Whiskey with a Twist Read online

  Susan’s name came up a few times. All references were factual comments about either her Breeder Education committee or her scheduled address to the breakfast crowd. In every case, the words chosen implied emotional neutrality, proving only that the speakers were aware anyone could be lurking behind a stall door.

  I emerged from my personal “recovery room” just as one woman remarked to another, “Did you get a look at that bitch Susan brought in as Bad Example? Oh my god, what a mess!”

  Both women stood at the sink, brushing chin-length silky blonde hair. Our three pairs of eyes met in the mirror, and they stopped talking. But only for a second.

  “She looks awful,” the second woman whispered, her voice husky with disapproval. “She has no sense of shame.”

  “None at all,” the first woman agreed. “She turns everything into a circus.”

  Didn’t they know I could hear them?

  Still grooming their tresses, they frowned at my not-quite-blow-dried curls. My hair was so thick and unruly that it broke brushes. So I finger-combed and hoped for the best.

  “A little discipline wouldn’t hurt,” the second woman said.

  “She just doesn’t care,” sighed the first woman.

  Wanna bet? I was all set to defend my dog and myself, not necessarily in that order, when a stall door opened, and out stepped Ramona Bowden, wearing what looked shimmery silver pajamas. The two blondes blanched.

  “Hello, girls,” Ramona said. “I couldn’t help but overhear you. Wait until I tell Susan that you’ve been gossiping about her niece.”

  “Her niece?” I blurted. “I thought they were talking about me! Or my dog.”

  As usual, Ramona failed to acknowledge my existence, but the two blondes stared. Ramona peered down her aquiline nose at them both.

  “Lauren. Lindsey. Best of luck to you. I’m quite sure you’ll need it.”

  “We weren’t talking about Susan’s niece!” the woman named Lauren insisted, but Ramona had already swept her considerable bulk from the room.

  “Then who were you talking about?” I asked.

  “Susan’s niece,” the woman named Lindsey admitted.

  “Susan Davies recruited her niece as a bad example… of what?” I said.

  “A handler,” Lauren said. “She’s a complete disgrace.”

  Lindsey nodded. “She didn’t come up through Junior Showmanship. Like we did.”

  They exchanged amused glances. Both women were about thirty years old; Lauren was slightly taller and thinner, while Lindsey was prettier. They wore expensive dark suits and sensible rubber-soled shoes. They looked like athletes. Also the products of private education. I was willing to bet they had played lacrosse.

  “What’s Susan’s niece’s name?” I said and realized that I hadn’t offered my own. “I’m Whiskey Mattimoe, by the way.”

  “We know,” they said.

  “You do?”

  “You’re the other Bad Example,” Lindsey said.

  “Susan’s niece is Kori Davies,” Lauren said. “You’ll meet her at the breakfast.”

  “You won’t be able to miss her,” Lindsey said, and they both tittered.

  So it was that I emerged from the ladies’ room at the Midwest Afghan Hound Specialty with the “Two L’s.” Apparently, they had a joint reputation as top handlers. Both had shown “countless” champions at regional and national events, including the Westminster Kennel Club show. This was going to be an extremely busy weekend because they worked for lots of breeders.

  Lindsey had been right when she said I wouldn’t be able to miss Kori. It helped that the young woman was standing indignantly by Susan’s side. But the biggest clue to Kori’s identity as Bad Handler was her appearance, outrageous by even my laissez-faire standards: she wore a short-skirted bubble-gum pink suit and matching running shoes. Bubble-gum pink was also the color of the streaks in her spiky black hair. And her dangling earrings, which were large enough to be detected by an orbiting spy satellite.

  The combined steam-table smells of eggs, sausage, and bacon almost turned me green again, but I remembered to breathe deeply and think about things other than food. That last part was easy now that I had Kori in my sights.

  “Did you find the bathroom all right?”

  It was the smiling woman with the perfect haircut who had showed me where to go. Now she was close enough for me to read her nametag: Brenda Spenser from Columbus. I nodded and thanked her.

  “You still look pale. Did you get a bad burger from the concession stand yesterday?”

  “Yes!” I said. “Did you?”

  “No, but my handler did. From now on, stick to hot dogs and nachos.”

  She winked conspiratorially. I wasn’t sure how to reply, so I winked back. Then I noticed that everyone not already wearing a nametag was fetching one from a table near the buffet line.

  “I need to get myself a nametag,” I said.

  “That’s not necessary,” Brenda said, still smiling. “Everybody knows you’re Whiskey Mattimoe.”

  “Everybody?”

  She nodded sympathetically. “Susan introduced us to your dog last night. Have some dry toast and tea. You’ll feel much better.”

  I found some comfort in knowing I wasn’t the only two-legged Bad Example. Oddly, I felt superior to Kori Davies, who was probably there because of nepotism. Or reverse nepotism. Watching the body language between her and Susan-thoroughly chilly-I could only assume that she was the non-blood-relative whom Susan loved to hate.

  I had one of those in my ex-stepdaughter. Yes, Kori reminded me of Avery, who for once was far, far away. I must have stared long enough for Susan to pick up my vibe. She waved and started in my direction. The instant she left Kori’s side, I saw the Bad Handler whip out a pack of cigarettes and head for the exit.

  “Poor Susan,” Brenda said. “She’s going to be stuck with that girl for the whole school year.”

  “Kori’s still in school?” From where we stood, I had estimated her age to be close to Avery’s: twenty-two.

  “Community college.” Brenda pronounced the term in the same tone that Ramona had used for designer dogs. “Unless, of course, they can find her a job, which isn’t likely.”

  “Liam is her uncle, right? Surely he could find her a job.”

  Brenda looked baffled. “Where?”

  “How about in his own company?”

  “There are no jobs in real estate,” Brenda said. She added, “There are no jobs anywhere when you have a criminal record.”

  “Kori did time?”

  Brenda nodded, watching Susan stride toward us. “For car theft and vehicular homicide, what Susan calls a ‘joy ride gone wrong.’ Kori has a tendency to sabotage every advantage she has. She’s made a hash of the handler training Susan gave her, which is why she’s here today-“

  “Whiskey, welcome to the Midwest Afghan Hound Specialty. I hope you’re feeling much better this morning.”

  Susan spoke from at least ten feet away. So as to interrupt Brenda?

  “They’re opening the buffet line now,” she continued. “Our guests of honor go first.”

  I hoped that didn’t include Abra. But I was quite sure it did include Kori, who had just sneaked out for a smoke.

  “Whiskey’s a little off her food this morning,” Brenda told Susan. “She got a bad burger yesterday, just like Matthew did.”

  “Oh? What a shame.”

  Susan didn’t seem to recall that she was the one who had brought me the bad burger.

  “I told Matthew to sleep in,” Brenda said. “He’ll need all his strength.”

  “I’m sure of that,” Susan said.

  Brenda tossed her beautifully trimmed head and excused herself.

  I assumed Matthew was the handler Brenda had mentioned earlier. Why would handlers attend a breeder breakfast? The Two L’s were here, and there may have been others in attendance… besides the Bad Example. I asked Susan how that worked.

  “Breeders often invite their handlers
to join them at the Saturday breakfast. It’s a courtesy. Except, of course, in Brenda’s case.”

  “Oh?”

  “Brenda’s handler is her lover. Her much younger lover. He goes where she goes. Brenda keeps him on a short leash.”

  Susan gave me a smile almost sweet enough to belie the cattiness in her remark. She nodded toward the buffet line, adding, “Shall we start? Oh, dear. I seem to have lost my handler.”

  “You let your niece handle your dogs?” I said. “I thought she was a Bad Example!”

  Susan’s face took on a pained expression.

  “I let her handle one of my dogs, yes. She’s Liam’s family. You know how that goes.”

  “Actually, I do.”

  “I know you do,” Susan affirmed. “Jeb has told me about Avery.”

  I wondered what else my guy had confided.

  “Where are Kori’s parents?” I said. “Why can’t they help her?”

  “Brenda didn’t tell you that part of the story?”

  I shook my head.

  “Surely she told you that Kori was in prison for car theft and vehicular homicide?”

  When I hesitated, Susan said, “If Brenda didn’t tell you, someone else would. Kori stole a car in order to impress her parents. She wanted them to think she was doing well when in fact she was living with a drug addict, and neither of them had jobs.”

  I blinked but said nothing.

  “While driving the stolen car-with her parents in it-Kori ran a red light and T-boned another vehicle. Her parents were killed, and the other driver was injured. Kori wasn’t hurt. At trial the judge took pity on her, pointing out that she had just turned eighteen, and her actions had cost her parents their lives. He assumed that the accident had psychologically scarred her, and she would need a chance to rebuild her life. So he gave her the lightest possible sentence.”

  “When was that?” I said.

  “Three years ago. She went to jail for ten months. Since she got out, she’s been busy blowing most of the money she inherited from her parents’ estate. Kori wasn’t ‘scarred’ by the accident. She was born that way.”

  “What way?”

  “Not giving a shit.”

  Hearing blunt language from Susan’s elegant lips was a shock. But more surprises were coming.

  “Her father was Liam’s only brother. Which makes Kori Liam’s only family. Besides me,” Susan said. “Like you, Whiskey, I never had kids. Liam wanted them, but I didn’t. He holds that against me. I’m sure it’s why he takes Kori’s side over mine. I’m doing the best I can, but that girl is almost more than I can bear.”

  Suddenly I felt a kinship with this woman. A kinship that couldn’t possibly endure. Susan would always be too pretty and too sophisticated for me to trust, let alone relate to, save for brief moments when I recognized the excruciating similarity of her life with Kori to my life with Avery.

  “This is so typical of Kori,” Susan said. “She knew I was about to introduce her, so she disappeared. Just to humiliate me.”

  “She went outside for a smoke.”

  I took almost as much pleasure in ratting out Kori as I would have in tattling on Avery. It was surprisingly satisfying. I even pointed out the exit she had used so that Susan could expediently find her.

  They were both back within moments, Kori wearing an expression of complete indifference next to Susan’s mask of repressed irritation.

  “Good morning, fellow breeders!” Susan announced from the steam table. “On behalf of the Breeder Education Committee, I welcome you and your guests, and invite you to enjoy this delicious hot breakfast. It’s a lovely day in Nappanee, and we have so many beautiful dogs to show. As is customary at our breeder breakfasts, I’m going to quickly introduce our guests of honor and ask them to lead the buffet line.”

  She paused for the obligatory smattering of applause.

  “Thank you. First, I’d like you to meet Whiskey Mattimoe, who has traveled from Magnet Springs, Michigan, with her bitch Abra.”

  Breeders and handlers clapped enthusiastically. I could not imagine why.

  “Second, I’d like to introduce to any of you who haven’t already met her, our guest handler at this event: Kori Davies.”

  “Don’t applaud, I hate bull shit,” Kori interjected before anyone had time to put their hands together.

  She had an astonishingly deep voice. If my eyes had been closed when she spoke, I would have pictured a college football player. Yet Kori couldn’t have been taller than five-foot-five or weighed more than a hundred and twenty pounds. The distinct odor of marijuana emanated from her bubble-gum-colored attire. Apparently Kori liked a little weed before breakfast.

  “Let’s eat this crap and get this day from hell over with.”

  Kori was already heaping an obscene amount of scrambled eggs onto two Styrofoam plates as the rest of the room stared.

  Who would have guessed that I, half of the Bad Example team from Michigan, would find it in my heart to pity Susan Davies? And yet, for just a moment, I did.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Watching Kori Davies shovel eggs, bacon, sausage, and potatoes onto two sagging plates as I inhaled her eau de marijuana cologne should have rekindled my nausea. Except that Kori distracted me and my stomach with an avalanche of comments.

  “How do you feel about being the other Bad Example?”

  She hadn’t yet looked at me.

  “Well, it’s a team effort. I couldn’t have done it without my dog.”

  “I couldn’t have done it without a lot of people’s dogs.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Oh yeah. Susan hooked me up with her Afghan hound friends. She knew I loved dogs, so she figured I’d love handling them in the show ring. I do, kind of. But not the way Susan wants me to do it.”

  “Then why do it?”

  When Kori shrugged, her double-wide load of food threatened to hit the floor. But she rebalanced her cargo.

  “It’s a chance to play with big beautiful dogs and mess with Susan’s head at the same time. Why not do it?”

  Kori’s bloodshot eyes twinkled.

  “Did Susan teach you to handle dogs?” I said.

  “She tried, yeah, but I didn’t make it easy for her. So she asked some other people to work with me. I learned the most from Matt Koniger. He’s Brenda Spenser’s boy-toy… this week. And I learned the least from the Two L’s. They don’t just show bitches, they are bitches. Did you have the pleasure of meeting them yet?”

  I nodded.

  “The real question,” Kori said, “is how did you get on Susan’s shit list?”

  “I’m here as a professional courtesy. Her husband-your uncle-is doing business with my company.”

  Some part of my answer struck Kori as hilarious.

  “Finding everything you need?”

  Susan gracefully inserted herself in the buffet line between her niece and me. I assumed the question was mine to answer, but Kori intercepted it.

  “Duh.”

  She raised her mounded plates to Susan’s eye level.

  “You might want to go a little easy on the calories,” Susan advised. “That new suit I bought you is a size four.”

  “Your size. Not mine. And now if you’ll excuse me, I need to feed.”

  She scooted away. Susan tossed me a pained “see-what-I-mean?” glance and added, “You should eat more than dry toast. It’s going to be a long day.”

  I begged off. Watching Kori load her plates was almost more than my stomach could bear.

  “We’ll have a short program for breeders and their guests,” Susan went on. “All you’ll need to do is follow my lead.”

  As long as her lead didn’t come with a collar, I could handle it. At the head table, Kori was tucking into both plates at the same time. I’d never seen anyone eat two-fisted before.

  “Is that all you’re having?” She eyed my nearly empty plate, her mouth full of eggs.

  I nodded.

  “Are you on a diet or something?”r />
  “I’ve got a bad stomach.”

  It didn’t take long for her to finish both plates. When she pushed back from the table like a satisfied lumberjack, I expected her to rock the room with a belch.

  Instead she said, “How do you like the Specialty so far? ‘All Afghans, All the Time.’ More like, all attitude all the time.”

  I thought about it. “So far everybody’s been nice to me. Except maybe the Two L’s.”

  Kori snorted.

  “If you don’t mind my asking,” I said, “what makes you a bad handler?”

  “Can’t you tell?”

  “I haven’t seen you in action.”

  “You’ve seen how I dress. A handler is supposed to be ‘invisible’ behind the dog. But this is who I am, and I’m not changing. I don’t care about protocol or tradition or whatever they want to call it. And I don’t care how many dark suits Susan buys me. She picks stuff she wants to wear, anyhow, so she can keep it.”

  Kori was guilty of having a whopping bad attitude, plus lousy taste in wardrobe. But those were minor offenses compared to, say, shooting a breeder. And yet Kori was attracting a whole lot more negative attention than whoever had murdered Mitchell Slater. I hadn’t heard anybody even mention that.

  Which raised another question: Whoever shot at Susan and Ramona hadn’t come close to hitting either of them, but presumably the same person managed to kill Slater. With a single bullet.

  Were Susan and Ramona a warning, a distraction, or target practice?

  Kori was not so discreetly checking the contents of her crinkled pack of cigarettes. I wondered if any of them contained tobacco.

  “I sure would like a smoke, but there’s no way Susan’s letting me out of her sight now.” She studied me. “You snitched, didn’t you?”

  “Pardon?”

  “You told Susan I was outside smoking.”

  My face got hot. “Well, I-“

  “I don’t care. It’s more fun when she comes after me. She’s always afraid that I’ll embarrass her. Again.”