Chapter One
"It's probably Uncle Horace," she said, taking the device from her purse and glancing at the digital read-out.
"Why do you still call him that?" I said, looking over the bill and almost regretting the nice bottle of Barolo -- almost, but not quite. "After all, he's not "your uncle."
"I know." She leaned across the table to kiss me. "But I love him almost as much as I love you. In a different way, of course."
That was said to satisfy me and it did. For a second. "Yeah? So where does that leave his nephew?"
She swung her legs sideways and got up from the table in one graceful motion. The curve of one naked knee peeked out from a hole in her faded jeans. "Who?" she said, innocently.
"Your husband, Oren? Remember him?"
"You mean "ex-husband," she said, "or soon-to-be. And the funny thing is, Jack, when I'm with you every other man in the world seems to disappear."
She smiled, leaned over and kissed me again. "He's the waiter, sweetie. He's waiting for you to pay the check." With that she was on her way to the pay phone to call the sheriff.
"Um, are you Jack Field?" he asked finally.
"'Fraid so. Who'd I piss off this time?"
"Huh?" he said. "No, I've got a problem with my dog and I was wondering if youcould -- um -- give me some advice."
"Does this mean I don't have to pay the tip?" He hemmed, so I let him off the hook: "Just kidding. What's the trouble?"
His name was Tim Berry. He was a young kid about twenty or so and had been a pre-law student at Bowdoin College but funds were tight so he was back home in Camden for a semester or two to try to earn tuition by waiting tables. He told me what was bothering him: a simple problem -- if basset hounds are ever simple -- but not one that could be solved or even explained properly over coffee and dessert, so I gave him my card.
"Thanks," he said and took it, looking at both sides before putting it in his pocket. He turned to go, then stopped and said: "A friend and I went to a lecture you gave in Belfast last year. What you said made a lot of sense."
"Thanks. I've got another one coming up in Boothbay on Saturday. Maybe you could come."
"I work Saturdays." He frowned, then went to take care of the check. Jamie returned just as I was pocketing the change.
"What's wrong?" She seemed a trifle upset.
She sighed as she put the beeper in her purse. "One of Horace's deputies found a body in a cabin out by Hobb's Pond. I have to go out there. I don't suppose you'd want to come along?" She took her yellow parka from the back of her chair and began putting it on.
"Not especially. I gave up all interest in corpses a long time ago." Still, I got up and put on my Levi's jacket. "Why do they call it Hobb's "Pond, by the way? I mean, it's clearly a "lake, isn't it? I've even seen fishing boats and waterskiers out there in the summertime."
She was having trouble getting her left arm into the proper sleeve, so I did thegentlemanly thing and she let me. "Well," she said, "you'd have to ask the original settlers. And the thing is, Jack, you knew the deceased. It's Allison DeMarco."
She flipped her dark brown hair over the hood, then shook her head twice to make it fall pretty, which it did.
"Oh, that's a shame. What did she die of?"
She gave me a pointed look. "That's probably why Uncle Horace called "me, don't you think?"
"Of course," I said, a little embarrassed. "Well, maybe I "should go out there with you, just to check on Ginger. Did Flynn say anything about her?"
"Yes. She's been barking nonstop since early this afternoon. That's how Quentin Peck found the body in the first place. Several of the neighbors called to complain."
We went to the front door and as I held it open a tall, leggy blonde, eighteen or nineteen, did a little sideways waltz between us, then stood in the entrance, scanning the room as if expecting to meet someone. She had a cute turned-up nose with a gold nose ring in it, just like our waiter. Of course, since I was with Jamie, I didn't really look at her that closely.
"That's what I like about you, Jack," she said as we stepped out into the chilly December night, "when we're out together you never ogle the competition."
"You don't have any competition, sweetheart.
She hugged my arm and it occurred to me that the blonde looked familiar but I couldn't place where from, so I took another glance as we passed by the window and saw that she was now engaged in an animated conversation with my new pal, Tim Berry. I couldn't be sure, but it looked to, me as if they shared more than a common interest in facial disfigurement.
"Besides, the really cute oneshang out at Gilbert's," I said with a nod to the public house across the street.
She punched my arm with her free hand. The cold salt air nipped at our ears and she frowned at my fleece-lined denim jacket as we walked to the parking lot around the corner.
"Aren't you cold in that thing?"
"It's Christmas in Maine, sweetheart. You're supposed to be cold." Then I nodded at her parka and the jeans with the ripped right knee and said, "How about you?"
She brrred and said, "I'm "freezing."
"Well, then?"
As we got to her car -- a green Jaguar sedan her father had given her for graduation from medical school -- a faint swell of voices came wafting from inside the First Congregational Church, where the choir was rehearsing for the upcoming Christmas concert. The holiday decorations were up all along Bayview, Elm, and Main: holly garlands, plastic Santas, and twinkling lights. The restaurant and shop windows were spray-painted with semitoxic frosting proclaiming, "Peace on Earth, Good Will toward Men," and "All Major Credit Cards Accepted." Another eight days and it would all be over with. Hallelujah.
"Yes," she said, digging for her keys, "but then, it's not like Allison DeMarco to lie dead on her kitchen floor, is it?"
The debut of a new series introduces former-cop-turned-dog-trainer Jack Field, who abandoned New York to run a canine kennel in the Maine woods. However, murder seems to hound Field everywhere he goes. Original.
Jack's a dog trainer and a behavioral specialist -- not to mention the "main squeeze" of smart and sexy, part-time medical examiner, Jamie Cutter. That's why he's standing in a secluded cabin by alike on an icy December evening, with Allison DeMarco lying dead on her kitchen floor, and her high-strung Airedale, Ginger, going ape in the corner. You can't teach an old dog -- or cop -- new tricks, so this homicide has Jack hooked ... especially since poor Ginger seems to be the only witness! In a world of misbehaving mutts and pesky purebreeds, a killer may be waiting to make Jack, Jamie, and their puppy-pals roll over and play dead.
Lee Charles Kelley is a successful New York dog trainer whose critiques of the alpha theory and operant conditioning have made him a controversial figure in the dog world.The author of five previous novels featuring Jack Field—Dogged Pursuit, 'Twas the Bite Before Christmas, To Collar a Killer, Murder Unleashed, and A Nose for Murder—Mr. Kelley lives on the island of Manhattan with a Dalmatian named Fred.