Putting on the Dog (3 page)

The expression on my face must have reflected my confusion.

“You’ve never heard of him?”

I shook my head.

“Probably because you have too much sense to read those ridiculous supermarket tabloids.”

“You mean those rags at the check-out counters with headlines like ‘Alien Eats Milwaukee for Breakfast’? or ‘Hundred-Year-Old Woman Gives Birth to Kittens’? ”

“Exactly. Or ‘Shawn Elliot Assaults Animal Doctor with $300,000 Car.’ ”

My eyes grew as big as headlights. “Is that how much your car cost?”

He didn’t answer.

“Devon Barnett is one of the sleaziest celebrity photographers—paparazzi—that ever lived,” Shawn went on. “In fact, it’s safe to say he’s one of the most hated men in Hollywood, not to mention a few other places like New York and London. Here, let me show you some of his handiwork.”

He reached into a desk drawer and pulled out a stack of newspaper clippings. They were all the front pages of supermarket tabloids. Each one sported accusatory headlines, and underneath, there was invariably a photograph that was just as incriminating. In every case, the photo credit “Devon Barnett” was printed in tiny letters.

“Shawn Fights Battle of the Bottle!” the first headline read. Splashed across the page was a picture of Shawn, dressed in a bathrobe that looked just like the one I was wearing. His eyes were barely open, and he was cradling an armful of empty liquor bottles.

“The jerk snapped that the morning after I held a huge fund-raiser for the Red Cross,” Shawn explained angrily. “I was taking those out to the recycling bin.”

“But don’t all those photographers—the paparazzi— do pretty much the same thing?”

“Up to a point. But Devon Barnett is the absolute worst. He has no sense of fair play, no notion of what it means to respect other people’s boundaries. Here, look at this one.”

He leafed through the pile, picking out one I’d barely paid attention to. The photograph showed Shawn scowling at a group of crazed fans huddled at the bottom of some steps, frantically thrusting pens and papers in his face.

“Shawn Elliot: ‘I Have No Time For Foolish Fans!’ ” the headline read.

“Do you know where that was taken?” he asked.

I shook my head.

“No, of course not. That’s the whole point. The answer is, outside a funeral home. I was coming out of my father’s wake, for God’s sake.”

“I think I’m beginning to understand,” I told him.

“It’s not even that Barnett captures people at their very worst moments and then twists them into something they’re not,” Shawn continued. “I mean, that’s bad enough. But what’s even more despicable is the fact that he’ll stop at nothing to get a photo. I’ve caught him sleeping in a deck chair beside my pool, waiting for me all night. Once I found him sitting in the backseat of my car at a four-star restaurant. Turns out he’d bribed the parking attendant.

“Then there was the time I was really sick. I’d been in seclusion for almost two weeks. All kinds of rumors were springing up, since one of my movies had just come out and I was expected to do the usual round of talk shows. Somehow, Barnett got hold of my private number. He called me and told me he’d just hit Rufus with his car, right in front of my house. I raced outside, half-crazed. Rufus was perfectly fine, of course. But Barnett got exactly what he wanted: a picture of me looking like a madman, running across the lawn in my underwear.”

I took a moment to appreciate the fact that I wasn’t famous or important. I hadn’t realized what an invasion of privacy it was, having someone devote his entire life to capturing your worst moments on film so they could be plastered over every newsstand and supermarket check-out in the country.

Rufus picked that moment to waddle over to Shawn and nudge him. I guess he’d decided it was his turn to be the focus of his master’s attention again.

Which made me remember I had some canine lovables of my own.

“My dogs!” I cried. “I mean, I have two of them, a Westie and a Dalmatian, and right now they’re probably wondering if I’ve deserted them forever. If I could just get the key to the guesthouse—”

“Sorry. I know I got carried away. Just thinking about that Barnett character makes my blood boil.”

He got the key, then walked me to the door.

“Keep that robe as long as you need it. Make yourself comfortable, and let me know if you need anything.”

“I’m sure I’ll be fine,” I told him.

“And remember, it’s just me and Rufus, all alone in this big house,” Shawn said. He hit me again with that grin. “Don’t be a stranger, okay?”

Oh,
boy, I thought as I fumbled with the key, trying to figure out the intricacies of the lock on the guesthouse’s front door. My heart was actually fluttering. I felt like the heroine in a Victorian romance novel instead of a serious, hardworking medical professional.

I glanced down at Max and Lou, who were frolicking beside me, thrilled over the prospect of a brand-new place to smell. As always, they had the power to bring me back to reality. If nothing else, marveling over their unwavering joie de vivre was a truly sobering experience.

They shot inside the moment I wrestled the door open, darting around like a SWAT team on a mission. I took a more cautious approach, flipping on a light switch and surveying the place before passing judgment.

The tiny bungalow was charming. From the doorway, I could see a small living room, a kitchenette off to one side, and a single bedroom in back. The cottage had clearly been decorated by a pro, and every inch screamed “Summer House!”

But the pastel colors, fluffy throw rugs, and white wicker furniture weren’t what were making me feel so light-headed. It was that stupid heart of mine, beating as wildly as if I’d just belted down a double cappuccino.

It suddenly seemed like a good idea to call Nick.

I reached for the phone hanging on the kitchen wall, then hesitated. One of the main reasons I’d agreed to fill in for Marcus was that a week in the Bromptons had sounded like the perfect romantic getaway. Nick and I hadn’t been away together for more than nine months, since the previous September—and that trip had been nothing short of a disaster. He’d caught me completely off guard by producing the engagement ring he’d packed along with his 30-SPF sunblock and his rubber flip-flops. True to form, I’d freaked—so badly that our relationship had ended. At least, for a while.

Since then, we’d decided to try being a couple again— only this time, taking things a little more slowly. So far, so good. The past few months had been blissful.

But they’d also been busy. Between my veterinary practice and Nick’s job as a private investigator, we’d had to work hard to squeeze in our dinner dates and our weekends together at either my cottage or his apartment. And with Nick starting law school in the fall, it didn’t look as if our schedules were going to lighten up anytime soon. A short vacation on Long Island’s East End sounded ideal—even if it did include spending a few hours at a charity dog show every day.

Of course, I’d had no idea Nick would back out at the last minute.

Even though I still hadn’t completely forgiven him, the memory of Shawn Elliot’s blue eyes and irresistible grin prompted me to grab the phone. First I dialed his office. No answer, just the usual recorded message explaining that Nick Burby, private investigator, was not available to take my call.

I put down the phone long enough to disengage an embroidered hand towel from Lou’s jaws, then tried Nick’s apartment in Port Townsend. And got another machine. I tried once more, this time dialing his cell phone. And endured one more recording.

I was on my own, with nothing to do until the fundraiser’s kick-off dinner this evening. I suddenly felt a stab of loneliness, that hollow feeling that comes from being in a new place where you don’t know a soul.

Except that I did know a soul. One and only one. Shawn Elliot, who’d made a point of telling me not to be a stranger.

I suddenly had another good idea: taking a shower. I decided I’d better make it a cold one.

Chapter 2

“One hundred people can sit together peacefully, but two dogs in the same place will pick a fight.”

—Kurdistan Jewish saying

I was relieved that the organizers of the charity fund-raiser had the foresight to plan an opening-night event to keep us dog-show groupies out of trouble. I also hoped the kick-off party would provide me with my first taste of what the excitement of the Bromptons was all about.

As I cruised along Ocean Spray Drive in my clinic-on-wheels a few hours later, I wondered how I’d recognize the estate at which tonight’s gala was being held. In this town, mansions were as common as telephone poles. But in the distance, I spotted two towering torches, one on each side of an open gate, glowing invitingly against the darkening sky. I had a pretty good idea I’d reached my destination.

After checking in with a guard who crossed my name off a list, I drove along a curving driveway. Looming ahead was a huge white tent that was bigger than any I’d ever seen—at least, outside a circus. The house next to it made Shawn Elliot’s place look like a starter home.

A young man in a uniform flagged me down. He opened the door of my van and peered inside. “A veterinarian, huh?” he asked nervously. “Anything alive in here?”

“Just me.” I hopped out and handed over the keys. “Take good care of it. It might look like a school bus with an identity crisis to you, but to me it’s a dream come true. Not to mention my livelihood.”

“You got it, Doc.”

I watched him drive it away toward the section of the football field-sized lawn that had been converted into a parking area. The area was already filling up with cars that probably cost at least as much as my mobile veterinary unit—and they didn’t even come with their own autoclave.

I felt a pang of fondness as I watched my beloved vehicle bounce along the grass. I still experienced a little thrill every time I was hit with the fact that I really had my own veterinary business. Not only did my mobile services unit give me complete autonomy; it kept me from having to spend my days cooped up inside in order to live out my lifelong goal of helping animals.

Of course, tonight my beloved van didn’t exactly blend in with the other vehicles crammed together on the grass. It really was the size of a small school bus. But instead of bright yellow, it was painted white with blue letters on the door:

REIGNING CATS AND DOGS
MOBILE VETERINARY SERVICES
LARGE AND SMALL ANIMAL
631-555-PETS

A nice contrast to the gleaming DeLoreans, the dignified Rolls Royces, and the low-slung Lamborghinis, I decided with pride.
Definitely
lends a little character to the place.

As I neared the tent, I switched gears, suddenly obsessing over my choice of outfit for the evening. Since my fashion statement runs along the lines of chukka boots and my customized “Jessica Popper, D.V.M.” polo shirts, I felt a little strange decked out in a flowered sundress and a pair of sandals with ridiculously impractical two-inch heels.

I was hoping that I wouldn’t stick out as much as my van, when out of the corner of my eye, I caught sight of someone lurking in the shadows. Someone much taller than either a bulldog with an eye for the ladies or a half-starved black cat.

Adrenaline pumped through my body as I checked around. But there was no one else nearby. I was alone.

Paranoia
, I scolded myself. After all, this is the Bromptons. Not exactly a high crime area.

Almost immediately, someone leaped out from behind a tree, and I was blinded by a flash of light.

For a few horrifying seconds, I couldn’t see. Then I realized what had just happened—and who was responsible.

“You again!” I yelped. “How dare you?”

The man I recognized as Devon Barnett scowled. “I thought you might be somebody.” Shaking his head disapprovingly, he disappeared back into the shadows.

I just stood there, shaking with anger. I didn’t know which made me more furious: having been subjected to my second assault with a deadly camera of the day...or being written off as a nobody.

Take deep breaths
, I instructed myself. Don’t let some professional stalker ruin your evening.

My heart was still pounding with jackhammer speed as I stepped into the tent. As if that wasn’t bad enough, bursts of light kept flashing before my eyes.

But I forced myself to focus on what was going on around me. I realized I’d finally gotten to the “Glamour with a capital G” part.

The giant white tent was just the beginning. Beneath it, on the grass, was the setting for an elegant dinner party, complete with huge bouquets of flowers, glowing candles, and strings of tiny white lights glimmering in the branches of trees that spurted out of huge terra-cotta pots. Dozens of round tables, each outfitted with place settings for eight, fanned out from a podium. An enormous banner printed with “Support the SPCA!” served as a backdrop for the stage set up in one corner. I took it all in, aware that my eyes were as big as the dinner plates adorning the tables.

Thank you, Marcus Scruggs, I thought, for giving me an opportunity to see how the other half—or at least the other one-tenth of a percent—lives.

The downside was that I wasn’t sure what to do with myself. Few of the other guests had shown up on time, and the catering staff was still working at a frantic pace, hurrying to get things ready. Young men and women in black pants and white shirts embroidered with “Foodies, Inc.” rushed around, putting the final touches on the preparations.

I wandered around the estate, trying not to appear too awed by its grandeur. The vast lawn that stretched back beyond the party tent overlooked a tremendous crescent-shaped bay. While a few other estates bordered the inlet, most of the shoreline was land I knew was part of a wildlife preserve, hundreds of acres of protected wet-lands and woodlands that served as a habitat for migratory birds and other endangered species. Aside from an occasional storage shed, the entire area remained undeveloped, providing whoever had the good fortune to live in this mansion with a spectacular, unspoiled view.