The Wicked Flea

Praise for

SUSAN CONANT’S MYSTERIES:

“Hilarious.” —
Los Angeles Times

“A real tail-wagger.”
—The Washington Post

“Sheer bliss awaits the dedicated dog lover.”
—Kirkus Reviews

“A fascinating murder mystery and a very funny book... written with a fairness even Dorothy Sayers or Agatha Christie would admire.”
—Mobile Register

“Conant’s dogs are real, true, and recognizable. Definitely wins best of breed.” —Carolyn G. Hart

“Head and shoulders above many of the other series in which various domestic pets aid or abet in the solving of crimes.” —
The Purloined Letter

“Poignant.... The relationship the heroine and her canines share is precious to behold... a delightful, whimsical, and humorous mystery that shows off the attributes of humans and canines that are rather similar to nature.” -
Midwest Book Review

“An absolutely first-rate mystery... and a fascinating look at the world of dogs... I loved it!” -Diane Mott Davidson

“Highly recommended for lovers of dogs, people, and all-around good storytelling” —
Mystery News

Dog Lover's Mysteries by Susan Conant

A NEW LEASH ON DEATH

DEAD AND DOGGONE

A BITE OF DEATH

PAWS BEFORE DYING

GONE TO THE DOGS

BLOODLINES

RUFFLY SPEAKING

BLACK RIBBON

STUD RITES

ANIMAL APPETITE

THE BARKER STREET REGULARS

EVIL BREEDING

CREATURE DISCOMFORTS

THE WICKED FLEA

THE DOGFATHER

If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

THE WICKED FLEA

A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author

PRINTING HISTORY

Berkley Prime Crime hardcover edition / March 2002

Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / February 2003

Copyright © 2002 by Susan Conant.

Cover art by Bob Dombrowski.

Cover design by Jill Boltin.

Text design by Kristin del Rosario.

All rights reserved.

This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

For information address: The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

Visit our website at

www.penguinputnam.com

ISBN: 0-425-18885-X

Berkley Prime Crime Books are published

by The Berkley Publishing Group,

a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

The name BERKLEY PRIME CRIME and the BERKLEY PRIME CRIME design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Putnam Inc.

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

For the appearance of Alaskan malamutes CH Jazz-land’s Embraceable You and CH Jazzland’s How High the Moon, I am grateful to Cindy Neely as well as to Emma and Howie. Many thanks to the members of Malamute-L who responded to my eccentric author queries; to Martha Kalina of the Perry Greene Kennel, for letting me use the perfect domain name; to Charlene LaBelle, for allowing me to share her liver recipe; to my feline malamutes, Chartreux cats G. R. P. Janvier Pandora Spocks of Ajolie and Ajolie’s Shadow Dancer; and to my beloved Alaskan malamute, Frost-field Perfect Crime, C.D., C.G.C., W.P.D., Th.D., who is called Rowdy. For help with the manuscript, my profuse thanks to Jean Berman, Wren Dugal, Roseann Mandell, Cindy Neely, Geoff Stem, Anya Wittenborg, Corinne Zipps, and to my astute editor, Natalee Rosenstein.

In loving memory of my beautiful boy,

Frostfield Firestar’s Kobuk

Through many dangers, toils, and snares

I have already come.

’Tis grace hath brought me safe thus far

And grace will lead me home.

 -JOHN NEWTON 1779

The wicked flee when no man pursueth.

 -PROVERBS 28:1

Chapter 1

My father’s new wife, Gabrielle, was determined to enlist my help in disposing of her first husband.

Naturally, I protested. “I’m hardly the most suitable person,” I argued in our final phone conversation on the subject. “Besides, we don’t want to end up in jail,

do we?”

Gabrielle was adamant. “It’s important, Holly, to liberate oneself from the remains of the past. Even
fond
remains,” she added before continuing in that extraordinary voice of hers, which is low, throaty, and infinitely persuasive. How persuasive? Well, my father married her, didn’t he? And Buck is not an easy person to persuade to do anything. Believe me, I’ve tried. Not that I’d wanted to talk him out of marrying Gabrielle. On the contrary, I like Gabrielle tremendously, and I’m convinced that falling in love with her is one of the sanest things my father has ever done. Given Buck’s eccentricities, that’s not saying much, I guess, but I’m always surprised and relieved when he does something even remotely normal, and when it comes to choosing wives, Buck is a model of mental hygiene, perhaps because he’s had only two. But maybe I’m being unfair to Buck. In any case, like Gabrielle, my late mother was a wonderful, warm, and sensible, if somewhat controlling, person.

“It just doesn’t feel right,” Gabrielle went on, “to have a second husband when the first is still around.”

“It’s illegal,” I countered.

“Marginally,” Gabrielle admitted, “but if we were caught, which we aren’t going to be, the fine would be, uh, let’s see, not less than one hundred nor more than five hundred dollars, and I can afford that.” She paused. “Or imprisonment,” she conceded, “but technically, it would only be for six months or so, and no one is actually going to throw us in the hoosegow for scattering Walter in Harvard Yard.”

“Hoosegow?’

“Spanish origin,” she said smugly. “Isn’t it charming?”

“The reality wouldn’t be,” I said, “and in Massachusetts you can’t go around blithely sprinkling people’s ashes wherever you feel like, Gabrielle. Among other things, you’d need a permit from the board of health, and you’d have to get Harvard’s permission. What’s wrong with Mount Auburn Cemetery?”

“It’s terribly expensive,” she whispered, sounding hurt, as if I’d been cruelly referring to her recent financial losses. “And we don’t want a public event, do we? I just want to say a quiet good-bye. That doesn’t seem too much to ask, Holly. And we’d do the same for your father, wouldn’t we?”

Since Harvard Yard is useless for hunting, fishing, or showing purebred dogs, it’s one of the last places on earth that my own father, Buck, would choose as a final, or even transitory, resting place. Still, I refrained from making the obvious reply, which was, What’s this
we?
Gabrielle has a likable habit of thinking of everyone as
we.
If I’d asked her to join me in dispersing the cremated remains of some homicidal fiend who’d been a stranger to both of us, she’d have hurled herself into the project with great enthusiasm. It was easy to imagine her reading a carefully selected verse over the monster’s ashes and shedding genuine tears at the thought of how much
we
would miss him.

When Gabrielle arrived at my house a few days later, I presented her with printed copies of a great many web pages on two topics: Massachusetts law concerning dead bodies and what are fancifully known as “creative scattering options.” My house, I might mention, is the barn-red one on the comer of Appleton and Concord in Cambridge, Massachusetts, about a twenty-minute walk from Harvard Yard. I live on the first floor with Rowdy and Kimi, the two most stunning and brilliant Alaskan malamutes in the world—that’s an objective description—and Tracker. Having offered an objective description of the dogs, I should probably do the same for Tracker, but I can’t stand people who disparage their animals, no matter how hideous, pitiful, or mean-tempered—in Tracker’s case, all three—so let’s just call her a cat. My second-floor tenant, Rita, is my best friend, as well as a clinical psychologist and the owner of a Scottie, Willie. My third-floor tenants, a circuit court judge and her husband, have two handsome Persian cats. I may be the only landlord in Cambridge, or possibly the only landlord anywhere, who won’t rent to you
unless
you have at least one pet. Anyway, my proximity to Harvard and my, shall we say, positive attitude toward dogs were central to Gabrielle’s dispersal plans for the late Professor Beamon. She had decided that we were going to avoid arrest under Chapter 114 of the General Laws of Massachusetts, Cemeteries and Burials, Miscellaneous Provisions, Section 43 M, Permanent Disposition of Dead Bodies or Remains, by disguising ourselves as dog walkers.