The Wicked Flea

Maybe Sylvia’s murder had nothing to do with her family and no correspondence with fatal dog attacks. The alternative scenario was simple: Carrying the urn containing her husband’s ashes, Sylvia followed the footpath to the clearing with the small boulder. Douglas exposed himself to her. Somehow, she recognized him and threatened, in turn, to expose him. To the police, to the community, to ridicule and humiliation. And he shot her. Had he used an air horn to cover the sound of the gunshots? Douglas probably owned one of the wretched devices. They’d been handed out freely to the dog group, of which Douglas was a member. Why hadn’t I thought of that? Because, as usual, I’d been obsessed with dogs and had seen human beings through my dog-colored glasses. Wilson presumably had an air horn, but so far as I knew, Eric didn’t. Eric wasn’t a dog walker and hadn’t needed one. And Douglas was, all too conspicuously, an intact male. If he’d killed one woman who’d caught him, I had every reason to feel more than a twinge of fear.
    I still hadn’t answered his question. Belatedly, I said, “Yes, but I’m a dog trainer. I think in terms of behavior. What I’m sure of is that you need to see someone who can help you stop, uh, doing this.”
    “I need a new therapist,” he agreed, adding thoughtfully, “So do you.”
    “I know someone good. She’s a friend of mine, so I can’t go to her. But you could. I’m sure she’s a lot better than Dr. Foote.”
    “Who isn’t!” Douglas gave me a conspiratorial smile.
    Throughout this Theater of the Absurd exchange, his expression remained mild. Except for the oversized trench coat, he could’ve passed for a picnicker who’d stretched out on the ground to relax after a good lunch.
    “You know, Douglas,” I said amiably, “you could get in terrible trouble. What if you get caught? By someone other than me, obviously.” I remembered an ad I’d seen for a book that promised to teach the reader how to tell whether someone was lying. I hoped Douglas hadn’t read it. I wished I’d ordered it. Did he believe me? Did he trust me to keep his secret? Or was he waiting for me to turn my back so he could pull out a gun and guarantee my silence? Should I take the risk of finding out? Douglas was prone, and I was on my feet. Rowdy and I had outrun him once. What’s more, Sylvia had been killed with a small-caliber handgun. With that weapon, his chances of getting in an accurate, fatal shot at a distant, moving target were slight, weren’t they? But what if I tripped and fell? And a bullet aimed at me could hit Rowdy.
    Keeping my eyes locked on Douglas, I said, “Everyone always says what a wonderful person you are. It’s terrible that you have to struggle with this problem.”
    “Worse than you know.” His voice was grim.
    Don’t confess! I want to shriek. Don’t tell me! I'm safe not knowing! Don’t confess!
    Pronouncing each word as if it were a stone he let drop from his mouth, he said, “I... was... there.”
    In desperation, I quickly spoke for him. “You were a witness.” Hoping I wasn’t pushing him too far, I added, “You were an innocent bystander.”
    “If I’d been entirely innocent,” he said wryly, “I’d’ve gone to the police. But they’d’ve wanted to know what I was doing there. I’d’ve had no explanation! Ulysses wasn’t with me. And I might’ve blurted it all out. It’s a compulsion. It might’ve hit me all of a sudden, and I might’ve blurted it all out. Besides...” I believed him. Maybe it was a good thing I hadn’t wasted my money on that book. Maybe I didn’t need it. ‘The man who killed Sylvia,” I said gently. “Her murderer. You saw him. And he saw you.” When Douglas found the body, how did he know it was Sylvia’s? Ceci’s question finally had an answer: because Douglas had seen Sylvia die.
    Rowdy had been patiently resting his big head on his forelegs. As Douglas slowly sat up, Rowdy echoed the movement by lifting his head. For a second, I felt alarmed. But Douglas reached a sitting position only to bend his knees, slump his shoulders, and let his head sag. The trench coat formed a tent around him. Despite it, I could see his ribs heave as he moaned and sobbed. “I tried to tell Dr. Foote,” he managed to say, “but she didn’t want to hear it. She wouldn’t listen. And I didn’t know what to do.”
    I felt horribly sorry for him. It would have been kind of me to put a hand on his back and