Putting on the Dog (42 page)

“Emily!” I called.

She rose to her feet, shielding her eyes from the sun and peering in our direction. The look of confusion on her face instantly melted into a grin, and she started waving furiously. I dropped Lou’s leash, then watched him bound toward her gleefully.

“I don’t blame him for wanting to hang out with Emily,” I commented to Nick. “She’s probably the most interesting person here.”

“In that case, maybe I’ll do the same.”

Once my two charges had been taken care of, I made my way toward Russell Bolger’s house, following all the other well-dressed guests who were heading inside. I was glad to see a couple of local cops on site, uniformed officers from the Town of East Brompton Police Department, who stood around with walkie-talkies, looking as if they felt very important.

I was also pleased to see so many familiar faces. So many familiar dogs, too. Many of the people who’d participated in the dog show had brought their animals with them today to watch the home movies. I found that endearing. Even though these celebrities regularly saw their names in lights and their faces on magazine covers and billboards, at the end of the day, it still mattered to them that they had a loyal fan at home who, as Shawn had once put it, liked them for themselves.

But my appreciation of the human–canine bond only lasted a few seconds. I had more important things to attend to. I scanned the room, my heart thumping wildly as I searched for the one face that mattered most.

I let out a sigh of relief when I spotted it. Lieutenant Falcone stood in one corner of the lobby outside Russell’s theater, flirting with a beautiful woman. I recognized her as the supermodel I’d spotted on the first day of the dog show, the one with her own cosmetics campaign and her own viszla. From the looks of things, she’d recently acquired something else desirable: the blue ribbon for Best of Show. Her rust-colored dog stood beside her, his chest puffed out and his head held high, as if he was as proud of the blue ribbon fastened to his collar as his mistress was.

Falcone and the supermodel made an interesting pair: the striking darked-haired beauty, as willowy as a palm frond, looking positively radiant in a pale green linen dress, and the Norfolk Country Chief of Homicide in his slightly shiny off-the-rack suit, barely skimming her shoulders even though his posture would have put a U.S. Marine to shame.

“Step one,” I breathed, pleased that I’d managed to accomplish the first item on my mental checklist. I even let myself relax—at least, for a few seconds. Then I remembered that luring Falcone to this event was just one small step in a whole staircase of events that still needed to proceed according to plan.

I perked up when I noticed him squaring his shoulders, puffing out his chest as if he were in competition with the viszla. Almost immediately, I saw the reason: the approach of a man balancing a gigantic video camera on his shoulder. Marching alongside him was a pretty blonde woman in a tailored suit who had to have been a television reporter.

I watched from across the room as they chatted. Then, both Falcone and the model nodded their approval. A bright light from the video camera flashed on, and the two of them were suddenly being interviewed.

I’m glad Falcone got what he came for, I thought with grim satisfaction. I just hope he leaves here with something even more meaningful.

The next item on my mental “to do” list, step two, was much more technical. More than a decade had passed since I’d been part of the stage crew for the Junior Show at Bryn Mawr. Suzanne Fox played the role of an absentminded physics professor in our class’s spoof on college life, but I’d preferred to stay behind the scenes. At the moment, I was grateful I’d opted to stay out of the spotlight—and instead, learn something about the way things worked backstage.

Doing my best to look casual, I sauntered down the short hallway that ran alongside the theater, pretending I was heading toward the ladies’ room—or, in this case, the Actresses Room. Instead, I hesitated outside the unmarked door that came before it, just long enough to glance around and make sure no one was watching me. Then, I ducked into the backstage area and quickly closed the door behind me.

This time, I’d had the presence of mind to bring a flashlight. I’d picked it up that very morning at an old-fashioned hardware store in the heart of East Brompton, one that combined the old-fashioned smell of wooden floors and mustiness with an impressive inventory of nuts, bolts, and twelve-piece sets of Le Creuset cook-ware. Instead of turning on any lights that might call attention to the backstage area, I was able to focus the beam precisely where I needed it.

I worked with fast, steady movements, making a few critical adjustments in the way things were laid out. Miraculously, everything I’d learned at college about being a stagehand came back to me—something I suspected wouldn’t have happened if I’d tried to recall the knowledge I’d once absorbed about the Lake Poets or the German Expressionist Art Movement.

It didn’t take me long to complete step two. But instead of feeling heartened, I found myself even more overwhelmed.

What I’d done so far had been the easy stuff. Orchestrating the other events I needed to make happen was going to be a lot more difficult.

I sneaked out of the backstage area, trying to buoy up my spirits by pretending I was one of Charlie’s Angels. After taking a few deep breaths and forcing my facial muscles to relax, I ambled back to the lobby and grabbed a crystal flute of champagne.

“Jessie!”

I turned and saw Chess heading in my direction with a carefully brushed and fluffed Zsa Zsa in his arms. Both were dressed in pale pink, he in an expensive-looking silk shirt the color of roses, she in a matching pink ribbon perched perkily on her head. He was beaming from ear to ear.

“Hi, Chess,” I greeted him. “I—I didn’t realize you’d be here today.” I was finding it hard to look him in the eye. For the first time since I’d concocted this plan, I found myself experiencing some serious doubts about revealing Devon Barnett’s murder in such a public arena.

“Just because I wasn’t part of the dog show doesn’t mean I can’t be part of the cast party,” he chirped. “But I’m
so
glad you’re here, Jessie! Phyllis Beckwith called me early this morning. She said she could hardly sleep last night, she was so excited about my iced tea. In fact, she’s absolutely convinced that it’s going to be the hit of the summer season!”

“That’s great, Chess,” I told him, doing my best to sound enthusiastic, even though my stomach was in knots.

“And I owe it all to you, Jessie,” he went on. “Like I told you last night, I never would have thought of approaching Phyllis. But you’re one of those people whose mind knows no limits. You’re a
genius
!”

I was barely listening. Instead, my eyes traveled around the room, taking in all the familiar faces. My heart fluttered when I spotted another key player in the scene I was about to stage.

The lights in the lobby flickered, a sign that the afternoon’s entertainment was ready to begin.

“It’s showtime,” I thought, my heartbeat racing and my mouth so dry that I gulped down a few sips of champagne just so I’d be able to swallow.

It was time for step three. I fought the feeling of anxiety that rose inside me, just from thinking about it. For one thing, the timing was critical. For another thing, it was going to require some pretty skillful acting on my part.

“Let’s sit together,” Chess suggested.

“Sure,” I replied vaguely. “But first, there’s something I have to do.” In response to his look of surprise, I added, “Ladies’ room. Save me a seat.”

Instead, I sidled up to Kara Liebling, who I’d just noticed strolling toward the theater with her dazzling white borzoi at her side. Kara was also a vision in white, looking particularly angelic in a 1950s-style chiffon party dress with a full skirt that resembled a cloud and a diaphanous shawl loosely draped around her bare shoulders. Her soft blonde hair was piled up on her head and tied with a satin ribbon the same pale blue as her eyes. A few fetching tendrils spilled around her face, flattering her perfect features and luminous skin.

I caught up with her just as she was about to enter the small auditorium. “Kara!” I cried breathlessly. “I’m glad I ran into you!”

“Hello, Jessie. How nice that you could make it.” Smiling sweetly, she added, “I thought you were going back home today.”

“I am, as soon as this is over. But first...Kara, do you have a minute?”

She glanced at the stream of people surrounding us, laughing and chatting as they filed into the theater.
“Now?”

“It’s important.” Afraid I was losing her, I pulled out the ace up my sleeve. “I don’t usually get involved in anyone’s personal life, but I have something to tell you about Shawn.”

An unmistakable glimmer of interest flickered in her eyes. “All right,” she agreed.

“We need to find someplace private, where no one can overhear.” I headed toward the hallway, then gestured toward the unmarked door. “Let’s go in here.”

“What is this, a closet?” Kara asked uncertainly.

“The area behind the stage. It’s perfect. No one will overhear.”

I held the door open for the actress and her sleek white dog, then followed. As soon as we were inside, Anastasia wandered off to sniff her new surroundings. Kara, meanwhile, turned to face me.

“What do you have to tell me about Shawn?” she asked anxiously. “Has he said something?”

“I think you’ll understand in a minute, Kara,” I replied. “First, I have something to show you.”

I fumbled with the papers I’d pulled out of my tote bag, meanwhile reaching behind me quickly to flick on a switch I kept hidden with my body. Then I held up the copy of the photograph of Kara with Christopher Vale and Richard Strathe I’d made the night before. “Does this photograph mean anything to you?”

She gasped. “Where did you get that?”

“Let’s just stay I stumbled across it while I was trying to find something else—like my dog.”

“I—I don’t know what you think that is, but it’s not...”

“I know exactly what it is,” I assured her calmly. “It’s proof that you hired these two thugs to beat up Delilah Raines in a dark parking lot.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about!”

“I think you do, Kara. You set the whole thing up, and Devon Barnett was the only person who knew about it. In fact, he was blackmailing you.”

“You’re crazy! That Xerox copy is probably some kind of composite or something. As for Devon Barnett blackmailing me, that’s simply absurd. You have no way of proving these ridiculous accusations!”

“Actually, I do,” I assured her in the same even tone. “Not only do I have the original photographs Barnett kept in his files, but I also have the payment records, written in his own handwriting.” I hesitated. “I also have proof that you’re the person who killed him.”

Kara’s eyes narrowed. “Okay, so you snooped around and found some dirt. So what if Barnett was blackmailing me? He was blackmailing half the people in Hollywood! Every one of them would have liked to see him dead. What makes you think I’m the one who killed him?”

“Recognize this?” I held up a tiny rhinestone, its usual sheen dulled by the thin layer of dust covering it. “I found this on the floor of Suzanne Fox’s veterinary clinic last night, right after you followed me to her office—no doubt with the intention of doing whatever you had to do to put an end to my investigation.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about!”

“All the pieces have finally fit together, Kara,” I went on, sounding much calmer than I felt. “You knew I was investigating Barnett’s death from the get-go, didn’t you? You’ve known all along that there was never any doubt in my mind that he’d been murdered. Chess probably told you on Monday, the day after Barnett was killed— the day you and I ran into each other in Chess and Devon’s kitchen.

“So you tried to scare me away. First, you tried leaving dead animals on my front porch. When that didn’t work, you kidnapped my Westie. And because you knew I was trying to find out who killed Barnett, you watched me. You saw me come out of his house last night, carrying his files. You could see for yourself that I’d discovered what was going on—and that I was taking his records so I’d be able to prove it. You followed me to Suzanne Fox’s office in Poxabogue, hoping to stop me. And you almost did. I was all alone in that empty office building. You were about to come inside and kill me, too, weren’t you? You’d probably even figured out a way to make it look like an accident. But Suzanne and her friend Marcus showed up unexpectedly, so you had no choice but to run off. Of course, you were in such a hurry that you never noticed that one of the rhinestones fell off your Emilio Fratelli shoes.”

She just stared at me without speaking. But I could see by the look of horror in her eyes that I’d gotten everything right.

“You’d used an Emilio Fratelli shoebox to deliver your last cash payment to Barnett,” I continued, “and he stored it in his closet. By the way, you’re probably the only person in the Bromptons who’s still wearing them. And as soon as I found this rhinestone in Suzanne’s office last night, right after I was followed, I remembered you were wearing them the day you and I watched the Toy Group judging together at the dog show. You also had them on when I came to your beach house with Max and Lou. I remember studying your outfit, noticing how perfect everything was except for your shoes. They were decorated with sequins and geegaws, but some of them were missing. Since I’d never actually seen a pair of Emilio Fratelli shoes before, I didn’t make the connection right away. In fact, it wasn’t until I found this rhinestone that everything snapped into place.”

By this point, Kara’s face was twisted into an expression of absolute fury. It was funny, even though she was considered one of the most beautiful actresses in Hollywood, at the moment she looked positively ugly.

“But there’s still one thing I don’t know, Kara.
Why
did you do it?” I continued. “Why did you hire those thugs to beat up Delilah Raines—and why did you kill Devon Barnett?”