The Wicked Flea (10 page)

Ceci was furious at Sylvia. ‘This is not right!” She stomped a dainty foot on the blacktop. “Wouldn’t you think Sylvia would’ve learned a lesson? But no! And to think that I have been taking her side. All along, Noah has been perfectly right about Sylvia. Zsa Zsa
is
ruining the park for everyone, and it’s all Sylvia’s fault.”

“Ceci,” I said forcefully, “Zsa Zsa is
not
ruining the park for
us
because I’m not going to let her. Sylvia lives right near here, doesn’t she? Do you know which house? And how to get there?”

“It’s a brick Tudor, or what’s called Tudor, although I doubt that... well, it’s a suburban Tudor, let’s say, with cream stucco and a brown door and trim, and a slate roof. It’s no distance at all, in fact, you can see the chimney and a bit of the roof from here. Wilson showed me one day.” With that, she pointed out a brick chimney and a slate roof easily visible beyond a stretch of leafless trees. “That’s Sylvia’s house. If you go down the trail where we just were, you cut through the woods a little, and there you are.”

After settling Ceci in the passenger seat, I armed myself with a leash, a training collar, and fresh supply of dog treats (liver, what else?), and set off to capture the wild beast, Zsa Zsa. I did not, of course, intend to carry out my threat of strangling her; I just meant to catch her and walk her home. If I sound confident or even arrogant about the prospect of dealing with an aggressive dog, it’s because Zsa Zsa was a golden retriever, a horrible, atypical one in almost every way, but a golden nonetheless. The goldens I’d grown up with and the ones I’d owned myself had been sound of body and mind, strong, healthy, biddable, and angelically gentle, just as goldens should be and Zsa Zsa wasn’t. Still, I felt a sense of control over any golden.

Soon after recrossing the footbridge, I began to call and whistle for Zsa Zsa. She didn’t appear. I kept walking and, within a few minutes, ran into one of the women I’d met on my first day at the park, the owner of Princess, the lean black Lab, who was happily trotting along on a retractable leash. The woman and I exchanged nods and smiles, and I asked whether she’d seen Zsa Zsa.

Instead of answering, the woman said, “Is she loose again? I thought Sylvia had shaped up, but Zsa Zsa was running around yesterday. And Sylvia was nowhere in sight.”

The woman hadn’t seen Sylvia today, either. I continued my search for another minute or two and then caught sight of my quarry a few hundred feet ahead on the trail. Zsa Zsa proved suiprisingly easy to lure. I held out a handful of liver treats and called sweetly. But when she got within a yard of me, she stopped. I’m an old fox with dogs. Instead of moving toward her, I inched backward. Happy sounds and liver did the rest. In no time, I had her on leash and was taking her home. A narrow footpath off the main trail seemed likely to lead to the house Ceci had pointed out and, in fact, did. Sylvia’s irresponsibility about her dog and the scrappy nature of her family had somehow made me expect a house with vines running wild and architectural elements at war with one another. The little path ended at the rear of a neatly lawn-serviced yard with short grass, tons of mulch, and the inevitable suburban rhododendrons. The conventional brick Tudor matched Ceci’s description. The only object in sight that showed any sign of neglect was a large, treelike wrought iron structure with a variety of empty bird feeders and empty suet baskets hanging like weird pieces of fruit from its numerous branches. But the house was Sylvia’s. When I rang the bell at the back door, the young man who answered took one look at Zsa Zsa and, addressing me, asked, “Did my mother get arrested again?”

“Not that I know of,” I said.

Although it was midafternoon, he’d apparently just awakened. His eyelids were puffy, and the inner corners were thick with the crud that is euphemistically known as “sleep.” He wore two diamond-chip studs in one ear. On one side of his scalp, his hair was in rather rumpled spikes, but his pillow had flattened the hair on the other side.

“I’m Holly Winter,” I said. “I’m returning Zsa Zsa. She really shouldn’t be loose.”

“Eric Metzner.” He yawned. “Uh, sorry about the dog. I’ll keep her in. Where’s my mother?”

“I have no idea.”

“There’s no food in the house,” Eric complained. “There was nothing when I got in last night, and now there’s nothing for breakfast. If you see her, could you tell her?” He yawned again. “Is her car here?”

“I don’t even know what Sylvia drives.”

“You haven’t seen her?”

“No,” I said impatiently, “I haven’t seen her.”

“Well, hey,” Eric said, “uh, sorry about the dog. I’ll keep her in. Thanks for bringing her back.”

Taking long, rapid strides back toward the car, I savored the heroic sense of being the park’s bold, capable savior. As Saint Patrick had rid Ireland of snakes, so I had rid Clear Creek Park of Zsa Zsa! The world, it seemed to me, should be run by dog trainers. Instead of passively letting Sylvia and Zsa Zsa get away with spoiling the park, I’d taken decisive, effective action! Sylvia was the English, the park was France, and I was Joan of Arc! When I reached the Bronco, Ceci immediately brought me back to reality, or at least to her version of it. She was standing by my car with Douglas and his dog, Ulysses, the multi-hound mix. “Holly,” she announced as I approached, “Douglas has offered to walk with us. So we won’t have to worry about being bothered by the foolish
man.”

“Hi, Douglas,” I said. “Hello, Ulysses! Good boy!” I reached a hand out.

“Not advised,” Douglas said. “He’s been rolling in dead things.”

“Ulysses is a great one for carcasses.” Ceci’s tone suggested that the predilection was greatly to the dog’s credit and, by extension, to Douglas’s. Beaming at Douglas, she said, “I’m sure that Rowdy would go after dead things, too, given the opportunity. Wouldn’t he, Holly?”

Douglas caught my eye, nodded, and with a conspiratorial smile said, “Something in common!” Having dogs who rolled in dead things wasn’t a romantically wonderful something to have in common, of course. Neither was sharing a therapist. Still, I wished I found Douglas attractive. He wasn’t bad looking. Just... bland. Average height, brown hair, no outstanding features. Not that I was in search of someone eight feet tall with green hair and the nose of Cyrano de Bergerac! And not that Steve Delaney... had anything to do with anything. Douglas, I told myself, was really
not
bad looking. He had an interesting dog. He was perfectly pleasant. Physically fit. Nice to old ladies. Be still, my heart!

“Speaking of dogs,” I said, “I caught Zsa Zsa and took her home. Sylvia’s son was there. Eric. He promised to keep Zsa Zsa in the house.”

As I got Rowdy and Quest out of the car again, Ceci kept asking questions about Sylvia. Had I seen her? Had Eric said anything about her? Had Douglas seen her? Not today? Yesterday? Was there any
news
? Had
anyone
heard
anything
? Ceci had heard that Sylvia was going to sue the policewoman. Was it true?”

Douglas, I might point out, really was nice to Ceci. He didn’t ridicule or ignore her, and as we walked along the path that began at the footbridge, he matched his pace to hers and Quest’s. After passing an area of deciduous trees, we climbed a gentle slope into a grove of pines and then descended into a shallow, dank valley of thick, weedy-looking underbrush. This being a suburban rather than urban park, there were no beer cans, candy wrappers, or other debris, but this little section somehow looked trashy in the absence of trash. Soon after we’d crossed the bridge, Douglas removed Ulysses’ leash. The big hound trailed after us. But by the time we reached the dank valley, Ulysses had disappeared.

“He does this,” Douglas said. “Ulysses! Ulysses!” He cupped his hands around his mouth and emitted a loud whistle. “Ulysses, here!”

Our little group came to a halt. Douglas called a few more times.

“Probably after a squirrel,” Ceci said.

“A dead squirrel,” Douglas said with regret. “Ulysses!”

Rowdy, who delights in the misbehavior of other dogs, was dancing around at the end of his long lead. He was, I thought, responding to Douglas’s whistling and calling. Nothing in Rowdy’s behavior suggested that his keen ears and nose had picked up a sign of the big hound.

Douglas sighed. “I’d better go after him before he eats whatever he’s found.” Thoughtfully glancing at Ceci to see whether she was comfortable about being left without male protection, he said, “I’ll be right back.”

As Douglas headed back down the trail toward the parking lot, Ceci said, “Such a lovely man.” She paused. “What did you think of
that
Eric?”

“I thought that
that
Eric had just got out of bed.” Feeling guilty about indulging Ceci’s love of gossip, I added, “Maybe he works nights.”

“Hah! He doesn’t work at all,” Ceci said.

“He wanted to know if I’d seen Sylvia. He was complaining that there was no food in the house. I thought that was peculiar. He’d never seen me before. And he asked me to tell Sylvia. If I ran into her. It was quite odd.”

“Such
chutzpah
!” Ceci exclaimed. “That’s Yiddish for
a lot of nerve.
One of the things I like about Newton is learning all these words. And bagels. And,
what are we, chopped liver?
That would be a good title for your book, wouldn’t it? Of course, now there are all these national chains, but we always had bagels here, and good bagels, too, although I like the plain ones myself, not onion, and...”

Douglas and Ulysses suddenly crashed through the underbrush onto the trail only a few yards behind us. The big hound was on leash. His mouth was empty; if he’d found a carcass, Douglas must have persuaded him to leave it. Douglas came to an abrupt halt. His face was pale and grim.

“Ulysses,” Ceci chirped, “did you roll in something nasty again? What was it this time? Another dead thing?”

In an oddly stilted voice, Douglas repeated her phase. “Another dead thing.” He said it again. “Another dead thing.”

“Douglas, are you all right?” Ceci demanded. “Sylvia,” he replied. “Ulysses found her.”

“You’re not making any sense,” Ceci scolded.

“The dead thing,” Douglas said, “is Sylvia.”

Chapter 13

“Nihil nisi bonum,” declared Ceci, “but there was something in the paper a few years ago about salmonella at one of Sylvia’s restaurants, hot dog stands, really, glorified, but that’s what they are, although it’s no excuse for food poisoning, is it?” Apparently interpreting my bewildered expression as evidence that I needed a translation of the Latin, she added, “Nothing but good about the dead! Not that salmonella can exactly be called
good.”

“Sylvia didn’t die of food poisoning,” Douglas said hastily.

“Are you sure she’s dead?” I asked.

“She was shot.” Douglas amended the statement. “Someone shot her. There’s no gun there.”

I said the obvious: “We need to call the police.” Although the need was self-evident, I felt sharply aware of making a charged statement. The Sunday papers had picked up the story of Sylvia’s dispute and arrest. The journalists had dutifully tried to present objective accounts. As far as I knew, the background information about Newton was accurate: Newton was called the Garden City; it had a diverse population of Protestants, Catholics, and Jews; it boasted an excellent record of harmony among religious and ethnic groups and among clergy of all faiths; it had been named the Safest City in America; and most of its streets actually were lined with mature trees. The scene of the dispute was indubitably Clear Creek Park.

If the journalists failed to give a clear picture of what had happened, who could blame them? I’d been there, and I still wasn’t sure. They’d done their best to present diverse points of view. Diverse they were! One story quoted Sylvia at length. “I was heading toward a group of friends when all of a sudden, this woman I’d never seen before came up and started screaming about the leash law. So I took hold of Zsa Zsa’s collar. Zsa Zsa loves people, and she was under voice control. But I did it anyway. It still wasn’t enough to satisfy the woman. She flew at her and grabbed her collar and twisted it. Naturally, I tried to protect my dog, but the woman got a grip on my arm and squeezed it. You can still see the bruises. I had no idea she was a police officer. No one could’ve guessed. I assumed she was mentally ill. She was acting deranged. She was out of control. I still think she must suffer from some sort of rage syndrome. I’ve wondered if she had some kind of seizure that made her lose her balance and fall down. I certainly never pushed her. But nothing excuses what she did. She used fascist tactics. She violated my civil rights.”

According to the papers, Sylvia’s opponent, Officer Jennifer Pasquarelli, contended that the incident began when Sylvia’s dog snarled at her. The officer said that she then asked to have the dog put on leash. When the owner refused, the officer identified herself as such and asked to see the dog’s rabies tag. She also requested proof that the owner was complying with the pooper-scooper law by carrying a means of picking up the dog’s feces. The owner responded by screaming at her and violently pushing her to the ground.