A Hell of a Dog

by Carol Lea Benjamin

Overview

Someone is killing off the great dog trainers of the world—and it’s up to PI Rachel Alexander and her pit bull, Dash, to collar the murderer

Rachel has just been hired as undercover security at a dog-training symposium at a posh Manhattan hotel. How can the Greenwich Village PI and her pit bull, Dashiell, turn down the hefty fee, plus free room and biscuits at the Ritz? All Rachel has to do is keep the peace among the competitive diva dog trainers who have come with their prize pooches from all corners of the globe.

She and Dash have barely infiltrated the festivities when they find out that one of the trainers, the self-proclaimed guru of a controversial obedience technique, has been electrocuted in his bathtub. The cops are calling it an accident. Until another trainer dies . . . and then another. With suspects including a dog psychic and a behaviorist to the stars, Rachel discovers that it’s the humans who need to be housebroken as she and Dash bring a serial killer to heel.

A Hell of a Dogis the 3rd book in the Rachel Alexander and Dash Mysteries, but you may enjoy reading the series in any order.

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9781504052948
Publisher:	Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
Publication date:	10/16/2018
Series:	The Rachel Alexander and Dash Mysteries , #3
Edition description:	Reprint
Pages:	284
Product dimensions:	5.20(w) x 7.90(h) x 0.80(d)

About the Author

Carol Lea Benjamin is the author of the Rachel Alexander and Dash mystery novels, which feature a Greenwich Village–based private investigator and her pit bull sidekick. This Dog for Hire, the first book in the series, won the Shamus Award for Best First PI Novel. Benjamin has also been a teacher, worked as a private investigator, trained dogs, and written dog-training manuals such as Mother Knows Best: The Natural Way to Train Your Dog. She lives in New York City with her husband and two dogs. 

Read an Excerpt

Man Plans, God Laughs

LESS IS MORE. Except when it comes to money and sex. These unassailable truths may explain why I found myself checking into a hotel barely a twenty-minute cab ride from my front door.

I'd been asked to work undercover at a weeklong symposium for dog trainers, which meant I'd be paid to lecture about dog behavior, a paean to my former occupation, and paid again as I practiced my current one, private investigation.

So much for the money part.

My PI firm was an equal partnership, and my partner and I always worked together, which may explain why the elevator operator whistled and stepped back as we boarded his car.

"Hell of a dog you've got there, missus," he said, both hands dropping rapidly to cover the area directly below the brass buttons of his jacket. "Pit bull?" His back was against the wall.

I nodded.

"He okay?"

I looked down. Dashiell looked up at me and wagged his tail. "He's not complaining." I waited, but nothing happened. "Want me to drive?" I asked.

"Sorry, missus. Where to?"

I held up my key. While he read the room number, I read the name embroidered over the breast pocket of his jacket. "Home, James," I told him. But once again, nothing happened. There was another customer approaching. And another big dog.

"Rachel," the other customer said. "I didn't know you'd be here." Ignoring Jimmy, who by now was the color of watery mashed potatoes, Chip Pressman and his shepherd, Betty, stepped onto the small elevator. "Three, please," he said, never taking his eyes offme.

Dashiell was staring, too. Either he'd gotten a whiff of Betty, or Chip had a roast beef in his suitcase.

"I've been meaning to call you," he said, the elevator, its doors gaping open, still on the lobby floor.

"Go sit," I said, pointing to the corner farthest from Jimmy. Both dogs obeyed, squeezing into the spot I had indicated. I have no issues when it comes to dogs, but some men turn me into Silly Putty.

Jimmy closed the folding gate and turned the wheel. The old-fashioned open-cage elevator began to rise, albeit slowly.

"Can we have a drink before the dinner tonight?" Chip said, looking at his watch. "There's something I need to tell you."

Somehow, the way he said it, I didn't think it was going to be something I'd want to hear.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Jimmy turn slightly, perhaps to make sure he wouldn't miss any nonverbal response, a nod, a shrug, one hand demurely placed on my flushed cheek to indicate both pleasure and surprise.

"Can't," I said.

Jimmy exhaled.

"I have to straighten out some things with Sam before the symposium begins," I lied.

The elevator stopped at three.

"Well, I guess I'll see you at dinner, then?"

"I guess."

He got off. Betty followed him. Dashiell followed Betty, playbowing as soon as he was in the hallway. He must have had adjoining rooms on his mind. I thanked Jimmy and got off, too.

"We're on the same floor," Chip said.

I looked down at my key. "Looks that way."

We stood in front of the closed elevator door, neither of us moving, the air between us thick with pheromones and anxiety. He could have used a haircut. I could have used Valium.

"The reason I didn't call," he said, pausing and looking down for a moment, "even though I told you I would—"

"You don't have to do this."

"But I do, Rachel. The thing is, shortly after I saw you at Westminster, I—I went back to her, to Ellen. For the sake of the children."

That ought to work, I thought, the arrow he'd shot piercing my heart.

"Hey," I said, as sincerely as I could, "no problem. I hope it works out for you."

"Rachel," he said. He appeared to be gathering his thoughts. Lots of them. Too many, if you ask me.

"I have to run," I said, as if we were standing so awkwardly not in the third-floor hallway of some hotel but on the track that goes around the reservoir in Central Park.

"Well, okay, I'll see you later."

He seemed disappointed. But was that a reason for me to hang around and listen to the touching story of how determined he was to make his marriage work, or to hear about how he tried but found he couldn't live without Ellen's cheddar cheese potato surprise? I didn't think so.

We walked down the hall. I stopped at 305. Chip and Betty continued another two feet, stopped, and turned.

"We're next door," he said, looking down at his key to make sure.

"Right," I said, nodding like one of those dogs people put on the dashboards of their cars. Then I stood there in the empty hall for a few minutes after Chip and Betty had disappeared into 307.

This wasn't exactly how I had imagined things would go when I was wrapping the black lace teddy in tissue paper and packing it carefully in one of the pockets of my suitcase.

Man plans. God laughs.

So much for the sex part.

Or so I believed at the moment.

Editorial Reviews

"Expertly blending dog-training lore with an excellent and satisfying mystery.” —Publishers Weekly

“The writing is excellent, as always, with a nice touch of humor and just the right amount of off-stage violence. . . . Recommended for all mystery collections.” —Library Journal

“Boasts appealing human and canine characters . . . will satisfy anyone who enjoys pet mysteries . . . Benjamin reminds readers that, more often than we care to admit, humans are the ‘dumb animal’ in the people-pet equation.” —Booklist

“Benjamin’s breezy wit makes for an entertaining read.” —CNN.com

“Carol Lea Benjamin is as good at writing mysteries as she is at writing about dogs.” —Laurien Berenson, author of Underdog

From the Publisher

Rachel Alexander and her pit bull, Dashiell, return to the dog-training game in Benjamin's latest mystery. For the uninitiated, dog training might seem straightforward enough, but to those who rely on it for their livelihood, methodological differences can be of lethal importance, as Rachel soon finds out. Hired by the organizer of a dog-training seminar to keep the peace between such factions as "foodies" (who use food to train dogs) and "shockers" (who use electronic collars), Rachel is horrified when not one but three trainers end up dead on her watch. The writing is excellent, as always, with a nice touch of humor and just the right amount of off-stage violence (this is a murder mystery, after all) and hinted-at sex. Benjamin's mysteries are getting stronger as she goes along. Recommended for all mystery collections.--Alicia Graybill, Lincoln City Libs., NE

Library Journal

Who do you call when you're hosting a New York symposium of dog trainers who seem less likely to throw sticks for their charges to fetch than to use them to beat each other to death? The obvious choice is trainer-turned-shamus Rachel Alexander and her pit bull Dashiell (The Dog Who Knew Too Much, 1997, etc.), so symposium organizer Samantha Lewis offers the pair a hefty fee, free room and biscuits at the Ritz, and a couple of panels to provide cover for their snooping activities. And snoop they do. When Alan Cooper, the aversive-therapy guru of Instant Obedience, is electrocuted in his bathtub, Rachel's response is to pinch crucial evidence from his room (leaving unanswered the question of how the cops could've missed a pair of leopard-print bikinis tangled in the bedclothes) and try to pinch a passkey that'll let her into everybody else's digs as well. Amid amusingly unfettered debates about different training techniques (the luminaries Sam has gathered include a grandmotherly BBC veteran, a dog psychic, a couple of foodies, a yank-'em-spank-'em authoritarian, a behaviorist to the stars, and one of Rachel's most desirable ex-lovers), casualties continue to mount, though the most interesting characters make such early exits that the likely suspects are ciphers.

Kirkus Reviews