The Wicked Flea

locking eyes with me.
    “Assorted facts,” I said to her. “An exhibitionist starts exposing himself in the park. To Pia, among others. Self-evidently, my dear Kimi, it’s a crime that Anita Fairley couldn’t have committed. Meanwhile, Wilson pours an insane amount of money even by my liberal standards into showing Llio. We all know what that costs, don’t we? All the while Oona is earning little or nothing, and Eric is earning nothing and still spending on stuff that goes up his nose or in his veins. Sylvia wants to get this pack of bloodsuckers, A.K.A. her children, out of the house. In desperation, she sells it out from under them. To Anita. And Steve. I stupidly arm everyone in the park with air horns to drive off Zsa Zsa, who picks fights with the other dogs. Officer Jennifer Pasquarelli picks a fight with another woman, namely Sylvia, and arrests her. Not too long after that, Sylvia takes the urn with Ian’s ashes to the park, presumably to scatter his remains. Someone shoots and kills her with a small-caliber handgun. She drops the urn on a rock. It breaks. That’s on Sunday. On Tuesday her devoted family hasn’t noticed her absence, except to observe that there’s no food in the house. Douglas’s admirable dog, but not half so admirable as you, Kimi, finds the body. And that’s that. Always, Kimi, always start with what you know.”
    As if on their own, my eyes wandered in apparent search of knowledge I’d overlooked. My gaze moved from Kimi to Rowdy, then from spot to spot (no pun intended) in my kitchen. On the back door hung dozens of leashes. On top of the refrigerator were the results of my latest recipe research: dog treats. The refrigerator itself held the cheese and roast beef I use to train the dogs. On the floor next to the dogs’ water bowls lay two fleece dog toys: a bear and a dinosaur. In the closet was dog food. Wisps of dog hair loitered near the baseboards. Stacked on the kitchen table were my notes about fatal dog attacks. And so forth. Dogs, dogs, dogs!
    “Kimi,” I said, “if it sometimes seems to you that I’m a little dense and slow, I can understand why you might form that opinion. So, let’s start with what we really know, meaning malamutes, goldens, spaniels, mastiffs, Yorkies, Dalmatians, Labs, terriers... yes! Jennifer Pasquarelli, the voluptuous terrier. A lot of sparring and yapping. Strong character. Anita Fairley: a slinky, elegant hound, a spoiled house pet. Noah, the mayor of Clear Creek Park: a teddy bear of a dog. Nothing deadly so far. The Trasks? Kimi, you’re the real dog expert here. After all, you’re a dog yourself. What are the Trasks?”
    I got up to pour myself another hit of caffeine. Regrettably, Kimi did not offer a verbal reply to my question. Instead, she tagged along as I added sugar to my coffee. Then she tried to poke her nose into the refrigerator when I got milk and had another go when I put the milk back. Since the book on urban foxes was lying in plain sight near the answering machine, I would dearly love to report that Kimi rose up, whacked the book with her paw, and sent it scuttling across the floor. Alas, Urban Foxes drew my attention with no help from Kimi.
    Even so, I said, “Right you are, Kimi. The Trasks are doglike without actually being dogs. They live on the margin in a small family group. They cooperatively scrape by. They are scavengers. They are, in fact, urban foxes, especially that wily old George Trask. Do foxes kill people? They’re too small. A rabid fox might bite someone. Otherwise, foxes don’t even attack people. So, on to the Metzners.”
    Before I report what happened next, I must point out that fleas are the flies in the ointment of professional dog writing—not the insects themselves, but the need to write article after article, year after year, about flea control. I am an overpublished authority on the subject. My dogs do not have fleas. Nonetheless, Kimi suddenly dropped to the floor and began madly nibbling at her hindquarters exactly as if she had just been bitten.
    “A dog with fleas,” I said. “Thank you. That’s what Sylvia Metzner was. Her house was infested with her own children. They lived off her. She chewed at them.” When Llio had drenched Wilson’s foot with urine, Sylvia had humiliated him. How had Sylvia responded to Pia’s encounter with the exhibitionist? By ridiculing Pia, by nipping her own daughter.
    Kimi was now peacefully sprawled out full length on her back. “And once