Whiskey with a Twist Read online

  I changed the subject. “How come nobody’s talking about what happened to Mitchell Slater? I thought it would be the main topic of conversation this morning.”

  “You don’t know dog-show people,” Kori said. “The main topic of conversation is always their dogs. And if it isn’t their dogs, it’s themselves. Plus, Perry Stiles slid a memo under everybody’s door asking them to have a moment of silence for Mitchell-on their own time. He doesn’t want anything dragging down the spirit of the show.”

  “But a man was murdered,” I said. “A breeder, no less. Also the chair of several committees.”

  Kori shrugged. “The show must go on.”

  I scanned the room. “Where is Perry Stiles? I thought he was in charge of everything.”

  “He is. That’s why he’s the one talking to the cops.”

  “Right now?”

  She nodded. “I bet the cops think one of the breeders did it.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Cops always suspect the person closest to the victim.”

  “True enough,” I said. “But that’s usually a spouse or lover or ex-lover.”

  “Well, it can’t be Mitchell’s ex-wife cuz she lives in London,” Kori said.

  I waited to see if she’d suggest that Susan and Mitchell had history, but she didn’t. So I prompted her a little.

  “Why would you think a breeder did it?”

  “I don’t know if a breeder did it or not,” Kori said. “But I think the cops would think a breeder did it when they start checking things out.”

  Now that was interesting. Before I could check things out, however, Susan called the room to order. After going over some very boring doggy details, she introduced Ramona as co-chair of the Breeder Education Committee and gave her the floor.

  Ramona’s silvery ensemble seemed over-the-top for a breakfast meeting. Or any meeting before cocktail hour.

  I asked Kori, “How does she get away with dressing like that?”

  “She hires handlers who don’t.”

  When the applause faded, Ramona addressed the room.

  “As you all know, Susan and I have been at this for quite a few years, and we’ve learned a lot along the way. We’re convinced that the best method for teaching new breeders and handlers how to do things right is to show them how to do things wrong. For the breeders, Susan has invited Whiskey Mattimoe with her bitch Abra. For the handlers, we have Kori Davies. Please watch them closely and observe their many mistakes. This morning Kori will be in the show ring with one of Susan’s dogs. How typically generous of Susan to make a personal sacrifice for the sake of breeder education!”

  Ramona cued the audience to applaud. As they did, I reflected on her bathroom reprimand of the Two L’s. Why would Susan care if Lauren and Lindsey bashed Kori? Susan had admitted to me that she couldn’t stand her niece; she was publicly bashing her by presenting her as a Bad Example. Either Ramona simply liked to advocate for Susan, or she wanted to create the impression that she did. Or maybe Ramona was just a two-legged bitch.

  She told her audience, “Whiskey and Abra will not, of course, be permitted in the show ring! But this afternoon Whiskey will walk Abra through the exhibit hall so that you can observe the dog’s condition as well as her owner’s complete lack of control. I promise, it will be an education!”

  An appreciative murmur rippled across the room.

  “It’s customary for the event chairperson to speak at this time,” Ramona said. “As you know, however, Perry Stiles is dealing with an unfortunate incident involving local law enforcement. So I will do the honors. Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to this year’s Midwest Afghan Hound Specialty. Let the show begin!”

  As breeders and guests applauded, I couldn’t help but marvel at the phrase “unfortunate incident.” I’d never heard a murder described that way.

  Chapter Sixteen

  I learned that I would be reunited with Abra just moments before our Walk of Shame at two o’clock. According to Susan, Abra would enjoy her time 'til then playing with fellow Affies.

  I had assumed most owners would keep their hounds away from Abra for fear that she’d contaminate them… with either her messy coat or her messy morals.

  The pettiest part of my nature wondered if Susan was somehow contriving to ensure that Abra misbehaved the moment she saw me. Who was I kidding? Abra always misbehaved. No coaching required. I shouldn’t have been so suspicious. Surely most breeders and handlers were good people, even if one of them had shot Mitchell Slater.

  Since I had the whole morning to kill, I considered taking the tour through Amish country advertised in the brochure that Slater had shredded. But I decided to postpone that pleasure 'til the next day. Kori was due in the ring, and I wanted to catch her performance. She had promised to watch mine. Misery loves company, or at least an audience.

  I wasn’t truly free to do as I pleased since I had certain vague obligations as Jenx’s volunteer deputy. During the Breeder Breakfast, the chief had sent two text messages. The first instructed me to “people watch.” At least that was how I translated “ppl wtch.” I didn’t think Jenx wanted me to bring her home a souvenir purple watch. Ironically, her second message, written in plain English, confused me more: “Watch Susan and Ramona.” For their protection-or mine?

  The chief’s instructions reminded me that I hadn’t seen MacArthur since leaving Magnet Springs. I knew the volunteer bodyguard was around here somewhere because he had told both Jenx and Jeb about Mitchell’s murder. Still, seeing him with my own eyes would be a relief. I couldn’t imagine how one could be an effective protector while staying completely out of sight. Then again, maybe I should have been impressed by MacArthur’s ability to work undercover. Assuming, of course, that he was actually working.

  As Brenda Spenser had predicted, the dry toast and hot tea settled my stomach. So I roamed the hall watching breeders and handlers primp their pooches. Being backstage at the dog show was like slipping behind the scenes at a fashion show. Not that I’d ever been to a fashion show.

  Doggy divas posed passively while determined humans styled their hair-I mean fur-using essentially the same tools employed by my own stylist: detangling spray, steel combs, pin brushes, and blow-dryers. The only notable difference between my salon and this one, other than the presence of hounds, was the size of the blow-dryers. These were as big as floor lamps with the approximate force of a jet engine. An attractive young handler of the male persuasion helpfully explained why such machinery was necessary.

  “With a regular blow-dryer, you can spend two or three hours just drying their coat. It’s like blow-drying a sponge.”

  I had once tried to blow-dry Abra but gave up when my arms cramped; I’d left her to finish drying on a bed of towels. My way of grooming my hound was sending her to the doggie salon… when I managed to catch her… and when I could no longer deny that she was a hideous mess.

  I watched as the handler lovingly, thoroughly combed the fur on, under, and around his dog’s ears. Then he moved on to the armpits-if that’s what you call them on a dog.

  “No point doing that in real life,” I sighed. “Their fur just gets tangled up again.”

  That was when he introduced me to the amazing invention known as the snood. It’s a kind of doggie scarf, and apparently every self-respecting Afghan hound needs one. More than one. Way more.

  Most of the backstage dogs who already had their hair done were wearing snoods-in every imaginable color and fabric. Vendors were selling them as fast as they could make change. Apparently the snood biz was recession-proof.

  The handsome handler man pointed me toward the vendor with the most snoods to sell. I perused the contents of her many plastic bins, trying to decide between a silk leopard-print snood and an iridescent blue-green satin snood. After the vendor finished with a couple clients, she turned to me.

  “You won’t have nearly the problems you’ve got with Abra once she starts wearing these.”

  I was stunned. Not beca
use she recognized me; Susan and Ramona had made sure everyone could do that. No. I was shocked by the implication that putting a snood on Abra might solve some of her issues.

  “Is the snood like… a training device?” I queried hopefully.

  Maybe the handsome handler man had been too busy to tell me how truly wondrous these things were. All the snood-wearing dogs around me were behaving beautifully. Could snoods be the secret?

  The vendor said, “It keeps their ears from getting wet, soiled, or matted.”

  “I know that,” I said impatiently. “I was hoping it would help with other things, like the way she never comes when I call her.“

  And then I saw the pitying look in the vendor’s eyes. I’d seen that exact expression at least twenty times today. It implied that I was tragically unfit to share my life with the glorious creature known as the Afghan hound.

  The vendor whispered, “After your Walk of Shame, stop by my booth. I’ve counseled many a novice about grooming issues. As for training issues… I have a son in the business, so I may be able to help you there, too.”

  So… “Walk of Shame” was more than my private label for this hellish experience. This very public hellish experience.

  She accepted my cash for two snoods and slipped me her business card. Then she turned away to sell a hundred dollars’ worth of snoods to the next eager client.

  The vendor also sold something called a Pee-Proofing Coat. I almost bought one for Chester’s dog, Prince Harry the Pee Master, thinking it was a house-breaking device. No such luck. It’s a wardrobe item that permits show hounds to do their business without soiling their nether regions.

  I read the vendor’s card:

  Live to Love Afghan Hounds!

  Snoods, Coats, Boots, Beds, Grooming Aids

  Gifts for Humans, Too

  Sandy Slater, Owner

  Slater? As in the late Mitchell? Kori had said that his ex-wife was in London. Could this be a sister or a cousin? Or was Kori just plain wrong?

  I studied Sandy Slater and saw no signs of distress. She was in her element selling snoods. Probably a coincidence that her last name was the same as the murder victim’s. Still, as Jenx’s volunteer deputy, I was obliged to snoop around 'til I found out. Digging for personal information among folks who saw me as a dog-owning disgrace might prove almost as difficult as training Abra. My volunteer deputy status was unlikely to motivate anyone; I was a hundred miles outside the jurisdiction where I had no legal clout, anyhow.

  My peripheral vision picked up Kori exiting through the side door of the arena, probably to sneak a smoke before her performance. She was accompanied by a big silver-blue Afghan hound, presumably the dog Susan was willing to “sacrifice” in the ring so that others could learn from Kori’s mistakes. If there was time before they made their entrance, Kori might be willing to answer a question or two about Mitchell Slater. Especially if the answers made Susan look bad. Kori might also know Sandy the vendor and others who had been friendly with the dead man.

  I followed her, planning my next move. After quizzing Kori, I would interview everyone I’d met here so far: Brenda Spenser, the Two L’s, and the handsome handler man, whose name I didn’t know. There was no point talking to Susan again until I had enough information to formulate some new questions. And there was no point talking to Ramona, period, because she flat-out ignored me.

  A canvas curtain hung next to the side exit, partially concealing a stash of folded chairs, tables, and stacked cardboard boxes. As well as a man and a woman in what appeared to my somewhat experienced eyes as a passionate clinch. They kissed and groped each other with a gusto commonly reserved for either honeymooners or adulterers. Since I immediately recognized the couple, I was able to rule out honeymooners.

  Susan Davies was swapping spit with the handsome handler dude, who was young enough to be Kori’s boyfriend.

  Chapter Seventeen

  I would have loved to stand and stare at Susan and boy-toy 'til one of them came up for air. What could be sweeter than letting her know that I knew she was a Bad Example, too?

  That revelation wasn’t completely comforting, however. I had already suspected Susan of philandering, possibly with my own formerly philandering ex-husband, who was once again my lover. Proof that she had no romantic boundaries only gave me more reason to worry about her and Jeb.

  Now I wondered if Susan’s invitation to this event was intended simply to humiliate me. Embarrassment, like beauty, is in the eye of the beholder. If she hoped to shame me in Jeb’s eyes, she’d have to do better-or worse-than Worst in Show. He’d already seen me at the bottom of my game.

  If shaming me in front of the Afghan hound crowd was her goal, what was the point? I didn’t expect to do business with Brenda, Ramona, the Two L’s, or anyone else in this hall. In fact, I planned to never see any of them again.

  If Susan’s goal was to make sure that I and, by extension, my company appeared to her husband as losers, then Odette was in a position to prevent that. Or at least reverse the impression. No doubt my star agent was selling Big Houses on the Prairie even as Susan sucked face.

  Maybe Susan disliked me and her husband enough to want to punish us both. I shook myself like a wet dog. Why worry? Jeb wouldn’t care how pathetic I looked; he (mostly) loved me for the mess I was. Liam didn’t fancy Afghans, so he wouldn’t be here to witness my Walk of Shame.

  I hurried from the exhibit hall, determined to quickly quiz Kori about Sandy Slater. Several handlers loitered near the door, most of them savoring the smokes they weren’t allowed to have inside. Kori was not among them. Figuring that even if every handler didn’t know every other handler, everybody knew Kori, I was about to ask if anyone had seen her. Then I saw her. Or rather, I saw a flash of bubble-gum pink and the tail end of her big blue dog disappear around the corner of the building. So I followed.

  I expected to find Kori lighting up either a cigarette or a joint. I did not expect to find Kori imitating her aunt. Yet that was the scene I stumbled into: Kori kissing a tall gorgeous man. Once again, I knew both the players. But I’d had no inkling these two were acquainted, let alone familiar enough to taste each other’s tongues.

  Finally I had proof that MacArthur was on site. He was also on Kori-pressing her to him with as much zeal as she was using to grab onto him. These two appeared to be even hotter for each other than Susan and the handler. Less inhibited, at any rate. I didn’t know why I was so stunned to find them in a clinch. Kori reminded me of my stepdaughter, and I already knew MacArthur liked her; she was tattooed on his arm for the whole world to see. He may have been the cleaner at work, but on his own time he liked the messy life.

  While I stared at the lovers, the big Afghan hound looked discreetly away. He had better manners than I did, but then he was the one with the pedigree. He issued a low growl, no doubt as a reprimand for my gaping; Kori and MacArthur sprang apart like fighters called to their corners.

  “Hey, Whiskey!”

  MacArthur was faster than Kori at finding another use for his tongue.

  “Hey,” I said. Why was I the only person blushing?

  “Silverado doesn’t like you,” Kori said, indicating the hound, who was still growling.

  “Neither does my dog. That’s why I’m here. At the show, I mean. Not here, here. I’m here, here by complete accident. Really. I never wanted to see that.”

  I always babble when embarrassed. And it only embarrasses me more.

  Kori said, “I thought you were trying to catch me smoking a joint. So you could rat me out to Susan. Again.”

  “I never meant to rat you out! I don’t even like Susan!”

  “Really?” Kori was wary, but I thought she might be warming to me.

  “Really! You’ll never guess what I just caught her doing.”

  “Making out with Matt Koniger? Yeah. I saw them when I went out the door. So did everybody else.”

  Susan Davies had seemed so… Junior League. And yet she must have known that people would see
her kissing the handler.

  So that was Matt Koniger-Kori’s favorite handler-mentor and Brenda Spenser’s young stud, the one Susan had made the catty remark about just before breakfast. My, my.

  “Whiskey, may I speak with you privately?” MacArthur’s brogue broke through my reverie.

  “Uh, sure. In a minute. First, I’d like to ask Kori a couple questions.”

  “I’m due in the ring.” She tapped her bright pink watch.

  “This will only take a few seconds,” I said. “And it’s not about you. Or him.” I nodded toward MacArthur. “It’s about Sandy Slater.”

  “What about her?”

  “Any connection to Mitchell Slater?”

  “What do you think?” Kori shot me a look that said I was a moron.

  “Well, it’s kind of a common name,” I said defensively. “And you did tell me his ex-wife was in London.”

  “His latest ex-wife, yeah.”

  “There’s more than one?”

  Kori held up several fingers.

  “Four ex-wives?” I asked.

  “Amazing! You can count.”

  I probably deserved that. “Was Sandy the first?”

  “Numero Uno. And the only one who never went away. No matter how hard Mitchell tried to push her. You already know she kept his name.”

  “They’ve been divorced a long time?”

  “Long enough for Sandy to have had a kid as old as Matt!”

  “That would be more than twenty years,” I guessed.

  “Try twenty-six. Matt’s a little older than he looks.”

  “Is her kid around here?”

  Kori snort-laughed and shook her head. Not in a way that meant “no,” but in a way that meant I was a dumb-dumb.

  “Matt’s her kid! I thought you got that!” she said. “Matt’s father, legally, was a guy named Koniger. He died when Matt was a baby. He wasn’t into dogs, so none of the Afghan fanciers ever knew him. But judging from the way Matt turned out, Mr. Koniger donated his name only. No sperm.”

  When I didn’t take the bait, Kori added, “Doesn’t Matt remind you of somebody? Somebody you just met?”