Putting on the Dog Read Online Free Page B

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.
    Which was probably one reason the owner had dotted the property with wooden lawn chairs, hammocks, and even a charming gazebo. The white structure was set high atop a pedestal. Between its unusual height and its intricate latticework, it looked like a giant wedding cake.
    I sauntered over and climbed the steps. For tonight’s event, the gazebo had been converted into a temple for worshipping the hors d’oeuvre. A long table draped in white linen ran along the back, covered with platters of exotic-looking cheeses, raw vegetables cut into flower shapes, and enough shrimp to keep an entire flock of seagulls happy for a week.
    But the spread of glorious food paled beside the grouping of magnificent ice sculptures towering above it. Famous dogs from television and film had been carved from huge blocks of ice, each one easily three or four feet high. In the center, Snoopy lay across the roof of his doghouse. To his left, Lady and the Tramp eyed each other longingly as they shared a strand of crystal-clear spaghetti. They were straddled by Lassie and Rin Tin Tin, both poised to save someone’s life. Benji was curled up in front, managing to look cute and furry even though he was really one giant ice cube.
    I stood in front of the display for a long time, admiring the sculptor’s handiwork and the attention to detail that had gone into these disposable decorations. I would have stayed longer, but suddenly my nostrils started to burn. I wrinkled my nose and sniffled, my usual reaction to the unpleasant smell of cigarette smoke.
    It seemed to be wafting up from below. I peered over the railing and saw a man standing in the shadows, lighting up. I wouldn’t have recognized him if it hadn’t been for the large camera lying on the grass beside him.
    Devon Barnett.
    I was considering dropping a handful of raw cauliflower on his head just for the heck of it, when I was distracted by angry voices behind me. I turned and saw two people coming up the steps of the gazebo.
    “You don’t understand!” a young man cried, gesticulating wildly. “Each dog was carved from a three-hundred-pound block of ice! If one of them fell backwards from this height, it could kill somebody!”
    “No way,” insisted the woman beside him. She was wearing a pale pink suit and far too much makeup. “You’ve got to keep the display unobstructed. I want people admiring the ice sculptures, not staring at some ugly pieces of metal holding them in place!”
    “Look, Phyllis, if anything ever happened, it’d be my ass on the line, not yours!”
    The woman narrowed her eyes. “You listen to me, Gary. If you ever want to work on the East End again, you’ll do exactly as I say!”
    She turned on one ridiculously high heel, clunked back down the steps, and stalked away from the gazebo. I watched her