A New Leash on Death (Dog Lover's Mysteries Book 1)

by Susan Conant

  She laughed. "Keep him," she said magnanimously. "Show him, if you want. There'll be plenty of fun matches in the spring. Or get an ILP number."

  "No," I said. "I've come for his papers."

  "What a silly girl you are," she said. "King died. Everyone knows that."

  "The tattoo is proof," I said. "And if it weren't, don't you think Janet Switzer knows her own dogs?"

  "To whom do you intend to show this proof? The AKC? Go ahead. Return him, and I'll thank you in public. You think I don't have room for him?"

  "I know you have room for him. I also know something else: that you've learned a lot about dogs in the last year. He must have been a pretty wild puppy, but you've learned what to do about wild puppies, haven't you?"

  She looked blank.

  "You know," I added. "Puppies that get up when they're supposed to stay down?"

  "One of my dogs fell asleep in the ring. It happens, you know."

  'To high-strung young goldens," I said, "whose handlers haven't quite figured out how much Valium is too much."

  "You're making something of nothing."

  I bluffed. What else could I do? "Jim Chevigny won't think so. He has questions already, you know. Or maybe you don't know. A lot of people out there have answers to those questions, and I've heard some of them. I talk to a lot of people. It's part of my job. Do you have any idea how many people would just love to see an official inquiry? People are talking now, and, believe me, once Chevigny starts asking the right questions, there goes your good standing with the AKC. And even if it turns out that you did nothing illegal, there goes your reputation. You'll have to find another hobby, won't you?"

  She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. It was an uncharacteristic gesture. She's usually quite ladylike.

  "There is no truth in those rumors," she said.

  I knew she was lying, but I was prepared to let her save face. All that really held her back, I was sure, was the prospect of everyone seeing Rowdy's real name in the show catalogs. Even if she transferred ownership to me, some people would recognize Rowdy's registered name, and they'd ask her a lot of awkward questions.

  "If you're worried about the name," I said, "you must have forgotten who my father is. He can fix it."

  The point, which Margaret understood immediately, is that it's easier to get the pope to beatify you than it is to get the AKC to change a dog's name. Margaret's face had no expression. She stood up, walked calmly to her desk, opened a drawer, and pulled out a manila folder. From the folder she removed a slip of paper. It was white with a violet border. She signed it on the back, replaced it in the folder, and handed me the whole thing.

  "There's a four-generation pedigree there," she said. "It might interest you."

  "It will," I said.

  She showed me to the door, and I thanked her. "You know, Margaret, I admire you," I said. "You're a good loser, better than I expected."

  Although Buck did speed things up at the AKC, a month passed before the new registration certificate arrived. I put it in the pocket of my parka, and Steve and I walked Rowdy down Appleton Street toward Brattle. New snow was starting to cover the dirty drifts on the lawns and the icy ruts in the roads. Dr. Stanton's house had stood empty since Millie moved to Florida, but someone, probably Ron Coughlin, had shoveled the sidewalk. The Cambridge Dog Training Club was still negotiating with the neighborhood, and we didn't yet know what we'd be able to do with the house.

  "You know," I said, "I don't believe Roger just assumed he'd inherit everything. I have a feeling that Stanton led him on. You didn't really know Stanton, and I didn't know him all that well, but he wasn't such a nice man. You didn't see him with Margaret Robichaud, but he never missed the chance to get in a dig. I think he did the same thing with Roger, only in reverse, if you see what I mean. He let him believe it was all coming to him."

  "So what are we doing here?"

  "He was good to Rowdy," I said. "That counts, too."

  We turned right on Brattle Street and followed it until the merge with Mt. Auburn. Across the street was the Mt. Auburn Cemetery, which is conveniently close to the hospital without actually being visible to the patients. It's a famous bird-watching spot. It's also notable for its elaborate monuments, including some statues of people's pets. It seemed to me bizarre that Dr. Stanton's body was resting in a place that didn't allow dogs unless they were carved out of marble. It was more than bizarre. It was wrong.

  If you ever decide to sneak a flesh-and-blood dog into the Mt. Auburn Cemetery, I'd suggest one of the toy breeds. The high metal fence that surrounds the cemetery has a few spots where you could slide in a papillon or a Pekingese. You could tuck a Chihuahua in your pocket and hope he didn't bark while you walked through the gates. An Alaskan malamute is no toy, in any sense of the word. I think we succeeded mostly because new snow was just beginning to cover the old gray snow on the ground, so Rowdy's coat gave him perfect camouflage. Also, he practically never barks. Steve walked on one side of him, I walked on the other, and we slipped in as fast as we could.

  I'd already scouted out Dr. Stanton's grave, which was at the far end of the cemetery. If I ever have as much money as Dr. Stanton did, I'll order one of those marble dogs. In fact, I'll make sure that I eventually rest under a whole pack of life-size golden retrievers. I'd like to go out the way I came in, the eighteenth puppy.

  Dr. Stanton's monument was just a granite stone with his name and the dates of his birth and death. Steve stood behind it and took off his hat. The snow made his hair curl even more than usual. He had a foolish grin on his face. He wasn't taking it as seriously as I was. I brought Rowdy to heel about ten feet in front of the stone.

  "This is so corny," Steve said.

  I just said, "So what?"

  "Ready?" he asked. The AKC requires judges to ask that.

  "Ready," I said.

  We went through the whole Novice routine. For the last exercise, I stood right in front of the stone so Rowdy faced the inscription.

  "Down," I said, and I left him there for the full three minutes.

  When I released him at the end of the long down, he bounced in the air, landed, and shook himself. That's just what I want for myself, a big dog dancing on my grave.

  On our way out, one of the guards spotted us, but I hollered an apology, and we took off across Mt. Auburn Street and down Brattle like naughty kids. In a block, we slowed down, and Steve kissed me.

  "You know," I said, "there's still one thing that bothers me. I thought we were going to find out about Antarctica, about the massacre."

  "It's too long ago."

  "Maybe," I said. "But I wanted to know. I still do. I wanted to get that bastard."

  "He's probably dead."

  "He's probably alive and well and living in Argentina."

  “And what would you do if you found him? There isn't any Nuremberg for crimes against dogs."

  "There isn't one yet," I said.

  "He wasn't court-martialed, was he? It wasn't a criminal act."

  It was in my book.