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Praise for
The Wicked Flea
“Sheer bliss awaits the dedicated dog lover.” —Kirkus Reviews
“Fun, fast-paced... an independent, witty protagonist... faced with the most eccentric and quirky of characters. Committed fans of Conant’s popular canine cozy series will be delighted.” —Publishers Weekly
“Poignant... The relationship the heroine and her canines share is precious to behold... a delightful and humorous mystery that shows off the attributes of humans and canines that are rather similar in nature.” —Midwest Book Review
... and for Susan Conant’s other mysteries featuring dog trainer Holly Winter
“Hilarious.” —Los Angeles Times
“A real tail-wagger.” —The Washington Post
“Amiability and wit enough to entertain even dog dilettantes. For canophiles, a must.” —Kirkus Reviews
“Dog lovers will lap this up.” —Publishers Weekly
“Toss Ms. Conant a biscuit. If there’s a class called ‘dog mysteries,’ she’s got a best of breed.” —Rendezvous
“An absolutely first-rate mystery... and a fascinating look at the world of dogs... I loved it!” —Diane Mott Davidson
“For lovers of dogs, people, and all-around good storytelling.” -Mystery Neivs
Don’t miss the next novel featuring Holly Winter
Bride and Groom
Dog Lover's Mysteries by Susan Conant
A NEW LEASH ON DEATH
DEAD AND DOGGONE
A BITE OF DEATH
PAWS BEFORE DYING
GONE TO THE DOGS
BLOODLINES
RUFFLY SPEAKING
BLACK RIBBON
STUD RITES
ANIMAl APPETITE
THE BARKER STREET REGULARS
EVIL BREEDING
CREATURE DISCOMFORTS
THE WICKED FLEA
THE DOGFATHER
If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
THE DOGFATHER
A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author
PRINTING HISTORY
Berkley Prime Crime hardcover edition / February 2003
Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / February 2004
Copyright © 2004 by Susan Conant.
Illustrations by Jeff Walker.
Design by Jill Boltin.
Interior text design by Kristin del Rosario.
All rights reserved.
This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated. For information address: The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
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ISBN: 0-425-19459-0
Berkley Prime Crime books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
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The name BERKLEY PRIME CRIME and the BERKLEY PRIME CRIME design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
For the appearance of Alaskan Malamute BISS International/AM CH Malko’s Wookie of Kunek, WPD, CGC, the fabulous Mr. Wookie, I am grateful to Mary Wood. In these pages, as in real life, Mr. Wookie is accompanied and owner-handled by Mary. I am also grateful to Cindy Neely for the reappearance in my stories of CH Jazzland’s Embraceable You, the beautiful Emma. My profuse congratulations to Mr. Wookie for his Best of Breed and to Emma for her Award of Merit at the 2001 Alaskan Malamute National Specialty. I also want to thank the malamute who keeps my fiction truthful, my own Rowdy, Frostfield Perfect Crime, CD, CGC, WPD, ThD.
Special thanks to the best daughter a mother has ever had, Jessica Park, for her generous, loving, and intelligent help with this book. Many thanks to Jean Berman, Thomas Davies, Roo Grubis, Amanda Kirk, Roseann Mandell, Geoff Stern, Anya Wittenborg, and Corinne Zipps, and to my marvelous editor, Natalee Rosenstein.
To my beloved grandson, Nicholas Carter Park,
and his first dog, the angelic Samantha.
CHAPTER 1
My affiliation with organized crime began a few years ago when I accidentally did a favor for a godfather named Enzio Guarini. Ignoring the serendipity of my assistance, Guarini decided that he owed me one. I disagreed, but wasn’t stupid enough to say so. I live in Cambridge, Massachusetts. I like it here. My house is modest, but enjoys the tremendous advantage of being above ground. A difference of opinion with Enzio Guarini might’ve meant an involuntary change of residence. I didn’t fancy downward mobility.
Speaking of fancy, that’s what Guarini and I had in common: the Dog Fancy, together with associated nuttiness on the subject of all dogs everywhere and outright lunacy when it came to our own. Our differences? Where to begin? With age, sex, and money. The elderly male Guarini presided over an empire of legitimate enterprises that included a pasta factory, a construction business, a trucking company, and a wholesale liquor distributorship. He was, however, reported to profit from criminal activities such as loan sharking, drug trafficking, gambling, prostitution, and money laundering. I, in contrast, am a mid-thirties female exclusively engaged in the ultralegitimate, if somewhat less than lucrative, fields of professional dog writing and dog training. My idea of money laundering is accidentally leaving a one-dollar bill in the pocket of my jeans when I throw them in the wash. For what it’s worth, I must add that Guarini was reputed to have killed so many people that even the FBI had lost count; he was universally regarded as a man of extreme violence. In contrast, the thousands of victims of my own murderous binges have consisted of insects that threatened the health and comfort of my dogs. If you ask people about me, what you’re going to hear is, Holly Winter? Oh, she wouldn't hurt a flea. Whether Guarini’s reputation and mine are deserved, you’ll have to judge for yourself.
To backtrack.
One evening in mid-April, the dogs and I were harmlessly wending our way home from a walk to Harvard Square, home being the three-story barn-red house at the corner of Appleton and Concord, and the dogs being exemplary specimens of the breed of breeds, fire of the tundra, strength of strengths, light of the Polar night, and light of the life of Holly Winter, the justifiably legendary Wild Dog of the North, the noble and glorious Alaskan malamute.
You did ask whether I had any pets, didn’t you? Three, as it happens, a cat named Tracker and two dogs, Alaskan malamutes, Rowdy and Kimi, about whom I could go on, as I often have and certainly will and, moreover, would do so right now at tremendous length and in excruciating detail except that I’ve got a story to tell. To resume, we were unexpectedly interrupted in our harmless wending of our unobjectionable way homeward up Concord Avenue by the appearance of a somewhat old-fashioned black limousine that snuck up on us, slunk along beside us, and thus stalked us in what struck me
as catlike fashion for a few yards before it crept ahead and came to an ominous halt at the curb. Its tinted windows gave it an aura of inscrutability, and the almost inaudible sound of its engine was the distinctive, growling purr of a cat who’s about to sink his teeth into the flesh at the base of your thumb. Whether Rowdy and Kimi shared my sense of feline threat I can’t say. When it came to cats, they were more threat than threatened, and in any case, they not only considered themselves the toughest guys on our block, but honestly were.
The passenger-side front door of the limo flew open to disgorge a man so vertically and horizontally gigantic that he almost blocked the sidewalk ahead of us. His mountainous proportions alone would’ve startled me. As to his features, you know that anthropological debate about whether modern homo sapiens is part Neanderthal? A glance at this guy’s brow ridge and prognathic jaw settled the question in my mind, although that wasn’t, of course, the question of immediate concern to me at the time, and for obvious reasons, I didn’t try to settle the academic one by asking the brute whether his immediate ancestors had worn loin cloths and fashioned primitive tools out of stone. The creature blocking our path had, I might mention, exceptionally pale skin and dark hair, and wore twenty-first-century men’s pants and a zippered jacket that looked as if it should’ve had a candlepin logo on the breast and the name of a bowling league embroidered across the back.
The dogs and I came to a halt. Only then did I notice that the limo had pulled over under a street light and that Alley Oop was taking advantage of the illumination to peer at Rowdy, Kimi, and me through narrowed and depthlessly stupid eyes. These are show dogs, so they’re used to being scrutinized. They love it. And even if I didn’t show my dogs, they’d still get stared at because they’re big, wolflike, and show-offy, so our neighborhood strolls are punctuated by dog-admiration pauses. But I do show my dogs. I’d be a fool not to. They’re gorgeous. Anyway, Rowdy and Kimi have been trained to gait beautifully and to pose handsomely before American Kennel Club judges, which was more or less what they were doing right now, free-stacking rather than wiggling all over, hurling themselves onto the ground, and rolling onto their backs in the hope of tummy rubs, the way they did in sidewalk mode. The dogs showed not a trace of their rare and subtle response to a perceived threat to their beloved biped companion, which in Kimi’s case consisted of sitting vigilantly at my side and in Rowdy’s, of transforming himself into a furry brick wall by stationing himself between me and the potential aggressor. Indeed, the only participant in the encounter who demonstrated unusual behavior was the colossal man: His gaze took in both my dogs and me.
Having evidently reached some decision about the three of us, the hulk turned back toward the limo door, which had remained ajar, and uttered an affirmative grunt. As I was trying to remember whether Neanderthals were believed capable of language, the limo’s rear door opened, and out stepped a second man. He was shorter than the first and strikingly narrow, with sloping shoulders, a stretched out neck, an ax-shaped head, dark hair, and a prominent widow’s peak.
He jabbed a hand in my direction, then pointed an extraordinarily elongated index finger toward the interior of the limousine. Leaving no question about the language capacity of vampires, he said, “The boss wants to see you.” His voice was adenoidal and squeaky, but unlike movie mobsters, he pronounced the and to in ordinary fashion instead of reducing the words to duh.
“The boss,” I echoed. Pointing a normal-size index finger at my big dogs, I said, “Around here, the boss means me.” Then I stalled for time. Concord Avenue is not only a busy street, but my street, and in this academic community of sensible vehicles, the limo stood out like a raven among house sparrows. With luck, my next-door neighbor Kevin Dennehy would drive by. If he did, he’d notice the limo, the dogs, and me. Kevin is a Cambridge police lieutenant. He notices everything, wonders what’s up, and always finds out. “But I take it that you mean someone other than me,” I prattled. “My father might possibly see himself as someone’s boss, but probably not mine. He knows me better than that. We go back a few years. Then there’s my editor, Bonnie, but we communicate by phone and e-mail, and if Dog’s Life magazine is springing for a limo, it’s a first. So I guess you must be talking about your boss. Is that right?”
I ran my eyes up and down Concord Avenue. Kevin Dennehy was nowhere in sight. Unfortunately, while I was scanning the street, Kimi took advantage of my meandering gaze to apply her own coplike observational skills. Worse, in Kevin-like fashion, my observant Kimi acted, which is to say that one second she was standing politely on a loose lead, and the very next second, she was practically tearing my arm out of its socket by lunging through the open rear door of the limousine and into its dimly lit interior. In an apparent effort to disjoint my other arm, Rowdy hurled himself after her. Dutifully maintaining my grip on the dogs’ leashes, I flew through the air, whacked my shins, smashed my head, and tumbled into the limo and thus into a roaring dog fight. The dogs had taken over the rear seat, and I landed ignomin-iously on the floor. At the edge of my vision and consciousness, I was aware that Count Dracula and the caveman now occupied the rear-facing seat, and that the limo was moving. Still, I felt oddly buoyed by the need to deal with an immediate problem that I knew how to resolve. Sure, we’d been shanghaied, but so what? I knew how to break up the fight and could probably restore peace without getting bitten.
Rowdy, my male, and the larger of the two dogs, had leaped right on top of Kimi and now had her pinned. Kimi’s head was tucked down in what I felt sure was an effort to protect whatever edible treasure had impelled her to jump into the limo in the first place. How did I know it was edible? Because I know my Kimi. Her determination to maintain possession of her booty impeded her ability to rid herself of Rowdy, whose jaws were locked on the skin at the back of her neck. Both dogs issued deep, throaty growls. In the rare battles that occur between Rowdy and Kimi, hideous rumbling and yelping are actually a good sign. With luck, the dogs pierce the air instead of rending each other’s flesh.
I sprang to the rear seat, kneeled, and bellowed orders. “Rowdy, enough! Leave it!” Wrapping my left hand around his rolled-leather collar, I shoved the fingers of my right hand into that spot between the molars and the temporomandibular joint. “Let go!” Switching to a happy tone of voice, I caroled, “Rowdy, watch me right now!”
Ten zillion hours of obedience training, and I’m always stunned when the dog obeys. I could feel Rowdy’s head turn slightly. As his jaws loosened their grip, I yanked him off Kimi and then dragged him across the luxurious carpet and up onto the opposite seat, where I planted him between the surprised Neanderthal and the amazed vampire. Rowdy weighed only a bit over eighty-five pounds, but his thick double coat combined with his weighty manner created the illusion of tremendous size. Even so, had the rear-facing seat been one of those flimsy folddown affairs, it would’ve collapsed under Rowdy and the two men. Fortunately, it was a full bench seat. Not that getting abducted in any limousine is exactly fortunate, but better in a luxury limo than in some cut-rate job, I guess.
Addressing the vampire, I said, “You! Grab the dog’s collar and hang on to it. His name is Rowdy. He’s a good dog. He won’t bite you. Grab his collar!”
Rowdy really is a good dog. He’s anything but a sore loser, and he loves meeting new people. Finding himself ensconced between our captors, Rowdy was bright-eyed and waggle-tailed. The men, in contrast, looked stupefied. The damned vampire still hadn’t obeyed my order.
“Take his collar,” I repeated. As a dog trainer, I believe in giving a command only once, but what choice did I have?
This time, he complied.
Ever mindful of the power of positive reinforcement, I said, “Good! Very good. Now just hang on to him.”
Then I turned my attention to Kimi, who still lay outstretched on the rear seat. As I’d suspected, she was gnawing on something. Grasped between her massive front paws was a damp and flattened white carton, the kind used for take-out food. Although Kimi wil
l eat absolutely anything, she shares my fondness for Italian food, especially pizza. The leather seat was smeared with creamy glop that could’ve been mozzarella, but it was also dusted with white powder. Pizza is harmless. But white powder? Heroin? Cocaine?
“What is my dog eating?” I demanded. “What is this damned powder?”
The men opposite me exchanged glances over Rowdy’s bulk.
“Joey,” said the vampire, “you left ’em there? Moron.”
Instead of waiting the millennia it might’ve taken this remnant of the Ice Age to evolve toward articulate speech, I rummaged in my pockets and found a morsel of homemade liver brownie. “Kimi, trade!” I said brightly. Snatching the soggy carton from her mouth, I kept my part of the bargain by popping in the treat. “Good girl.”
Revealed in the soft lights of the limo, Kimi’s slimy loot proved to be more or less what I’d surmised, a medium-size piece of thin cardboard, gray on one side, white on the other. Squished and chewed, it was nonetheless recognizable as a pastry box. The white powder, then, thank dog spelled backward, was nothing more harmful than confectioner’s sugar.
“Doughnuts?” I asked.
Stupid me.
To my amazement, it was the Neanderthal, Joey, who replied. “Cannoli.”
“Cheese cannoli,” I said.
He nodded.
Ricotta cream piped into delectable pasty shells. Well, no wonder Kimi’d leaped. As I’ve mentioned, she loves Italian food.
Idly smoothing out the dog-moist box, I noticed that the white side bore a name hand-printed in broad felt-tipped black marker. Reading the name, I understood everything.
The Dogfather Page 1
