The Wicked Flea (25 page)

“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 kinder to hold him. I couldn’t bring myself to touch him. My repulsion made me even more sorry for him than I’d been before.

“You remember that song Sylvia used to sing?” Douglas asked suddenly. “ ‘There’ll Be Some Changes Made.’ ”

“I did hear her hum that,” I said.

“Sylvia wasn’t really a very nice woman. She was hostile. She needled people. Mostly, her family. She used to sing snatches of that song or hum it when she’d been going after one of them. After he shot her, he sang that song. Not all of it. Just a little. Just the way Sylvia used to. It was creepy—hearing him sing off-key about what he’d done. I was sick to my stomach. I couldn’t help it. Before that, he didn’t know I was there. Then this nausea hit me, all of a sudden, and it was like food poisoning. No warning. I pulled off the, uh, ski mask. I had to. And he saw me.”

“Who?” I finally asked.

Chapter 35

The answer had almost—but not quite—left Douglas’s lips when out of the comer of my eye, I spied Zsa Zsa lumbering through the woods. Simultaneously, Rowdy broke his solid down-stay.

“Damn it!” I yelled, not at Rowdy but at the golden, who picked up speed, accidentally barreled into Douglas, and deliberately hurled herself at Rowdy. My big dog had seen her coming. And he owed her one. The last time Zsa Zsa had attacked Rowdy, I’d spoiled the fun by sounding my air horn and bringing the fight to a halt. This time, Rowdy intended to teach her a bone-crunching lesson about the inadvisability of tackling a malamute. Only seconds after Zsa Zsa’s onslaught, the two big dogs were a writhing, yelping mass of fur, flesh, and teeth. Douglas rose to his feet and had the sense to rid himself of that encumbering trench coat as he prepared to help break up the fight. The second Zsa Zsa appeared, I should’ve nabbed her. But I’d been slow to respond, in part because the nasty reality of Zsa Zsa’s viciousness toward other dogs was so atypical of her breed, so completely aberrant, that I found it hard to comprehend; despite my previous observations of Zsa Zsa, I found it almost impossible to convince myself that a female golden retriever would actually attack Rowdy.

The sight and sound of the battle persuaded me. It was far worse than their previous skirmish. That time, Rowdy’d been at my side, his leash securely in my grasp. This time, I’d been standing near Douglas, not right next to Rowdy. What’s more, one end of Rowdy’s leash remained fastened to his collar, but I’d left the six-foot length of leather on the ground at his side. God almighty, how I hate a dog fight! Already, my heart was pounding, my face felt flushed, and I was sweating profusely. I knew Rowdy’d win the fight. So what! Even if he’d simply been a beloved pet, I wouldn’t have wanted him injured. But he was entered at four upcoming shows, and I had plans for his future. If that damned Zsa Zsa ripped him open, she could leave permanent scars that would end his career in the ring.

“Douglas!” I ordered. “The second I grab Rowdy’s leash, grab Zsa Zsa’s tail! Then pull hard and let go.” Hollering to make myself heard over the roar, I warned, “Don’t touch her collar. Or she’ll nail you. Ready?” I reached into my pocket for the air horn. After weeks of being blasted with the horrific noise by countless dog walkers, Zsa Zsa probably wouldn’t react at all. But if Rowdy’s jaws were locked on her flesh, the sudden clamor just might startle him into loosening his grip.

With my feet spread apart, my knees bent, the horn in my left hand, my right hand free to snatch Rowdy’s leash, I positioned myself just beyond the range of the dogs’ jaws. The tangle of gray and golden coats took a sudden heave as Zsa Zsa lost strength. Seizing his chance, Rowdy pinned her. She shrieked. Rowdy’s leash lay across his back. My hand darted for it, and I’d just seized the familiar leather loop when a third dog spoiled my spur-of-the-moment peace plan by dashing from the woods and plunging into the fray. Wilson’s beautiful corgi bitch, Llio, arrived with blood flying from a badly torn ear. Don’t get me wrong about Pembrokes! As a breed, Pembroke Welsh corgis are kindly, if spunky, creatures, and Llio in particular was a sweetheart. But dogs are dogs, and Llio had not only had to tolerate Zsa Zsa as a housemate, but had evidently just taken a trouncing from her.

Rapidly revising my plan, I opportunistically decided to use Llio’s surprise arrival to remove Rowdy from the melee. “Douglas, stay out of it,” I hollered. “You’ll just get bitten.” With that, I let the air horn fall to the ground, clenched Rowdy’s leash in both hands, and applied all my strength to it. Just when I began to fear that Rowdy would slip his collar or that the leash would break before I could budge him, the pressure on the leash eased, and I called, “Rowdy, leave! This way! This way! That’s my boy! That’s my good boy!” Now that I’d succeeded in getting his attention, I made a fool of myself keeping him focused on me. Whistling, clucking my tongue, and babbling lunatic verities about what a great dog he was, I took the risk of bolting from what was now a two-dog fight.

Rowdy could have veered around and jumped back in, or Zsa Zsa could have gone for him again. But my gamble paid off. With Rowdy bounding at my heels, I dashed up a little slope to a spot where two waist-high boulders leaned into each other. Pulling and cajoling, I managed to get Rowdy behind the rocks. Exhausted, I rested my weight on one of them. At a guess, only two minutes had elapsed since Zsa Zsa had appeared through the trees and attacked Rowdy, perhaps thirty seconds since Llio had joined the brawl. I felt as if the fight had started hours ago. My arms and legs were trembling. Exertion and relief had me panting like a dog. Rowdy was breathing far more lightly than I was. If I’d had a tail, it wouldn’t have been wagging, but his was zipping back and forth. His ears weren’t tom or bleeding, and neither was his face, which, in fact, wore a smug, obnoxious smile.

A short distance downhill, the remaining combatants were alarmingly quiet. Zsa Zsa, back on her feet, was circling the blood-spattered Llio, who, I suspected, would’ve been content to call it quits. Douglas stood only a yard or two from the dogs, his body tense, his face contorted with what I felt sure was agonized indecision about how to rescue Llio. Without human intervention, the lull in the hostilities would’ve reached a natural end either in Llio’s quick and probably successful flight or in Zsa Zsa’s renewed attack. The young, strong corgi seemed to me to have an excellent chance of making a swift escape. Catching Douglas’s eyes, I was trying to signal him to do nothing, when screams broke the silence.

“HELP! HELP! HELP ME!” The woman came flying out of the woods. “He’s going to kill me!” she shrieked. Even in a state of obviously genuine terror, Anita Fairley-Delaney looked as if she were posing for the kind of fashion magazine in which the typical model is five feet ten and evidently suffers from selfinduced colitis while also incubating the Ebola virus, but is gorgeous anyway. You know the type? The mannequin’s eyes are dissipated and her combined pallor and rigor suggest that she recently died of fright. Who cares! She’s got hollow cheeks, incredible bone structure, mile-long legs, and great hair, and she really can
wear
outfits so grotesque that no normal person would be caught dead in them even on Halloween. In fact, Anita wore a full-length black coat piped in red, slim black trousers, and shiny black high-heeled boots. Her entrance was stagy, but there was nothing fake about the panic in her voice. “Help me!” she screamed at Douglas. “He’s trying to kill me!”

Yes, who?

Almost immediately, Wilson answered the unasked question by emerging from the woods in pursuit of Anita, who, in spite of the dress boots, had been too fast for him. At the sight of Wilson, Anita renewed her shrieking and tried to take shelter behind Douglas. Wilson, meanwhile, was hurling invectives at Anita and pleading with either Douglas or God—I honestly don’t know which—to save Llio from Zsa Zsa.

“Never mind your fucking dog!” Anita bellowed. Her self-confidence restored by Douglas’s presence, I suppose, she added, “I just want my money back! Just give me back my deposit and you’ll never see me again!”

“Llio!Llio!” Wilson wailed. “Her ear! Look at her ear! Goddamn you, look what you did! This is all your fault!” I assumed for a second that he meant Zsa Zsa. The object of his rage was, however, Anita. Stamping his foot and pounding the air with his fist, he demanded, “What’d you have to kick Zsa Zsa for! Zsa Zsa wouldn’t’ve done this if you hadn’t kicked her, goddamn it! Llio’s a show dog, for Christ’s sake! And you’ve wrecked her! Look at her ear!”

“You moron!” Anita responded. Suddenly, she was her cool, snotty self again. “Forget the goddamn dogs! I didn’t kick the dog, I just nudged it with my foot, and it turned vicious and flew at the other one. For that, you had to pull a gun on me? Are you crazy? Think about what just happened! I showed up because I don’t want to buy the house after all. Happens all the time. No big deal. I just want my deposit back. And I end up getting chased by a lunatic with a gun! Jesus!” To emphasize her point, she stretched out one leg, rotated her ankle a bit, smiled admiringly at her shiny boot, and then delivered a light kick to one of Zsa Zsa’s hind feet.

As if to demonstrate exactly how the original fight between Zsa Zsa and Llio had begun, Zsa Zsa reacted to the blow by lunging at Llio and digging her teeth into the corgi’s uninjured ear. The corgi cried out in pain and struggled to shake off the larger dog, but Zsa Zsa held the ear in her jaws and, I believe, dug her teeth yet more deeply into Llio’s flesh. In a desperate effort to free Llio, Douglas stooped to retrieve the rock I’d left lying on the ground. Holding it in both hands, he shouted uselessly and inarticulately at the dogs. If he’d brought the rock down on Zsa Zsa, he’d simply have incited her, as he evidently realized.

But Llio was Wilson’s dog, not Douglas’s, and her hideous yelps of pain drove him to action. Spotting the air horn I’d dropped, Wilson picked it up and sounded it in a prolonged, ear-shattering blast that drowned out Douglas’s shouts. Far from breaking up the dog fight, the bawling of the air horn frightened the wounded corgi, who screeched more loudly than ever and began to twist her sturdy body in terror and agony. Aching with sorrow and empathy for Llio, I clutched Rowdy’s leash in one sweating hand and dug the other into his great wolf-gray ruff.

Desperate to rescue Llio, Wilson suddenly tossed the air horn into the woods, reached into his pocket, pulled something out, and took a remarkably calm, deliberate step forward. From my perch behind the boulders, I watched attentively. I trust my impression, which was that Wilson, like Douglas, was searching for the chance to knock Zsa Zsa out of action without causing additional, unintended harm to Llio. The object in Wilson’s right hand was an automatic so small that only an inch or so of the diminutive barrel projected beyond his fist. With his feet spread apart, his knees slightly bent, his right arm extended, he was almost leaning over the dogs when Llio suddenly fought back at Zsa Zsa. With a monumental thrust of her short, strong hind legs, Llio managed to throw the big dog off balance. Lowering his weapon an inch or two, Wilson took aim at Zsa Zsa’s chest. As Wilson was about to pull the trigger, Zsa Zsa gave an unexpected lurch that sent her careening against Anita. As Wilson fired, Anita tumbled off her feet, hit the ground, and took the bullet that had been meant to save the corgi. Then, still hellbent on rescuing Llio, Wilson coolly moved his arm and again took aim. His target appeared to be Zsa Zsa’s chest. I’m sure he meant to shoot her in the heart.