The Wicked Flea

Hospital, not at Steve’s clinic. I heard that Steve and Anita were getting a divorce. I didn’t write, call, or E-mail Steve. I knew he wasn’t entirely alone. Steve had his dogs and his work.
    I had my dogs, too, of course. And my work. Not that there’s a sharp distinction between the two. Dining the month that followed the horror, as I thought of it, I did some final liver-recipe testing, put the finishing touches on my cookbook, and trained Rowdy and Kimi with homemade treats. Kimi picked up one championship point at the Boston shows in December, and Rowdy took two B.O.B.’s—Best of Breed wins—and on both days, he went on to place in the group—Working Group—one second place, one third place, not bad except that Rowdy is drop-dead gorgeous and... the expression is unfortunate.
    Speaking of show dogs, Wilson wrote to me from prison to thank me for rushing Llio to Angell on that nightmare day. Llio’s show career had ended, as Wilson knew it would the moment he saw Zsa Zsa rip into the corgi’s uninjured ear. The surgeons at Angell did a wonderful job of restoring Llio to close-to-normal, but the show ring is about perfection, and from a judge’s viewpoint, Llio is now imperfect. She does, however, seem perfectly happy, and that’s what matters most, isn’t it? I expected to get stuck with the whopping bill from Angell, but to my surprise, Pia not only paid it but took Llio home and now devotes herself to pampering her jailed husband’s dog.
    When, at Wilson’s request, I made a visit to check on Llio, Pia talked on and on about Llio, and also had a few things to say about Wilson, all of them nasty. According to Pia, her husband should be charged with attempted homicide for shooting Anita. Pia hadn’t even been there. I had. “A would-be double murderer,” Pia insisted. “That’s what he is.” Without waiting for the results of ballistics tests, Wilson had confessed to using the same gun on Sylvia that he’d used on Anita. He was claiming, truthfully I might add, that he hadn’t aimed at Anita and that in Sylvia’s case, he was guilty only of manslaughter. Eric intends to testify against Wilson, Pia told me, and anyway, she added, it was apparent to everyone that her rotten husband was—and I quote—“a sneaky, mooching liar.”
    According to his wife, Wilson ferreted around in Sylvia’s desk and discovered that she intended to sell the house, move to a small condo, and leave her children and son-in-law to fend for themselves. But if Sylvia died? Wilson and Pia, as well as Oona and Eric,-could continue to occupy the house or could sell it. Furthermore, the children would inherit the rest of Sylvia’s estate.
    Interestingly enough, Pia did not allude to Wilson’s dog-show extravagances, which she perhaps does not view as such. Maybe she imagines that Wilson paid fifty dollars for Llio’s palatial wooden crate. Maybe Wilson lied to her about its cost. Pia not only accused Wilson of being a liar, but cited what she considered to be irrefutable evidence. “Do you know what Wilson has the gall to say about Douglas?” she demanded. “Well, according to Wilson, Douglas is the exhibitionist. Is that the most outrageous thing you’ve ever heard? I mean, Douglas of all people! Let me tell you, Holly, Douglas is really a lovely person. As a matter of fact, we’ve started spending a little time together. Walking dogs. And we’re having dinner on Saturday. I keep telling Douglas that he should sue Wilson for defamation. But naturally Douglas would never do that. He’s much too nice. The exhibitionist, for Christ’s sake, is Wilson. The creep! I should know, shouldn’t I? To think that I ever shared the same bed with that pervert.”
    Oona Metzner, I might mention, bought a boat and sailed away, but Pia and Eric are still living at home in Sylvia’s house. Someone told someone who told Ceci who told me that Sylvia’s children are quite well off. Sylvia’s life insurance policy was a big one, and the children sold S & I’s for a ton of money, despite the fuss about contamination. The Trasks settled the case out of court. The settlement was generous, or so George Trask said. I ran into the whole family a few days ago outside my dentist’s office in Newton. The Trask girls, Di and Fergie, had appointments with a children’s dentist in the adjoining office. Charlie’s hip surgery is scheduled for next month. I still can’t decide whether I was right to keep my inside knowledge of