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Putting on the Dog (Reigning Cats and Dogs Mystery, Band 2) - Softcover

Buch 2 von 9: Reigning Cats and Dogs Mystery

Baxter, Cynthia

 
9780553586428: Putting on the Dog (Reigning Cats and Dogs Mystery, Band 2)
Softcover
ISBN 10: 0553586424 ISBN 13: 9780553586428
Verlag: Bantam, 2004

Inhaltsangabe

A charity dog show has Jessica hitting the road with her faithful one-eyed Dalmatian, Lou, and her tailless Westie, Max, for the palatial summer estates of Long Island's fabled East End. When she arrives, the posh seaside community is crawling with stars eager to take best in show for their beloved pooches. But it's murder most tacky when a celebrity photographer is felled by a giant ice sculpture at a $500-a-plate fund-raiser.

Unable to resis the scent of the hunt, Jess is soon investigating a casting director's dream of potential suspects. But if Jess isn't careful, she just might become the next victim of a killer determined to prove she's barking up the wrong tree.

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Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Cynthia Baxter is a native of Long Island, New York. She is the author of the Reigning Cats & Dogs mystery series, featuring vet-turned-sleuth Jessie Popper, and the Murder Packs a Suitcase mystery series, featuring travel writer Mallory Marlowe. Baxter currently resides on the North Shore, where she is at work on her next mysteries in both series.

Von der hinteren Coverseite

A charity dog show has Jessica hitting the road with her faithful one-eyed Dalmatian, Lou, and her tailless Westie, Max, for the palatial summer estates of Long Island's fabled East End. When she arrives, the posh seaside community is crawling with stars eager to take best in show for their beloved pooches. But it's murder most tacky when a celebrity photographer is felled by a giant ice sculpture at a $500-a-plate fund-raiser.
Unable to resis the scent of the hunt, Jess is soon investigating a casting director's dream of potential suspects. But if Jess isn't careful, she just might become the next victim of a killer determined to prove she's barking up the wrong tree.

Aus dem Klappentext

A charity dog show has Jessica hitting the road with her faithful one-eyed Dalmatian, Lou, and her tailless Westie, Max, for the palatial summer estates of Long Island's fabled East End. When she arrives, the posh seaside community is crawling with stars eager to take best in show for their beloved pooches. But it's murder most tacky when a celebrity photographer is felled by a giant ice sculpture at a $500-a-plate fund-raiser.

Unable to resis the scent of the hunt, Jess is soon investigating a casting director's dream of potential suspects. But if Jess isn't careful, she just might become the next victim of a killer determined to prove she's barking up the wrong tree.

Auszug. © Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

Chapter One


"All men are intrinsically rascals, and I am only sorry that not being a dog, I can't bite them."

--Lord Byron



Damn you, Marcus Scruggs!" I grumbled, leaning closer to the windshield of my van and peering through the sheeting rain. "Be honest, guys: Am I totally nuts?"

Max and Lou, scrambling around on the seat beside me, offered no opinion about my sanity. They were too busy acting like unruly preschoolers, wrestling for the space nearest the window. It was a close contest. Lou, my one-eyed Dalmatian, had longer legs. But Max, being a terrier, was infinitely more determined.

I sighed. Somehow, this wasn't the way I'd pictured my arrival in the Bromptons, a cluster of posh seaside communities famous for their palatial summer estates, spectacular white-sanded beaches, and four-star restaurants featuring twelve-dollar desserts. Between the area's attributes and the fact that it was less than two hours from Manhattan, it wasn't surprising that the movers and shakers from New York City and Los Angeles had claimed Long Island's East End as their own. For decades, the Bromptons had been known as the summer playground of movie stars, rock legends, writers, and artists, as well as the agents, managers, and executives whose names weren't as well-known, but whose summer homes were at least as large.

So it hadn't been difficult for Marcus Scruggs, a fellow Long Island veterinarian, to sell me on the idea of spending the last week of June standing in for him at a charity dog show, answering pet owners' questions at the "Ask The Vet" booth. I could practically hear his voice, floating over the phone as low and smooth as an FM disc jockey's: "I'm telling you, Popper, I'm talking Glamour--with a capital G."

But in the pouring rain, the area's main east-west route, Sunset Highway, looked more like Main Street in a ghost town. Few cars crawled along the puddle-strewn thoroughfare, and fewer yet stood parked outside the pool-supply shops and imported-tile boutiques lining its edge. Even the scrubby trees and shrubs that dotted the two-lane highway looked pathetic.

Gritting my teeth, I veered around a body of water only slightly smaller than Lake Superior. I was no stranger to the Bromptons. As a vet who makes house calls in my clinic-on-wheels, I routinely travel all over Long Island. That includes visiting clients who live on what's popularly called the South Fork, the lower of the two fish tails that make up the Island's eastern end. And Marcus had given me detailed directions for getting to the estate of someone named Wiener, the man who'd volunteered to put me up during the weeklong event. I'd followed his directions to the letter, but I still couldn't find Darby Lane. Of course, not being able to make out the street signs through the pouring rain didn't help.

I clamped down on the brake when I spotted a yellow-and-white striped awning, a sure indication I was approaching a farm stand. Somebody around here had to know where the Wiener estate was, and it seemed as likely a place as any. I made a sharp turn, sending Max and Lou collapsing against each other in a heap.

"You guys okay?" I asked as my van rocked along a badly pitted parking lot that no one had ever bothered to pave--no doubt, a self-conscious attempt at capturing the rural charm of Tuscany or the South of France.

I didn't need an answer. By the time I pulled into a space, the two of them were already climbing all over each other again, making little yelping sounds and occasionally nipping each other playfully in the butt. I was glad somebody was having fun.

I stared out at the rain morosely, wondering why I hadn't brought along an umbrella, and with a loud sigh of resignation, I opened the door of my van.

"Stay!" I instructed my two canines. They paused in their shenanigans, both shooting me surprised looks that said they wouldn't even have considered venturing out in weather like this.

"You guys are much too smart," I muttered. "You make the humans do all the dirty work."

I picked my way across the dirt parking lot, noticing that it was quickly turning into a mud parking lot. I regretted dressing up. I'd made a few Sunday morning emergency calls in my usual work ensemble, khaki trousers and a polo shirt embroidered with "Jessica Popper, D.V.M." But before corralling Max and Lou into my twenty-six-foot van and embarking on the drive to the East End, a good hour-and-a-half trip from my hometown of Joshua's Hollow on Long Island's North Shore, 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.

I scurried past the displays that ran along the front of the farm stand, mounds of vegetables and fruit so large and richly colored they looked like they were made of wax: bright orange-red tomatoes the size of baseballs, slick dark green cucumbers that could have doubled as baseball bats, and an impressive selection of exotic-looking fruits that had probably been flown in from so far away that they'd amassed more frequent flyer miles than I had.

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

"Be with you in a minute," she returned coolly. 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. I could feel cold rivulets dripping off my face and down my neck. My dark blonde hair was plastered around my head, no doubt giving me the distinctive look of a sea otter. When I ran my fingers through the soggy strands in an attempt at pushing them off my face, I actually encountered clumps of mud.

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 pulled into a parking space less than five feet in front of me. Because it was going ridiculously fast, its wheels had thrown up a tremendous spray of water.

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, which were hidden behind a pair of sunglasses. 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."

He gestured toward the seat next to him. "Climb in."

"Thanks, but my mother taught me never to get into cars with strange men."

"Good advice. Unless you happen to be in the middle of a downpour."

I stood...

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Verlag
Bantam
Erscheinungsdatum
2004
Sprache
Englisch
ISBN 10 
0553586424
ISBN 13 
9780553586428
Einband
Taschenbuch
Anzahl der Seiten
400
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Verantwortliche Person
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