A Hell of a Dog

A Hell of a Dog

4.0 1
by Carol Lea Benjamin

View All Available Formats & Editions

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


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.

Editorial Reviews

Library Journal
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
Kirkus Reviews
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.

Product Details

Open Road Media Mystery & Thriller
Publication date:
Rachel Alexander and Dash Series , #3
Sold by:
Barnes & Noble
Sales rank:
File size:
795 KB

Read an Excerpt

A Hell of a Dog

A Rachel Alexander and Dash Mystery

By Carol Lea Benjamin


Copyright © 1998 Carol Lea Benjamin
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-5040-0672-9



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 off me.

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, play-bowing 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.



I'd been reading the fashion section of the Sunday Times, most of which gets delivered on Saturday morning, when the phone rang. I liked being up on the important news a day ahead of people who bought their papers at the newsstand. Nails are big, the article said, especially in unreal colors.

The phone rang again. I picked up my toasted bagel and took a bite. The model's nails were considerably longer and bluer than mine. I heard Dashiell bark three times, my outgoing message. Then I heard that it wasn't my sister, so I picked up. "Alexander," I said.

"Oh, good. You're there," a deep, whiskey voice said. "Well, here's the story in a nutshell. I've arranged a weeklong symposium for dog trainers in New York City, the first of its kind, but it seems the participants all absolutely detest each other, and I'm afraid it's only going to go downhill from there. You know how these things are, I trust. So I got in touch with Frank Petrie, who I know from way back, because I decided that what this situation needed was a guard with a gun, you know, just to keep things from getting out of hand. Perfect solution, right? Wrong. He said what I needed was you."

"Can I getyour name?" I asked, pulling over a pad and a pen.

"Of course, Samantha Lewis."

Sam Lewis, I thought. I'll be damned.

"Look, Rachel, I've got a problem here—can I call you Rachel? Please call me Sam. Everyone does. The symposium starts in just two days, and I'm beginning to panic here. I'm still dealing with totally annoying last-minute changes in the program, and I've got to get this security business nailed down, too. God, I hope you're available. Maybe I ought to explain what I've done here. Do you have a minute?"

She actually stopped and waited for an answer.

"I do," I told her.

I had a lot more than that. The only thing in my calendar was an appointment to get my teeth cleaned, and that wasn't until the middle of next month.

"I've been running individual seminars for years now," she said, which was sort of like Lassie calling to tell me he was a dog, "and I decided to see if I could get these people together, if I could encourage them to stop the methodology wars and form a community so that people could share information the way they do in other professions."

That ought to work, I thought.

"But the more I thought about it, the more I thought I was asking for trouble. I wondered what on earth I could've been thinking when I dreamed this up. So I figured, okay, it's not lost yet. I'll play it safe. I'll call Frank, get a uniform. It would be well worth the expense. But Frank said no, he said I should hire you, get you to work undercover. 'You don't want your people to know why she's there,' he said, 'they won't open up. You'd be surprised what people say to each other. Sometimes you can stop some nasty business before it gets going. Stick her on a panel. Have her teach,' he said. 'Let her walk the walk, talk the talk, pal around with people, listen to what's being said. She'll fit right in. She's a dog nut.'"

"You're actually concerned?"

"I am. I was hoping I could get them to bury the hatchet. Now I need you there, to make sure they don't bury it in each other."

"Look, Sam, true, the lack of community is appalling, the attitudes less than professional, the bad-mouthing rampant, but—"

"I make a substantial amount of money doing this, Rachel. I can afford the peace of mind I'll get just knowing I have someone troubleshooting for me. Since you used to be a dog trainer, you are the logical choice. And Frank said you were a pretty decent operative, for a girl." She laughed. "That's when I knew it had to be you."

"His words?"

"Precisely," she said. "I guess that's why I'm still looking for Mr. Okay. There are too many Frank Petries in this world, too many annoying nerds, too many guys who like guys, too many gorgeous hunks who don't bother to tell you they're married, too—"

This time I laughed.

"Don't say a word," she said. "I know it's my own damn fault. I have terrible judgment when it comes to men. And even worse luck."

"Who doesn't?" I was thinking about my ex, not to mention a dozen or so other guys desperation and loneliness had made look an awful lot more presentable than they actually were.

"Well, that aside, right now I have a job to do. So, Rachel, would you do this much for me, would you let me buy you dinner and hear me out? Then if you decide you don't want to do this, at least I'll feel I did my best. Your choice of a restaurant. And make it expensive."

"How about the Gotham Bar and Grill?" I'd always wanted to go there when someone else would be picking up the tab. But then I had second thoughts. "I don't think you can get a reservation the same day."

"Watch me," she said. "Can you meet me there at seven?"

"No problem."

That's when I knew I'd be working for Sam Lewis. Still, I was curious to hear what she'd say to convince me, not knowing she was preaching to the choir.

I spent the rest of the day wondering which trainers would be there and trying to picture them getting along with each other, but no matter how I grouped them in my imagination, as soon as the group exceeded one, a heated argument would break out. Maybe having me there, just in case, wasn't such a bad idea after all.

Late in the afternoon, Dashiell and I took a walk along the waterfront, New Jersey twinkling across the Hudson. Perhaps it was only meant to be seen from a distance.

Back home, I decided to wear black. Dashiell wore his usual too, white with a black patch over his right eye, his Registered Service Dog tag prominently displayed on his collar. I was about to rouse him so we could leave when I realized I didn't have my keys. They weren't in my jacket pocket. Nor were they on the green marble table outside my kitchen, where I often dropped them.

"Dashiell," I said, "find the keys."

He looked up from where he was sprawled on the sofa, his eyes glazed over with sleep.

"Keys," I repeated, chopping the air with a flat, open hand, his silent signal to search an area.

Dashiell got off the couch and began dowsing for my lost keys. First he moseyed over to my jacket, which I'd tossed over the arm of the sofa. He pushed the pocket with his muzzle to release a puff of air so that he would know what was inside. Then he shoved his big nose in, just to make sure it wasn't fooling him.

He did a paws-up on the marble table. No keys, but he knows my habits, you have to give him that.

He looked around the living room, moving his head from side to side, trolling for the scent he was after. Then he headed up the stairs, his short nails clicking on the wooden steps. A moment later I heard the keys jingling as he descended the staircase. He dropped my key ring into my hand, sat, and barked. I scratched one of his top fifty favorite spots, one of the ones behind his right ear.

"So where were they?" I asked.

But I didn't wait for an answer. I know his habits, too. He's the strong, silent type, not in the least inclined to divulge hard-won professional secrets.



Walking toward Twelfth Street, I was thinking about Sam, wondering if she'd be large and homely, like so many of the women I'd met in dogs. Unlike most people, animals love you anyway.

I pictured her waiting for me at the bar wearing shapeless pants and an oversize top, her ample derriere draping over the sides of the bar stool, her mousey hair pulled back in some no-nonsense, no-style look, her unpolished nails gnawed to the quick.

As I turned east on Twelfth Street, I wondered how I'd know her. Then it occurred to me that it wouldn't exactly be an issue. When I walked into the Gotham Bar and Grill with a pit bull, chances were good she'd know me.

"Super," she said in that husky voice, "you're early, too."

I turned around, but where was Sam?

Behind me, smiling, was a woman about my height, also late thirties, as thin and stylish-looking as if she'd just stepped out of the pages of Vogue. Her straight black hair was cut short in a bouncy Dutch boy bob, her makeup flawless, her dark eyes as bright as a schipperke's.

"I always used to arrive fifteen minutes ahead of schedule when I had to meet my dad," she was saying, "and there he'd be, scowling and looking at his watch, because he'd gotten there half an hour early. It's warped me for life."

She raised the hand that wasn't holding a glass of wine, and a solicitous maître d' appeared to show us to our table. He glanced at Dashiell's credentials, then led the way, Sam following him, Dashiell and I following her. She was wearing a totally gorgeous black suit, probably a size four, the jacket nipped in at the waist, the skirt a good ten inches above her knees. She had the best legs I'd ever seen, unless you count this one transvestite who sometimes hangs out at the Brew Bar on Eleventh Street. If Sam Lewis was having trouble with men, I might as well get myself to a nunnery.

The maître d' took us to a table for four instead of a tiny two-person table, one of the advantages of bringing a dog along. A pewter-colored Statue of Liberty loomed majestically over our table, and high above us were gigantic light fixtures shrouded in off-white cloth, looking like upside-down parachutes suspended from the ceiling of the cavernous space.

Sam ordered a bottle of Montrachet and plunged right into work. "Here's the deal," she said. "I've been keeping a database of dog trainer wanna-bes from all over the country, you know, the ones who follow their favorites to seminars and hear the same talk, and get to see their hero, over and over again. Most of them teach an obedience class, free, for their local dog club, hate their jobs, and want to train dogs for a living. I did a huge mailing, got an excellent response, then got a great deal at the Ritz. I wanted a location that would let us use Central Park, of course, because I didn't think we could do tracking in the Roosevelt Ballroom. Am I right?"

She stopped to inspect the wine bottle the waiter had brought, watched him uncork it, sniffed the cork, sipped the wine, and nodded to him to indicate that it was acceptable.

"The program is fabulous, Rachel. And because we'll have so many of the most respected practitioners in the field, I felt we could offer a certificate of attendance at the end, the way Cornell does for its weekend workshops, and that, of course, allows us to charge more."

"But how did you convince the trainers that it would be to their benefit to work together?"

"I'm good at that," she said, rubbing her thumb and forefinger together. "Anyway, I knew that once I started getting some of them to agree to do it, the others would fall right in line. They might not want to do it, but they were more afraid of being left out. Do you want to order?" she asked, all in the same breath.

I picked up my menu and began to read, but I didn't get very far.

"It's a beautiful setup. Most of the people attending have no way at all of getting a good education in the field. They're out in podunk somewhere, and there isn't a decent trainer within a three-day drive. This way, they get all the top people, all the important topics, great demo work, hands-on practice, slide shows, videos, even the contacts they need for further study, those who want to and can afford it. And the trainers got so into this that several of them suggested we do advanced professional workshops, restricted to those who are speaking, before and after each day's program. No one, it seems, plans to sleep. I know I certainly don't."

She picked up her menu and began to read.

I reached for mine. Monkey see, monkey do.


Excerpted from A Hell of a Dog by Carol Lea Benjamin. Copyright © 1998 Carol Lea Benjamin. Excerpted by permission of OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

Meet 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. 

Customer Reviews

Average Review:

Write a Review

and post it to your social network


Most Helpful Customer Reviews

See all customer reviews >

A Hell of a Dog (Rachel Alexander and Dash Series #3) 4 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 1 reviews.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago