Putting on the Dog (38 page)

“The kitchen,” I suggested, my throat so dry it was difficult to utter even those few syllables.

Lou stuck close, following us the few steps it took to reach the next room. This time, Nick reached up above the sink, pushing away the cheerful flowered fabric. I was prepared to find the same empty windowsill we’d encountered in the living room. This time, we weren’t as lucky.

The cry that escaped my lips sounded primal, a sound of deep and unchecked fear.

Max’s collar. Sliced to shreds.

“It’s gonna be okay, Jess,” I heard Nick say. But he sounded far away as I reached up and grabbed hold of the revolting little surprise that had been left behind, just for me. I was also dimly aware of Lou, his barking now persistent and shrill.

I grasped the strip of red leather, just staring. Trying to process the fact that some despicable person had put a great deal of effort into slicing the thick piece of leather into ribbons—and trying
not
to think about what else that person might be capable of.

I was vaguely aware of the sound of heavy footsteps on the front porch.

“Hey, did you guys find anything? Or was that sick phone call just—
whoa.
” Shawn stopped in his tracks. He leaned over to get a closer look at the mutilated remains of Max’s collar that I still clutched in my hand. “Boy, somebody really got off on this!” he marveled. “Looks like they used a razor. Wow, it’s like they’re
deranged
!”

“You’re not being very helpful,” Nick told him sharply. “And Lou, be quiet!”

“It’s okay,” I insisted, my voice a hoarse whisper. “Shawn’s right.” I reached down to soothe Lou with my free hand, stroking his velvety ears the way he liked and pulling his head close so that it rested against my thigh. The motion seemed to calm him. I glanced down and saw him gazing up at me, looking mournful and confused.

“This is really creeping me out,” Shawn continued. “I mean, this
is
my property. What if all this has something to do with
me
?”

“I don’t think it has anything to do with you,” I said in a low, even voice. “I think it’s all about Devon Barnett’s murder—and the fact that I’ve been trying to find out who’s responsible.”

“I get it,” Shawn said, more to himself than to Nick or me. “Like somebody wants you to butt out.”

“Exactly,” Nick replied with surprising patience. “Somebody like the murderer.”

Shawn nodded solemnly, as if he had developed new respect for the seriousness of the situation. “Listen, Jessie, if you want, I can put you in touch with a great bodyguard. A couple of them, in fact. I use them from time to time, like if I’m going to a premiere or a highprofile party. Believe me, there’s nothing like some six-foot-three guy who weighs in at two-eighty and knows a few karate moves to keep things nice and peaceful. Just say the word.”

“Thanks, Shawn,” I said, and I meant it. It wasn’t a bad suggestion. “I don’t think I’m quite at that point yet, but—”

“Jess,” Nick interjected, “I think that—maybe for the first time in his life—this guy’s got a good idea.”

“I’ll keep it in mind,” I assured them both. “But for now, I just want to...” I laughed hollowly. “To tell you the truth, I don’t know
what
to do. I don’t know where to begin, where to start looking—”

“Look, we’ve got to call the police again,” Nick insisted. “It’s one thing to dial nine-one-one to report that you can’t find your dog. But it’s something else entirely when somebody starts making anonymous phone calls— and leaving behind little ‘gifts’ designed to scare the shit out of you.”

I simply nodded.

“In the meantime, I’ll drive around the neighborhood. Max could still turn up.”

“Okay,” I agreed. “Thanks.”

I made the call to the East Brompton Police, then waited an eternity until a uniformed cop showed up to take my statement. He looked a lot more impressed by the fact that Shawn Elliot was with me than he was by my claim that my dog had been kidnapped. Nick came home an hour later, reporting that he’d seen no sign of Max.

For the moment, at least, there was nothing else to be done.

I slept fitfully that night, enduring an endless stream of nightmares. In each one, I chased Max through various locations, ranging from endless stretches of barren land to East Brompton’s chic downtown. I would catch a glimpse of him every now and then, just long enough to realize that no matter how fast I ran, the distance between us kept growing larger and larger.

I was actually glad when the shrill ringing of my cell phone dragged me out of my restless state of unconsciousness. But I was immediately swamped by anxiety—and the memory of what had happened the night before.

“Hello?” I gasped, my heart pounding at a sickening speed. I hoped against hope it was good news.

“Hey, Popper. It’s the Marc Man.”

My spirits plummeted. “Marcus?” I croaked. I glanced over at Nick, who was still snoring. Like me, he’d spent most of the night tossing and turning, and I didn’t want to deprive him of whatever sleep he could grab. Then I checked Lou. Not only was he awake; he was watching me anxiously. A feeling of horror descended upon me with such force I was finding it difficult to breathe.

“Just calling to say thanks,” he went on smoothly. “You know, Popper, you really did me a favor. Fixing me up with Foxy Suzanne was one of the best things anyone’s ever done for me.”

Given the fact that my Max was missing, celebrating my success as a matchmaker wasn’t a very high priority. The fact that I’d regretted getting involved in the role of social director from the instant I’d first uttered his name only made the whole thing seem more irrelevant.

“Marcus, I didn’t ‘fix you up,’ ” I mumbled, rolling out of bed and moving into the living room. Lou padded after me, clearly not about to let me out of his sight. “I just happened to mention you to Suzanne in passing, and she—”

“Oh-h-h, Su-san-nah...” he began to croon. “I can’t believe I’m going out with a fox!”

I sank onto the couch. “Marcus—”

“Der der
der
! Der der
der
!” Much to my horror, he’d started making weird sounds, doing a pathetic imitation of the late Jimi Hendrix’s electric guitar. Lou’s ears twitched, moving back and forth as he tried to process the odd noises coming through the phone.
“Fox-y
ladeee...”

“That’s
Dr.
Fox!” I corrected him sharply. By this point, I was wide-awake. While Max’s disappearance was first and foremost on my mind, I was starting to remember that there were other individuals I cared about—and that I was just as concerned about their well-being. “Listen to me, Marcus. Suzanne happens to be a very good friend of mine. She also happens to be at an extremely vulnerable point in her life right now. If I find out you’ve treated her badly—”

“The Marc Man—treat a foxy lady
badly
?” Marcus cried indignantly.

“You’re not exactly Mr. Sensitive when it comes to the opposite sex,” I pointed out.

“I’m a new man, Popper! I’ve
changed
!” Marcus sighed. “I never thought the day would come, but I believe that foxy lady has turned me into a one-woman man!”

At least, for
this
week, I thought grimly.

After he’d hung up—certain that the annoying beep that kept interrupting us was a call from Suzanne—I lay on the couch, the phone still in my hand as I stared at the ceiling, thinking. Even in the midst of everything else that was going on, I definitely had to make time for a woman-to-woman talk with Suzannne—the sooner, the better.

The opportunity arose more quickly than I expected.

“Jessie?” Suzanne asked in a squeaky voice after my cell phone rang a second time. “I didn’t wake you, did I?”

Thanks, Marcus already took care of that, I thought. “Nope. I’m awake.”

“Jessie, how can I ever thank you for introducing me to Marcus?” she cooed. “You never let on what a sweet guy he is!”

That was true enough. But it was probably because I didn’t generally classify character traits like an inability to raise one’s eyes above a woman’s chest long enough to make eye contact as “sweet.”

“Suzanne,” I said, trying to be delicate, “slow down. Are you sure you’re reading him right? I’ve known Marcus for a few years now, and he’s kind of a ... womanizer.”

“Oh, he told me all about that after you and Nick left last night. We stayed at the Stable for a second cup of cappuccino.”

That
explained why sleep didn’t seem to have been on the schedule for either of them.

“All that wild stuff is all in the past,” she went on breezily. “The women, the outrageous parties, the kinky stuff...”

My eyebrows shot up. Please,
please
don’t say any more, I begged silently.
Especially
about the kinky stuff.

“I’m glad it’s working out so well,” I said quickly, anxious to cut her off. “I wish the two of you the best.”

Once I finally managed to get her off the phone, I remained on the couch, fondling Lou’s ears distractedly and trying not to let myself feel overwhelmed. Even though my head felt like the Long Island Rail Road was rumbling right through the middle of it, I forced myself to think.

Before, I’d felt pressured by the fact that I had only one day left to figure out who had murdered Devon Barnett. Now, I had that same pathetically small number of hours to find Max. I was convinced Barnett’s murderer had taken my beloved dog as a last-ditch effort at scaring me off the case. Unless I figured out who that person was, I might never see my sweet little Westie again.

The thought was unimaginable. I had to get myself into fourth gear—fast. And that meant coffee.

As Lou and I drove to the Pampered Pantry in search of caffeine, the clock in my head was louder than ever. Instinctively, I reached down to touch the hard piece of metal in my pocket. I’d taken to carrying the key with me at all times so I’d be ready to sneak into Devon Barnett’s basement whenever the opportunity arose. Now, with Max missing and finding the murderer my only chance for getting my dog back—hopefully unharmed—the need to find out what Barnett was so determined to keep hidden was more important than ever.

But I knew, deep down, that I’d never get that chance unless I figured out a way to set it up. The question was, how on
earth
would I manage to pull it off?

I was still wracking my brain, trying to come up with an answer, as I dragged myself into the Pampered Pantry. Lou, held captive in the van, whimpered loudly, reminding me to hurry. And I had every intention of getting in and out of there as fast as I could.

But when I stepped inside, I encountered a long line. While the Pampered Pantry had been nearly empty early on weekday mornings, the place was hopping on a Saturday. As I waited, I kept myself occupied by watching the frazzled young woman behind the counter, a girl who didn’t look much older than Emily, struggle to keep the orders straight.

“Let me make sure I got this right,” she said, frowning with concentration. “That was one decaf latte, one cappuccino with extra foam, one tea, and two chais?”

“For the third time,” huffed a man in lime-green Bermuda shorts and an olive-green polo shirt embroidered with “Bromptons Golf Club,” “that was a
regular
latte with
skim
milk, a
decaf
cappuccino with extra foam, and
three
chais. I thought you people were supposed to be professionals!”

By the time I reached the front of the line, I was almost as exasperated as she was. Still, I made a point of being polite to the flustered coffee girl. “Two coffees, please. Just regular old coffee.”

“Excuse me,” a woman who appeared from out of nowhere snapped. “I believe
I
was next. I need three cappuccinos and two lattes.”

The young woman behind the counter cast me an apologetic look. I just shrugged and stepped aside to make way for the customer whose caffeine addiction appeared to be even more serious than mine. But the crazed atmosphere of the place was starting to get to me. As I waited amid more frothing and foaming and mixing and pouring, the tiny spark of anxiety I’d started carrying around with me wherever I went began escalating into panic.

I now had less than thirty hours before I left the Bromptons. And I still didn’t have a plan for sneaking into Devon Barnett’s basement.

I was agonizing over how I’d solve this seemingly un-surmountable problem when I was interrupted by a high-pitched voice calling, “Miss? Miss? Did you say you wanted tea or coffee?”

“Coffee,” I replied, focusing on the girl behind the counter. “Not tea.”

But saying those words had a remarkable effect on me. In fact, a lightbulb had just gone on somewhere in my brain—one that had the word “tea” written on it.

Inspiration!
I thought, a sudden burst of optimism sending my heart pounding. If I can only get it to work.... I hurried back to my van as quickly as I dared, given the fact that I was juggling two cups of dangerously hot coffee and a couple of croissants so light they were in danger of floating away.

As soon as I settled into the driver’s seat and smothered Lou with enough affection to return him to relatively calm state, I pulled the business card Phyllis Beckwith had given me out of my wallet and dialed the number of Foodies, Inc.

“
Please
be there,” I muttered as I waited for an answer. “Saturday morning has got to be one of the busiest times in the catering business. . . .”

“Foodies,” a voice answered cheerfully.

“Phyllis Beckwith,” I said, doing my best to sound important. “Just tell her Dr. Popper is calling.”

I held my breath as I waited to see if I’d get her on the line. As soon as I heard, “Dr. Popper! How nice to hear from you!” I started breathing again.

“I’m glad you remember me,” I said. I’d been counting on the fact that she’d seen dollar signs when she’d pictured that vegetarian buffet for an entire conference of veterinarians.

“Of
course
I remember you,” Phyllis replied, her voice as sugary-sweet as Foodies’ Mocha Crème Brûlée with Chocolate Almond Drizzle. “How could I forget a veterinarian who’s capable of appreciating really fine cuisine? Now, what can I do for you?”