The Wicked Flea

And what happened was just awful, not that it was Sylvia’s fault, but she must’ve been holding the urn when she was shot. It fell and hit a rock, and the urn, this vase thing, broke. The police did tell us that. That’s all we know. Douglas, you found her. You probably know more than we do.”
    “Not really,” Douglas answered. “All I did was go looking for Ulysses. But you’re right about the, uh, urn. There was a lot of broken pottery. I wondered what it was doing there. I didn’t know what it was. It could’ve been anything. Dishes. Cups. So it was the urn, huh?”
    Wilson nodded.
    Douglas said, “Pia told me something about that. Before all this. She said Eric’d found an unconventional use for it.”
    Considering Eric’s police record and his drug-wasted look, the use wasn’t hard to imagine. His father’s ashes? His own stash. Maybe. If so, had his mother known? Not unless she’d been in the habit of sifting through the late Ian’s dust. A scenario occurred to me: Sylvia takes the urn and goes to the park to scatter the ashes. Eric discovers what his mother is doing. He follows her. Confronts her? And stops her. Dead.
    Sudden violence interrupted my speculation. One moment, the nasty little trail ahead of us was empty. Noah’s four dogs were rambling in the nearby woods, Ulysses was a bit behind us on the trail of a fascinating scent, Quest was moseying along on leash at Ceci’s side, and Rowdy was peacefully ambling at mine. Then all of a sudden, from around a bend in the trail, with no warning whatever, a snarling Yorkshire terrier in full attack mode came charging toward us at ninety miles an hour. What did the little dog weigh? Four pounds? Five? Nonetheless, growling his tiny head off, the Yorkie was hellbent on attack. His chosen victim? Rowdy! The peewee’s entire body was smaller than a malamute forepaw. Still, with insane ferocity, he’d set himself on a direct course for Rowdy, who is a good dog, the best of dogs, and no bully. Even so, to Rowdy, a dog is a dog. Attacked, he retaliates. The Yorkie’s surprise assault caught me completely off guard. Before I even thought of pulling the aerosol alarm from my pocket, the Yorkie was within a yard of Rowdy, ready to hurl himself, kamikaze fashion, into the big boy’s jaws. If the Yorkie hit his target? With one shake of Rowdy’s massive head, he’d break the toy dog’s neck.
    My rage was almost uncontrollable. What kind of stupid owner allowed this mindless, defenseless animal to run around challenging Alaskan malamutes? The owner should be in jail!
    “Stop!” I screamed at the little dog. “No! Bad dog! Go home!” Desperate, I told Rowdy, “Watch me! Eyes on me! Leave it! Good boy! That’s my boy, Rowdy! Keep watching!”
    With three men there, Douglas, Noah, and Wilson, dogs owners all, all under the age of forty, who rescued us? For all her silliness, Ceci was a paragon of common sense when it came to dogs. Among other things, she’d been teaching Quest basic obedience from the moment he’d entered her house. “Down!” she told the Newfie, who was, I’m sure, happy to sink to the ground. “Stay!” Swiftly removing Quest’s leash, she took brisk steps that positioned her behind the Yorkie, and with tremendous presence of mind, she neatly looped the leash around the toy’s neck and hauled him firmly away. I thought I’d faint with relief.
    The Yorkie’s owner appeared. She was worse than I’d imagined. Sweetiekins, she informed us, hadn’t been on leash because he never, ever left her side. She couldn’t begin to imagine what he’d been thinking! As to her Yorkie’s attempt at suicide by malamute? It had been no such thing. Sweetiekins, she was sure, had just wanted to play.
    I got myself and my dog and Ceci and Quest the hell out of that park as fast as possible. After I dropped off Ceci and Quest, I found the old Dylan tune about how one should never be where one does not belong running through my head. Damned pet people! If that Yorkie had ended up dead, who’d have taken the blame? My Rowdy! Damn the murky woods, the polluted stream, the exhibitionist, Zsa Zsa, Sylvia Metz-ner’s dissipated family, and Sylvia’s murder! One should never be where one does not belong. I’d taken my dog and was going home. And tomorrow? Tomorrow, I was taking Dylan’s advice. I was going to a show! A dog show. The ultimate place where I did belong.
     

Chapter 22
     
Winter, Holly
Yet more perseveration on the topic