Playing Dead


 
 
 
 Also by Peggy Rothschild
 
 A Deadly Bone to Pick
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 BERKLEY PRIME CRIME
 Published by Berkley
 An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
 penguinrandomhouse.com
 
 Copyright © 2023 by Peggy Rothschild
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 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
 Names: Rothschild, Peggy, author.
 Title: Playing dead / Peggy Rothschild.
 Description: New York: Berkley Prime Crime, [2023] | Series: A Molly
 Madison mystery
 Identifiers: LCCN 2022022021 (print) | LCCN 2022022022 (ebook) | ISBN 9780593437117 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780593437124 (ebook)
 Subjects: LCGFT: Detective and mystery fiction. | Novels.
 Classification: LCC PS3618.O86874 P58 2023 (print) | LCC PS3618.O86874 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6—dc23/eng/20220510
 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022022021
 LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022022022
 Cover design by Farjana Yasmin
 Book design by George Towne, adapted for ebook by Molly Jeszke
 This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
 pid_prh_6.0_142435014_c0_r0
 
 
 CHAPTER 1
 
 
 
 Harlow hung her head out the back seat window, golden ears flapping and tongue lolling. The Saint Berdoodle nudged his way into the opening behind her. Drool broke free from the big dog’s flews. Though I loved Noodle, three months living with him hadn’t yet numbed me to his faucet-like slobbering. Hoping the stream of saliva hadn’t hit anyone, I signaled and turned the 4Runner onto a two-lane, following the instructions provided by my GPS.
 Ten minutes later, I turned onto another narrow road. A sturdy windbreak rose on my right along with a string of phone poles. To my left, avocado groves alternated with orange trees. The air smelled of eucalyptus, citrus, and hay. I noticed a flyer was stapled to each phone pole I passed. Slowing, I read the posted message: “$1,000 Reward for Information on Our Missing Golden, Freddy.” Below the words, a photo of a smiling retriever along with a phone number. The flyer’s edges were curled, and the picture looked sun-bleached. How long had Freddy been missing? Or had he come home and no one bothered to pull down the flyers? Hoping it was answer number two, I sped up again.
 Near the road’s end, the GPS voice said to turn right. I bumped onto the single dirt lane. Dust swirled around us, and I tapped the brake. “Heads back inside, guys.” I powered up the windows and turned on the AC. Another half mile along the driveway, Noodle began to bark.
 “Can you smell the other dogs already?” This would be our first time at Playtime Academy for Dogs’ training facility. Members of my Tuesday agility class swore by this place and its staff. In addition to agility, they had scent work classes, rally, and barn hunt. Only Harlow did agility, but I was eager for Noodle to take part in his first barn hunt. Everything I read assured me the rats were kept safe. An animal-loving vegan in my agility class swore the rats looked like they were having a good time. Who was I to argue with that sort of testimony?
 Noodle was a gentle giant. But having adopted him from a sociopath, I often worried how he’d interact with others. I’d spent the last three months introducing him to new people, animals, and experiences. So far, the Saint Berdoodle had done great.
 I guided the 4Runner around a pothole. The slope turned steep. Slowing, I continued up the winding incline through the tawny, rolling hills. Though the day was warm, friends assured me it would feel like fall soon. I missed the autumn leaves of Massachusetts, but doubted I’d miss the snow and ice when winter rolled around.
 A metal sign arching over the drive—and the GPS voice—told me I’d reached my destination. I pulled into the gravel parking lot on the right. About a dozen vehicles were already there. I chose a spot a few feet from a large SUV with an “I Heart Boxers” bumper sticker. When I cut the engine, Harlow woofed. “That’s right, girl, we’re here.”
 I reopened the windows and climbed out. It was at least ten degrees warmer here than on the coast. I pulled off my hoodie and told the dogs to stay. A group of about twenty people were gathered near a fenced field. Beyond that sat a second grassy enclosure plus two sizable dirt arenas. Wow. The arenas even had lights for night classes. Though I’d assumed the name “barn hunt” was figurative, there was also a big red barn.
 The closest grass field was set up for standard agility competition practice, the unoccupied field beyond it for jumpers. An angular woman dressed in a khaki shirtdress and running shoes stood inside the first field, her Akita already off leash. Instead of being dialed in on her person, the dog looked bored. An Akita on the course meant I’d timed my arrival well; the small dogs had already run. A cowboy-looking guy clutching a clipboard approached the woman, but they were too far away for me to overhear any pointers.
 Instead of checking in, I walked to the field and leaned against the railing. I scanned my surroundings while waiting for their run to begin. The buildings looked freshly painted, and even from here, I could see that the agility equipment was rubberized. Playtime obviously ran a quality