Whiskey with a Twist Read online

  Once Abra was safely stowed away again, the female officer summarized what had happened after Mitchell Slater was shot: The desk clerk heard me scream and looked outside. When she saw us sprawled on the gravel surrounded by blood, she assumed we were both dying and dialed 9-1-1. I came to, responded to police questions, submitted to a brief examination, and passed out again. Slater was removed by ambulance. I couldn’t remember any of it.

  Now I sat in the front seat of a police cruiser answering more questions… to the tune of Abra howling in the background again. The officer handed me a standard report form on a clipboard and told me to write out the sequence of events. My head throbbed. I was straining to focus on the report and tune out Abra’s wails when Susan Davies rapped on the patrol car window. I opened the door.

  “Mitchell Slater is dead,” I said numbly. “Somebody shot him.”

  “I know. Two officers came to the exhibit hall. That’s why I’m here. What can I do for you?”

  Susan seemed completely composed. There was no sign in those clear blue eyes that she’d just received jolting news.

  Abra issued a fresh howl, this one louder, higher, and more sustained than any that had come before. The look I gave Susan must have said it all.

  “I’ll take care of her,” she offered. “You need to lie down.”

  “Actually, I need food.” I knew that low blood sugar could give me a throbbing headache, and it had been a long time since I’d eaten.

  “What room are you in? I’ll bring you a sandwich and a Coke.”

  “Seventeen. But don’t bring the dog.”

  I handed over Abra’s leash, eager to watch Perfect Trainer confront the Hound from Hell. This just might be the most entertaining event of the whole weekend: watching Susan extract my canine from my car. First of all, Abra was not generally receptive to strangers. Second, she had a two-response repertoire to any open door: flying leap or complete inertia. I hoped the pretty lady had above-average upper-body strength.

  Susan approached the vehicle slowly, showing the leash. Abra stopped bouncing and stared. Susan’s back was to me, so I couldn’t see her face, but as she neared the window, she must have said something to Abra. I watched in shock as the dog sat demurely in the front passenger seat and waited for Susan to open the door. Then Abra not only allowed the leash to be attached, but she actually heeled as the two strutted off toward the exhibit hall.

  Defeated, I located the nearest cop and turned in my report.

  “Are you, by any chance, one of the officers who broke the bad news to the Afghan hound crowd?” I said.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “How did they take it?”

  “Real hard,” he said. “Mr. Slater must have had a lot of friends. I had to insist they stay in the hall while we processed the murder scene.”

  And yet Susan had come on over. Why? Did she consider herself above the laws that applied to others? Or was she overcome with curiosity about the murder? She certainly hadn’t seemed overcome with sadness. Or shock. Maybe, as she had said, she wanted to make sure I was all right. I was here at her invitation, and I’d been mighty close to that lethal bullet.

  I had one other question the cop might be able to answer. “Where are all the cars? Except for official vehicles, there’s hardly anybody in this lot, and there’s a dog show going on.”

  “The dog show folks are parked around back, closer to the exhibit hall,” he explained.

  After fetching my bag from my car, I started in the direction Susan and Abra had gone, counting motel room doors. The highest number on this side of the building was fifteen, so I figured my room was around the corner.

  Actually, it was around the back. Next to the RV park.

  That’s right. A portion of the rear parking lot was reserved for vehicles large enough to transport a rock band plus entourage. Only these RVs were adorned with Afghan hound logos and kennel names: Windrush Ridge, Zahar’s Legend, Royal Sands, and so forth. I hadn’t had an inkling how serious some breeders were. Or how deeply invested.

  Set up on the nearby grassy area were screened crates and miniature dome-tents containing dogs that looked like mine. Who knew they came in so many colors? I had always thought of Abra as a blonde, but here were several shades of blonde: cream, gold, platinum. Afghans also came in red, black, black and tan, and blue-gray-solid, striped, or streaked. Some dogs even had masks. I was gazing at a veritable kaleidoscope of Afghan hounds.

  They were surprisingly quiet, considering how many of them there were. I knew this was a breed less inclined to bark than say, terriers. But I was still impressed. Afghans are sight hounds, I mused. Maybe they just like to look at each other.

  Their quiet nature was a good thing given that my room was right next door to Doggie World. I inserted my key and turned the knob. The metal door clicked open. I inhaled a potent cocktail of Lysol, Pinesol, and Mr. Clean.

  I imagined the motel slogan:

  “Welcome to the Barnyard Inn, home of creatures great, small, and smelly. We do our best to disinfect.”

  Blood thumped through the veins in my head, making me wince with pain at each pulsation. I had seen a man die. I needed to lie down. But first I needed to shed my stained clothes. No. I needed to pitch them.

  Since the room was likely to look as dismal as it smelled, I kept the draperies closed and switched on one light only for the express purpose of locating a wastebasket. I stripped to my skin and stuffed everything, underwear included, into the not-quite knee-high bin. Then I stepped into the shower and let the hot water do its magic on my tense muscles. I dried myself with the only scratchy towel I could find, pulled a cotton nightshirt from my suitcase, popped three aspirins, and headed for the lone bed. Even in the shadowy light from the single 40-watt bulb, I could see that the bed sagged and the bedspread was frayed. I yanked off the coverlet, clicked off the light, and literally fell into bed. The springs screeched in protest. I willed myself to sleep; before that could happen, however, someone rapped briskly on my door. I assumed it was Susan with my sandwich.

  “Come in,” I murmured, much too tired to get up.

  “Door’s locked,” a man responded.

  The deep voice sent me into an upright position.

  “Who’s there?”

  “Perry Stiles, Mrs. Mattimoe. I’m chairman of the Midwest Afghan Hound Specialty. Just checking on you. I trust you’re doing fine?”

  “Well, I’m not fine, but I’m… doing better than I was an hour ago.”

  “Wonderful!” he enthused. “Susan will be along in a few minutes with something for you to eat. I speak for everyone here when I say that we look forward to meeting you tomorrow. Take care now!”

  “Thank you,” I said uncertainly and slid back down between the sheets, my eyes shut. Before I could draw a complete breath there was another knock.

  “It’s me-Susan.”

  “I know, and the door is locked,” I mumbled, flinging off the covers. I found the light switch. My head still hurt.

  Holding a white paper take-out bag and a tall paper cup, Susan was framed in the fading light of day. It lent a golden glow to her whole person. I, on the other hand, felt like a shadow in search of a dark hole.

  “May I come in?” Susan asked.

  I was dismayed. Why must she always invite herself to my place?

  “I’m really not up to entertaining.”

  She laughed politely. “I just need a moment with you in private.”

  “I’m not feeling well,” I said.

  “Oh? Perry Stiles said you were fine.”

  I groaned and stepped back to let her enter. Her room must have been identical to mine. She didn’t bother to look around for a place to sit down. There wasn’t one, other than the bed. Susan went straight to it and sat on the edge, holding her goodies out for me to take. I did so and placed them on top of that “free TV” I hadn’t yet taken advantage of. Then I returned to the bed and got into it. If she was determined to impose on me, then dammit, I wanted her to see
how big her imposition was.

  “Perry canceled tonight’s Meet-and-Greet,” Susan began. “Out of respect for Mitchell.”

  I said nothing.

  “But there’s a Breeder Breakfast tomorrow at seven. We’re serving a hot buffet at the hall. You’re invited.”

  “I’m not a breeder.” Not in any sense of the word.

  “We’re making an exception in your case. After all, you’re here as the guest of our Breeder Education Committee.”

  “Speaking of which, where’s my dog?”

  “Don’t worry. I’m taking care of Abra tonight.” Susan smiled that maddeningly lovely smile of hers. “Get all the rest you need. I imagine that girl is quite a challenge for you.”

  “You can’t begin to imagine,” I replied.

  “The good news is that you’re going to learn some things this weekend,” Susan said.

  “Will Abra learn something? That would be good news.”

  “She’s learning all the time, Whiskey. You just don’t know it.”

  “Well, here’s something I do know: Mitchell Slater considered you his friend. Unfortunately we only had a minute to chat about it.”

  The sudden turn in conversation silenced Susan. In the low light of my tawdry room, she sat very still.

  I waited a moment, then added, “He said he left his wife for you.”

  “Mitchell left his wife for his own reasons.” Susan’s voice had taken on a steely tone.

  “He considered you a friend,” I repeated.

  “No. He considered me a trophy.” Susan rose abruptly. “See you in the morning.”

  She closed the door a little harder than necessary.

  Ah. I’d managed to make a hairline crack in her fine porcelain façade.

  Why had Susan felt the need to speak to me in private? Surely she could have invited me to breakfast without coming in. Apparently I had short-circuited our conversation by bringing up Mitchell Slater. What was their relationship?

  Why had the shooter missed the women but killed the man? Was MacArthur right that the earlier shots were a “message”? If so, was the message a warning for Slater? What a shame that he hadn’t paid attention.

  Suddenly I realized something: Mitchell Slater was killed while flirting with me.

  Did that make me a femme fatale?

  Chapter Thirteen

  As soon as Susan left, I crawled to the end of my lumpy bed and reached for the food parked on top of the TV. Hoping to distract myself while I ate, I searched for the remote control. There was none. Apparently the TV was free, but the remote was extra. So was cable. I was able to bring in a total of four channels, none of them worth watching. But that had never stopped me before. I did my best to turn my two skinny pillows into a bolster, and I unwrapped my sandwich.

  It was a lukewarm overcooked burger with everything on it except cheese, bacon, and mushrooms. Unfortunately, cheese, bacon, and mushrooms are the only things I like on my burger. So I picked off the wilted lettuce, tomato, onion, and pickles; used a napkin to wipe the condiments from the bun; and scarfed the whole thing down while watching five minutes of a sleep-inducing PBS documentary. At least my Coke tasted good. With the TV still on, I dozed off.

  I awoke barely in time to make it to the toilet before I heaved. And kept heaving for what seemed like an hour. This was one meal I couldn’t blame on Chester.

  Either my insides were seriously on the blink, or Susan had brought me a bad burger. I did my best to convince myself that she hadn’t made me sick on purpose. Provided I was well enough to get to the dog show in the morning, I would inquire as to whether anyone else who’d eaten food from the concession stand got sick.

  Shakily I dragged myself back to bed, grateful I had a little Coke and ice left to sip. I jumped when my cell phone rang. What time was it? Barely midnight. Still early for most folks on a Friday night. Folks having fun, that is.

  Jenx said, “No need to let your chief of police know you were nearly killed. MacArthur gave me a call.”

  In the pandemonium following Slater’s murder, I’d completely forgotten about Jenx. And MacArthur; I hadn’t seen him anywhere.

  “He must be keeping a low profile,” I said. “More like a spy than a bodyguard.”

  “Whatever,” Jenx said. “He knows what’s going on.”

  “Yeah, but is he trying to keep me alive?”

  “You’re still ticking, aren’t you?”

  Jenx wanted to hear from me what had happened. After I’d told her everything, including the fact that Susan’s meal had made me sick, she said, “You’ve had a pretty shitty day.”

  “Can I go home now?” I asked, hoping an authority figure would give me permission.

  “You made a commitment to show your dog,” Jenx said. “After you do that, you can go home.”

  “Abra is no show dog,” I muttered.

  “No shit,” Jenx said. “Unless you mean ‘Worst in Show.’”

  She pointed out that I had additional reasons to be there, like schmoozing Susan.

  “This started as a business trip,” she reminded me. “So do your business! Odette says it’s high time you do some PR for the company.”

  Was this public relations-or public humiliation? Now that I was here, surrounded by gorgeous dogs and serious dog-people, I wasn’t sure how being a Bad Example could be good for my business. Would Liam Davies like Mattimoe Realty better because his wife proved I couldn’t handle my dog?

  I expressed my doubts to Jenx.

  “Going to the show proves you care about your community,” she said. “And that’s gotta be good for business.”

  “How does going to a dog show in Indiana prove I care about Magnet Springs?”

  “You’re admitting that Abra is a public menace, and you’re asking for help. Speaking of help, have you talked to Jeb? He’s worried about you.”

  Just then a call from the man himself beeped in my ear. I told Jenx I’d call her back. She told me not to… unless I got in more trouble.

  I greeted Jeb’s incoming call by quoting Jenx: “I’ve had a pretty shitty day.”

  “So I hear. MacArthur told me you saw a man die.”

  “When did you talk to MacArthur?”

  “I asked him to phone me if anything bad happens to you. He’s called twice already. You haven’t called at all.”

  Jeb’s voice had that whispery edge I always found sexy.

  “Sorry,” I said. “Catching a dead body when it falls is distracting. How are you?”

  “Fine, but lonely. Chester’s cooking up a storm.”

  “I couldn’t eat a bite. Did you really tell MacArthur to let you know if something bad happened to me?”

  “Yup, and I expect more calls.” Jeb hesitated. “You know I’d come if you asked. Any chance you’re asking?”

  Part of me wanted to, but instead I said, “I’m a big girl.”

  “Yes, you are. Keep your head down, babe.”

  “I’m not sure that’ll help. Still, I feel good knowing you’re on my team.”

  “You got MacArthur, Jenx, and Chester on your team, too. But I’m the one who knows how to make you feel way better than good.“

  He whispered a few more lines designed to get me hot and bothered. I went to sleep dreaming about his smooth hands all over my body.

  I forgot to set an alarm, which turned out not to matter since Susan remembered to wake me up. At 6:15.

  From the other side of my door, she called, “Good morning, Whiskey! I’m leaving a cup of hot coffee out here to help you get started. The Breeder Breakfast begins at seven. See you then!”

  Despite my mother’s teachings, I could not find it in my heart to say thank you. Susan seemed to do almost everything right. As a result, almost everything she did offended me.

  The coffee tasted good, much better than last night’s burger. Jeb had probably been right when he said Susan wasn’t to blame for that. Most concession stands produce mediocre fare, at best.

  I’d been looking for ways
to fault Susan ever since I met her. It’s satisfying to suspect an attractive woman of having hideous flaws. In this case: compulsive lying, marriage-busting, and food-poisoning. Two out of the three were still distinct possibilities.

  I didn’t know what to make of her interest in Jeb. Was she just a loyal fan? He seemed to think so, and I wanted to believe him.

  What about Mitchell Slater? If he’d left his wife for Susan, she must have given him a reason. According to her, she would have been his “trophy.” Whatever that meant.

  Standing in the shower, letting hot liquid jets revive me, I mulled over Susan’s possible reasons for insisting I come to the dog show. Was I really here because of Abra? Or did she need me for another purpose? And if so, what was it? I was hardly the best choice in personal protection even if I did come with a professional cleaner willing to work for free.

  I couldn’t buy the notion that she’d invited me and Abra because she wanted to “do good works.” I’d lived long enough to recognize Susan‘s type. Sure, she was a reputable breeder and a frequent volunteer. But I believed that her personal agenda always came first. As soon as I could figure out Susan’s intentions, I would know why Abra and I were here. Then I might be able to guess what would happen next. For now, though, I was completely in the dark.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Overnight the temperature had dropped sharply, imparting a silvery finish to the still-green grass. I inhaled decidedly autumn smells: morning dew mixed with damp earth and drying leaves.

  After the ordeal of the previous evening, I felt surprisingly strong and upbeat. Even my stomach seemed normal. Until I entered the exhibition hall and caught a whiff of the hot breakfast buffet.

  Hello, gag reflex. Good-bye, morning calm.

  I was desperately scanning the walls for a restroom when a smiling woman with a nametag I couldn’t read and a haircut I coveted waved at me.

  “Good morning! I’ll bet you’re here for the breakfast, aren’t you?”

  “That was the plan. But first I need to find a bathroom. Fast!”

  Helpfully she pointed to what would have been eleven o’clock on the dial, and I galloped off. When I reached the bathroom stall, I realized that I had no cookies left to toss, just a lot of unhappy gastric juices. So I hung out for a while, breathing deeply and eavesdropping on other people’s conversations.