by Susan Conant
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
AUTHOR’S NOTE
About the Author
“BOTH DOG AND MYSTERY LOVERS KNOW A
CHAMPION WHEN THEY SEE ONE.”
—Carolyn G. Hart
Praise for Bride and Groom
“A mystery that will appeal to dog lovers and readers who like a fantastic who-done-it.” —Midwest Book Review
“Tastier than liver treats. [Bride and Groom] undoubtedly will teach readers something new about their canine companions.” —Booklist
The Dogfather
“A hilarious parody of The Godfather . . . extremely funny.”
—Midwest Book Review
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.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Delightful and humorous.” —Midwest Book Review
Stud Rights
“Humorous . . . acerbic.” —The Drood Review of Mystery
“A frisky look at mayhem.” —Publishers Weekly
continued . . .
“THE DOG LOVERS’ ANSWER
TO LILIAN JACKSON BRAUN’S
THE CAT WHO SERIES.”
—Rocky Mountain News
More praise for Susan Conant’s
“absolutely first-rate”* series . . .
“Conant’s dog lover’s series . . . is a real tail-wagger.”
—The Washington Post
“Hilarious.” —Los Angeles Times
“A fascinating murder mystery and a very, very funny book . . . written with a fairness that even Dorothy Sayers or Agatha Christie would admire.” —Mobile Register
“A fascinating look at the world of dogs . . . I loved it!”
—*Diane Mott Davidson
“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
“For lovers of dogs, people, and all-around good story-telling.” —Mystery News
“Infused with intriguing bits of gossip and information about the insiders’ world of dogs.” —Pets Magazine
“Conant’s readers—with ears up and alert
eyes—eagerly await her next.”
—Kirkus Reviews
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
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South Africa
Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
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.
ANIMAL APPETITE
A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author
Copyright © 1997 by Susan Conant.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
eISBN : 978-1-436-27729-7
Berkley Prime Crime Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
The name BERKLEY PRIME CRIME and the BERKLEY PRIME CRIME design
are trademarks belonging to Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
http://us.penguingroup.com
To Kobi and Rowdy—Frostfield Firestar’s Kobuk, C.G.C., and Frostfield Perfect Crime, C.G.C., Th.D.:
Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me.
PSALMS 23:4
Dog Lover’s Mysteries by Susan Conant
A NEW LEASH ON LIFE
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
Blessed above women shall Jael the wife of Heber the Kenite be, blessed shall she be above women in the tent.
He asked water, and she gave him milk; she brought forth butter in a lordly dish.
She put her hand to the nail, and her right hand to the workmen’s hammer; and with the hammer she smote Sisera, she smote off his head, when she had pierced and stricken through his temples.
At her feet he bowed, he fell, he lay down: at her feet he bowed, he fell: where he bowed, there he fell down dead.
JUDGES 5:24—27
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Many thanks to Tina Fuller, Kathleen O’Malley, and Carolyn Singer of the Haverhill Historical Society, Haverhill, Massachusetts, for help in researching the background of this book. For encouraging a dog writer’s interest in colonial history, I am especially grateful to John Demos.
Thanks also to Jean Berman, Judy Bocock, Fran Boyle, Dorothy Donohue, Fran Jacobs, Roseann Mandell, Emma Parsons, Geoff Stern, Margherita Walker, and my wonderful editor, Kate Miciak.
The late and greatly mourned Alaskan malamute called Attla (Canadian Ch.
Black Ice’s Shear Force, W.T.D.X., W.W.P.D.X.) appears with the permission of his breeders and owners, Shilon and David Bedford, Black Ice Kennels.
CHAPTER 1
I fiirst encountered Hannah Duston on a bleak November Sunday afternoon when my car died in the dead center of Haverhill, Massachusetts. A handsome woman of monumental build, Hannah towered above me. She wore a long, flowing dress with sleeves to the wrists. Her hair fell in waves over broad shoulders and down a muscular back. With her right hand, she maintained what looked like a familiar grasp on a hatchet. Her left arm was outstretched to point an index finger of apparent accusation at my two Alaskan malamutes, who were relieving themselves within the precincts of the Grand Army of the Republic Park. The dogs ignored her. Rowdy, my male, continued to anoint a nearby tree, and Kimi, in the manner of dominant females, lifted her leg on a Civil War cannon directly ahead of Hannah, who stood frozen in her rigid, athletic pose. Although Hannah had every right to object—my dogs were, after all, on her turf—she said nothing. Finding her bland expression impossible to read, I studied the massive stone base on which she stood:
HANNAH DUSTON
WAS CAPTURED
BY THE INDIANS
IN HAVERHILL
THE PLACE OF HER NATIVITY.
MAR. 15, 1697
A bas-relief showed a house from which two women were being led by a pair of men depicted as just what the words said, Indians, as opposed, for example, to Native Americans.
With the dogs now on short leads, I moved to Hannah’s left, directly under her pointing finger. Here, eight children clustered behind a man on horseback. He aimed a gun at a half-naked and befeathered figure. I read:
HER HUSBAND’S DEFENSE
OF THEIR CHILDREN
AGAINST THE PURSUING
SAVAGES.
Continuing my counterclockwise circuit, I found beneath Hannah Duston’s back a trio of people in colonial dress, two women and a boy, and on the ground outside a wigwam, ten prostrate forms rendered in a manner that would not have pleased the American Indian Movement. The words cut into the stone were:
HER SLAYING OF HER
CAPTORS AT CONTOOCOOK
ISLAND MAR. 30, 1697
AND ESCAPE.
The last bas-relief, the one located under Hannah’s hatchet, simply showed two women and a boy in a canoe. The engraved words, too, were simple:
HER RETURN.
In 1697, Hannah Duston had been captured by Indians. She had slain her captors. She and two companions, a woman and a boy, had come back alive. I felt immediately drawn to Hannah: In her place, I thought, my own Kimi, my dominant female, would have done the same. I felt ashamed to find myself the helpless damsel who waited for Triple A under the shadow of Hannah’s bronze figure. My shame increased when my deliverer diagnosed the problem: The fuel gauge had broken. My car had run out of gas.
That same evening, when I’d finally reached Cambridge, fed the dogs, and unloaded half the firewood I’d been hauling back from my father’s place in Owls Head, Maine, my friend and second-floor tenant, Rita, and I sat at my kitchen table splitting a pizza and drinking her contribution, an Italian red wine far better than anything I could have supplied, meaning, at the moment, anything costlier than tap water.
“It did seem to me,” I told Rita, “that I was getting awfully good mileage.” I chewed and swallowed.
Bizarre though this may sound, Rita was eating her pizza with a knife and fork, and from a plate, too, not from the carton. Furthermore, ever since her last trip to Paris, she’s been keeping her fork in her left hand instead of transferring it to the right to get food to her mouth. Even when she was first learning the technique and accidentally stabbed her tongue with the tines, I didn’t laugh except to myself. Ours is a friendship of opposites. You could tell at a glance. For instance, if you’d magically peered in at us sitting at that table, you’d have noticed that Rita’s short, expensively streaked hair had been newly and professionally cut, whereas my unruly golden-retriever mop showed the signs of having been styled by a person, namely yours truly, with considerable experience in grooming show dogs. From Rita’s brand-new navy blue cashmere sweater and coordinating pants, and my Alaskan Malamute National Specialty sweatshirt and holes-in-the-knees L.L. Bean jeans, you’d have drawn your own conclusions.
As you’d soon have guessed if you’d listened in, Rita is a clinical psychologist. A Cambridge psychotherapist. I train dogs. I also write about dogs, not just for fun but for a pittance that Dog’s Life magazine passes off as money. Perhaps you’ve read my column? Holly Winter? So Rita and I deal with identical problems—mismatches, lost love, inappropriate conduct, needless suffering, failures of communication, and all the rest—but Rita gets paid more than I do because her job is a lot more complicated than mine. In Rita’s profession, everyone is always fouled up. In my work, it’s usually clear right away that an emotional block, a lack of moral fiber, or, in most cases, fathomless ignorance is causing the owner unwittingly to reinforce undesirable behavior in a potentially perfect dog, which is to say, almost any dog at all. In other words, even deep in her heart, Rita has to suspend judgment. I, too, can’t go around voicing blame. Instead, I mouth the same shrink dictum Rita does: “It’s not your fault, but it is your responsibility.”
But I digress. This story is supposed to have almost nothing to do with dogs. So let’s magically let you peer at us again and conclude what you will of us. Can you guess that I have a mad crush on my vet? That he, Steve Delaney, is my ardent lover? And that Rita, in her prolonged longing for a human male soul mate, constitutes consummate proof of the unutterable density of men? If you are perceptive, perhaps yes.
So, with European delicacy, Rita was carefully transferring morsels of crust from her fork to her mouth and, as usual, listening to my complaints, which moved from my foolishness about the gas gauge to the advanced age of my Ford Bronco to the failure of the proud yet humble profession of dog writing to pay enough to feed one human being, never mind myself and two big dogs. What I expected her to say in reply was the kind of thing she always says: She’d interpret dog writing as a symbolic representation of a withholding maternal image, demand to know whether I’d been abruptly weaned, or inquire about some other such developmental crisis that it was thirty plus years too late to fix.
But she didn’t. In fact, Rita astonished me by putting down her knife and fork, looking me directly in the eye, and asking a radically practical question: “Holly, has it ever occurred to you to take a break from dogs and, for once, write about people instead?”
A large lump of mozzarella stuck in my throat. To save my life, I was forced to wash it down with a big slug of wine. “Well, yes, of course, Rita, but it’s like what Robert Benchley said about exercise—sometimes I feel the impulse, but then I lie down, and the feeling passes.”
“Has it ever occurred to you,” Rita demanded, “that you are selling yourself short?”
I was suitably insulted. “Of course not!”
“Or that, by your own account, the book you want to write about the sled dogs of the Byrd expeditions will take you ten years to finish and will have a maximum possible readership of maybe two hundred people?”
I inched my chair back from the table. My eyes drifted to Rowdy and Kimi, whose ancestors went with Byrd to Antarctica. I looked back at Rita. “It’s still worth doing.”
“Or,” she persisted, “that, in fact, your only practical alternatives are—”
“A real job,” I finished. “No!”
“Or,” Rita said gently, “economic dependence on someone else.”
“I am NOT getting married! You are worse than Steve! And even if I did marry him, I would never, ever even think about marrying him or anyone else for—”
“Money,” Rita said.
“Money,” I echoed. “Rita, really! I am staggered that you would even suggest—”
“I was not suggesting anything, Holly. I was merely pointing out your options.”
“Well, that one
is totally unacceptable.”
“Then,” said Rita, swallowing a sip of wine, “you’d better get serious about expanding your readership.”
