The Wicked Flea

Newton? Whoops. Someone’s here. Gotta go. Bye.”
    If Mary was going to gossip like that, it was a good thing for her that Steve was, in fact, in Cleveland. If he’d overheard her talking like that about anyone, he’d have fired her instantly. But Mary had answered my question about where Steve was. So Steve looked terrible, did he? He might look ashen, but to my eyes, he’d still look pretty good. It cheered me to hear that he was probably just avoiding his horrible wife. What buoyed my spirits even more than that news was Mary’s confirmation, more or less, of Anita’s claim that she was buying Sylvia Metzner’s house. Or had bought it? Just in case I haven’t mentioned it recently, let me say that Anita was a crook. I’m not joking. Or exaggerating. She was under indictment, admittedly for the nonviolent crime of embezzlement. Still, Sylvia had been murdered. And Anita the criminal had been involved with Sylvia.
    My spirits soaring, I made a fresh pot of coffee, all the while engaging in wishful thinking about Anita and Sylvia’s murder. There was, I should emphasize, no question in my mind about whether Anita would have committed murder to get what she wanted; my only question—hope?—was whether she’s actually done so. As I poured the coffee into a mug and added milk and sugar, I found myself thinking about the possible reinstatement of the death penalty in the Commonwealth of Massachusetts. I’d always opposed the death penalty. At the moment, I wavered. Settling at the kitchen table, I did what dog writers do when confronting the typical problems of the profession, such as dreaming up new and fresh ways to tell readers how to win the battle against fleas, except in this case, I was setting out to explain to myself how to win the battle against an evil rival by proving her guilty of homicide. My method was the familiar one. No matter what the nature of the task, it’s a matter of pride with me to take a professional approach, meaning that I overdose on caffeine and talk to my dogs.
    “Chronological order,” I said to Rowdy. “Kimi, the dishwasher is securely latched, so don’t bother even trying to open it. Besides, the dishes are clean, so you’re wasting your time. Chronology. Ian Metzner dies. I don’t know when. A few years ago. Sylvia has his body cremated. She puts his ashes in a blue-and-white ceramic urn. And leaves them there. Sylvia breeds Zsa Zsa. The Trasks buy one of the puppies. They name him Charlie. Wilson marries Pia, who is one of Sylvia’s two daughters. Pia and Wilson live with Sylvia in her house in Newton, near the park. Sylvia’s other daughter, Oona, is as crazy about sailing as I am about training and showing dogs, so instead of throwing away her money on rent, she also lives with Sylvia. The son, Eric, graduates from college and moves back home. He gets in minor trouble for drugs. He keeps his stash in the urn with his father’s ashes. That’s the background. Kimi, do not try to open the refrigerator! If you learn to do that, I am going to have to find some drastic and bizarre way to keep it shut, and I am quite eccentric enough already, thank you.”
    I poured myself more coffee and again took a seat at the table.
    “Rowdy, you are a good boy to sit and listen to me. As I was saying, the Trasks really love Charlie, who has severe hip dysplasia. George Trask, the grandfather, reads up on it. He knows what hip replacements cost. The alternative is euthanasia. So the Trasks do what the books and the web say to do: they call the breeder, Sylvia Metzner. And Sylvia treats the Trasks like dirt. George Trask concocts a plan. Tim and Brianna follow it. They find out that Sylvia owns S & Fs, they get hold of a rat tail, and they plant it in their food. Kimi intervenes. They try again. This time, they succeed. They get a lawyer. The aim: money for surgery and revenge on Sylvia. Rowdy, you are a much better Watson than Kimi is, do you know that? Kimi, there is no liver in the oven, as you can undoubtedly smell for yourself, young lady.”
    The better Watson, Rowdy, yawned, sank to the floor, and closed his eyes. Can you imagine Holmes being treated this way? But Kimi took on the role of Watson by leaping over the dozing Rowdy to plant herself next to me. “Strictly between us,” I told her, “although both of you are brilliant, you are, in fact, the more intellectually gifted. Maybe you’re Holmes and I’m Watson.”
    Kimi replied by tilting her head up and