Free Dog Eat Dog by Laurien Berenson Page B

spine.
    â€œGood Lord,” said Aunt Peg. “Not again. Doesn’t she ever leave those dogs home?”
    As we came up beside the Volvo I heard the scramble of running feet, the dogs’ nails scraping on the hard macadam. I was fitting the key to the lock when they ran by. It took me a moment to grasp that something was wrong. Then I realized what it was—the Beagles were running loose.
    No leashes, no collars. No Monica.
    â€œOh that woman!” Aunt Peg cried in exasperation. “What is the matter with her? In the dark, with all these cars driving every which way. How could she let them get away from her?” Hand going automatically to her pocket for treats, she took off in pursuit of the loose dogs.
    Shortly after her first call, I heard several other club members chime in. All were dog lovers, and all immediately realized the potential danger inherent in the situation. The Beagles were near a busy road, in a strange place at night. The sooner Monica had them back under control, the better.
    Thinking the Beagles might circle back, I started down the row of cars in the direction from which they’d come. It seemed strange that Monica hadn’t come running after the dogs; stranger still, that with all the voices now calling out in the night, hers didn’t seem to be among them.
    The door to her van was open. As I drew near, I saw that the interior held two built-in crates. A tangled pair of leashes trailed off the top of the higher one. Why hadn’t Monica taken them with her when she went after her dogs?
    Then I reached the van and saw that Monica hadn’t gone anywhere. She was sprawled on the ground; her body half beside the minivan, half underneath it. Her face was turned away, and her hair looked absurdly red against the black macadam. Something dark and thick seemed to be matted through it.
    â€œMonica?” I leaned down to touch her shoulder, then drew back quickly. A sickly sweet, metallic scent hung in the cold air. I’d smelled it before and I knew what it was. Blood.
    â€œOh God.”
    â€œWhat’s the matter?” said Bertie, coming up behind me. She took in the situation in a glance. “Did she faint? I know CPR.”
    â€œI don’t think it’ll help,” I said.
    That’s when Bertie saw the blood. I heard her swallow heavily. My own meal was rising in my throat.
    Gingerly, Bertie leaned down and felt for a pulse. Wrist first, then throat. By then, I’d already guessed it was too late.
    â€œI’ve got one of the little scoundrels,” Aunt Peg said triumphantly, coming up to join us. “I think Mark managed to nab the other.” She was cradling a wiggly Beagle in her arms.
    Aunt Peg looked from my face to Bertie’s, then back again. “What?”
    â€œIt’s Monica,” I said, and stepped aside so she could see. “She’s dead.”
    The Beagle in her arms lifted his nose to the cold, pale moon and howled.

Nine
    It’s a good thing Frank was staying with Davey, because by the time the police finished questioning all of us it was nearly midnight. They talked to us separately, but afterward we grouped together in a small pool of illumination provided by one of the overhead lights. Nobody seemed in a hurry to leave. I think we were all in shock.
    It just didn’t seem possible that Monica was actually dead. Even worse was the thought that had immediately crossed my mind: that the list of likely suspects began and ended with the members of the Belle Haven Kennel Club. One look at Aunt Peg’s face, and I knew she was thinking the same thing.
    The police had cordoned off the area around Monica’s van, firmly rebuffing Aunt Peg’s attempt to retrieve the Beagles’ leashes. She’d piled the two little hounds onto the back seat of the Volvo—without asking, I might add—where they were now scratching at the windows and howling mournfully. The windows, firmly shut,