could tolerate each other, given what we did for a living.” She snorted. “Pretty romantic, huh?”

“It probably seemed that way at the time,” I told her. “Like you said, you both lived in a world that most people don’t understand. Something like that can bring two people close together very quickly.”

“Right, like a fairy tale. Happily ever after.” Sydney lapsed into silence.

“So what happened?” I asked gently. “To your ‘happily ever after,’ I mean?”

“Are you married?”

“No.”

“Ever have a serious boyfriend cheat on you?”

“No.”

“Then you have no idea what it feels like to find out the one person you love is cheating on you.”

“I guess not.”

“Even if you’d been through it, I’d tell you to multiply that horrible feeling by about a thousand to imagine what it’s like finding out that person is cheating with another
man.
”

Before I had a chance to say something sympathetic, she mused, “Actually, make that men, not man. It wasn’t just one man with Dev. Once he came out, he started screwing a different guy every night of the week. And acting really giddy, like he had this wonderful little secret.

“At first, I thought he was just happy with the success he was having with his new job at the
Stargazer.
He’d just started working for them around that time, and I assumed the long nights he was putting in were because he was working hard to impress them. But then I started finding these little clues that told me he was out ’til all hours because of his blossoming social life. I’d get up in the morning and find a matchbook from some club sitting on the counter, next to the coffee pot. Places with names like ‘Rod’s Ramrod Room’ or ‘The Leather Lounge.’

“He never came right out and told me, the bastard. But he made it obvious enough that I figured it out before long. The man was gay, and he was suddenly New York’s number one party boy. Talk about a slap in the face.”

“I can’t imagine how painful that must have been,” I told her sincerely.

Sydney didn’t seem to have heard me. She had a far-away look in her eyes, and she was staring off at something I couldn’t see.

“But it’s funny,” she mused. “Looking back, dealing with the fact that Dev was out screwing a different stranger every night was a lot better than Dev suddenly announcing he was in love. Can you imagine?
In love
— with another man.”

“Wow,” I breathed.

“Of course, I felt like an absolute fool,” Sydney said bitterly, waving her cigarette in the air. “I mean, it’s bad enough when your husband’s running around, and every one of your friends has heard about it. You know they feel sorry for you, but at the same time you suspect that they think you’re an idiot because you never saw it coming. But when he starts flaunting the fact that he’s fallen in love with another man, especially such a high-profile personality—”

I blinked. “Who did he fall in love with?”

She smiled coldly. “That little fact has always been my ace in the hole. At least, I believed it was. I thought that as long as I kept that little secret, I could use it for leverage with Dev.”