Whiskey with a Twist

by Nina Wright

  Whiskey with a Twist

  Nina Wright

  Whiskey Mattimoe never thought the skill set of her Afghan Hound Abra – stealing purses and farting – might interest a professional dog breeder. But that's exactly what's attracted Susan Davies, who wants Abra to participate in a canine competition… as a Worst-In-Show example of how not to train an Affie.

  Soon, Whiskey finds herself bored and embarrassed in Northern Indiana Amish country, watching Abra wreak havoc at the Midwest Afghan Hound Show. But when two champion pooches vanish and a handler turns up dead, the sleepy community's rustic charm disappears… along with Abra.

  Nina Wright

  Whiskey with a Twist

  The fifth book in the Whiskey Mattimoe Mystery series, 2009

  For the 17-word man from the 80,000-word woman.

  Acknowledgments

  Warmest thanks to the following writers and readers for skillfully and generously critiquing my drafts: Teddie Aggeles, M.K. Buhler, Rebecca Gall, Greg Neri, and Richard Pahl.

  Hugs to Clooney and Redford, the four-leggers.

  I write with fond memories of Flannery, Lola, Endo, and Talley. See y’all in another novel.

  Chapter One

  “She breeds Afghan hounds?” I asked. “Then why would I want to meet her?”

  I was drinking with my ex-husband, who looked good in the autumn sunlight slanting across Mother Tucker’s oak bar. So good that I strained to remind myself of the pain that must have surrounded our divorce. At the moment I could recall none at all.

  “I already have an Afghan hound,” I said. “One is too many.”

  Jeb Halloran sipped his scotch, a fine single malt that he could only recently afford. “Susan Davies has connections.”

  “Will she take Abra?” My voice rose in hope.

  “She sells dogs, Whiskey. She doesn’t collect them. But she might introduce you to her husband.”

  “Will he take Abra?”

  “No, but he might help you make money. Liam is a builder.”

  “The real estate market sucks.”

  It was my turn to drink. But unlike Jeb, I didn’t sip. I gulped. The Pinot went down way too easy.

  Jeb signaled the barkeep to pour me another. “It’s not that bad.”

  “It’s not that bad if you’re a buyer with financing. If you’re one of them, you got plenty to choose from. Thanks to all those foreclosures…”

  Real estate values were in the toilet, even in Magnet Springs. A downsized job market and mortgage-lending crisis had tightened screws on homeowners everywhere. Michigan and other industrial states were especially hard hit. Locally, though, we had an advantage: ours was a resort region, scenic and sports-oriented the whole year round. We were a playground for the Midwestern rich. Particularly those from Chicagoland, a mere one hundred miles across the Greatest Great Lake.

  Jeb said, “Knowing Susan and her husband might help. He’s negotiating with the Shirtz Brothers. Money will be made.”

  I knew about Susan Davies’ husband and his builder-developer machine. Rumor had it that Liam Davies, Ltd. was conferring with a local farm family to purchase an eighty-acre parcel at the north end of town.

  “No real estate commission to be made on that transaction,” I said.

  “Ah, but what happens next?” Jeb tossed me a teasing look. The kind that usually led to action in the boudoir.

  “What?”

  He grinned maddeningly. “Meet Susan. You know how things work.”

  I knew this much: During economic downturns, the poor get poorer, the middle gets squeezed, and the rich scoop up real estate bargains. Chicago-based Davies had built his fortune turning land in Illinois and Indiana into industrial compounds, office parks, and subdivisions. His plan for the land along Uphill Road remained a mystery. Although the property was zoned agricultural, anything was possible.

  “Start pouring. The drinks are on me!” announced a voice rich with Tongo accent and real estate commissions.

  Odette Mutombo, the best Realtor on this side of the state, slid onto the bar stool next to mine. Ignoring me, she fixed her sparkling black eyes on Jeb.

  “Don’t let Whiskey sing you any sad songs. I’m here to change her tune.”

  “I leave the singing to Jeb,” I quipped, referring to my ex-husband’s rising career. “You’ve got good news that involves real estate?”

  “I have amazing news. Opportunity knocks for those who can hear it: Me.”

  Folding her manicured hands on the bar, Odette smiled languidly. “I just took a meeting with Liam Davies’ people. They want Mattimoe Realty as broker of record for their new development.”

  Before I could gasp, Jeb’s cell phone sang out his own version of Itsy-Bitsy Spider, now available wherever music was sold. He turned away to take the call.

  “She’ll need something stronger than that,” Odette informed the barkeep when he presented a fresh glass of Pinot Noir. “Pour her what her boyfriend’s drinking, and make it a double.”

  “He’s not my-“ I protested. Odette made the rude raspberry sound she favored when calling my bluff.

  “For this news you will require sedation. Liam Davies’ people want me to handle the project, start to end. And it’s a whopper. Will you sulk?”

  Once upon a time I would have. Back when the market was stronger than my ego. Before I’d accidentally absorbed enough New Age wisdom to sort out my priorities. Now I accepted both my own limitations and Odette’s astonishing strengths. The woman could sell saltwater to sharks. Ergo, she could make money in a down market. Although I owned and operated Mattimoe Realty, sales wasn’t my forte. Which was why I gave thanks every day that Odette worked for me and not the competition. Anything she brought in the door fattened my company coffers.

  “I should buy you a drink,” I told her.

  “Oh, you will. Plus dinner and assorted high-end gifts of gratitude. Not to mention the colossal commission checks you’ll sign. But tonight I’m buying. Drink up.”

  The barkeep slid a double Glenfiddich my way. I would have preferred to stick with Pinot Noir. Hard liquor tends to get me in trouble, especially trouble of the sexual sort. My engine was already revving too high. Seven mostly happy years after divorcing Jeb-which included my brief but blissful marriage to the late great Leo-I was seeing Jeb again. Translation: we were having sex. Hot sex. Frequent sex. Better-than-ever sex. And it was scaring the shit out of me. I must have had plenty of reasons for divorcing him way back when. Yet, in the throes of renewed passion, I couldn’t remember a single one.

  When the short-term lease on his house ran out at the end of July, Jeb had suggested I let him move in with me. Instead, I found him another rental. But now, two months later, he hardly ever went home. He spent most nights with me at Vestige, the lakefront home I had lovingly built with Leo. The lonely, horny part of me wanted to give Jeb his own key. But the sane, self-protective part wanted him to hit the road on another music tour while I cooled my jets. After a whole season of intense sex, I needed to separate my brain from my libido and decide which one was my friend. Even in the midst of Odette’s thrilling news, I caught myself eyeing Jeb’s ass.

  “You’ll love Davies’ plans for developing the property,” Odette purred. “A two-phase, two income-level super-subdivision: Little House on the Prairie and Big House on the Prairie: Little House for the common people, Big House for the rich. Separating the two will be a manmade lake. And in the middle of the lake will be an island with tall thick trees.”

  “So the people in the big houses don’t have to look at the people in the little houses,” I guessed.

  “You’re catching on!” Odette clinked her chocotini glass against my tumbler of scotch. “Mattimoe Realty will be the listing agent for fif
ty homes that sell for under two-hundred-thou, and fifteen homes that sell for more than one-point-five million. Cheers!”

  I clinked back and chugged my scotch. It was alarmingly smooth. “But the economy-“

  Odette made the raspberry sound again. “The rich always have money! Davies will start on that side of the lake.”

  “Did you say ‘Davies’?” Jeb rejoined the conversation.

  Odette summarized her latest coup. My ex congratulated her and told me to expect a call.

  “From who?”

  “The other Davies. She phoned me, looking for you.”

  “Did you ask her to take Abra?”

  “No, but you can,” he said as my cell rang. “That’s Susan now.”

  The first zing from my free scotch hit me the instant I opened my phone. I was pretty sure I slurred my greeting. “This is Whiskey.”

  “Hello, Whiskey,” said a warm female voice. “This is Susan Davies. I believe we’re both fans of Jeb Halloran. He’s told me so much about you and your Afghan hound. I hope you don’t mind that I asked him for your number.”

  Scotch buzz notwithstanding, I had three instant questions, none of which I asked out loud. First, which horror stories had Jeb shared about me and my diva dog? Second, when and where had he shared them? Third, and this was related to Second, what did Susan Davies mean by claiming that she and I were both “fans”? As Jeb’s former wife and current lover, I was way more than a fan. Was she? I suddenly remembered one painful reason for our long-ago divorce: Jeb liked to stray.

  I took another slug of scotch. “How do you know my ex-husband?”

  “He didn’t tell you?”

  “He didn’t.”

  I glared at Jeb, who was leaning on the bar, laughing with Odette.

  “Liam and I caught his act at the Holiday Inn in Grand Rapids. That was in August. Since then, my husband has been too busy to go back, but I’ve heard Jeb at least five more times.”

  “Five more times?”

  “At least. Fabulous, isn’t he?”

  “That’s one word for him.” My voice was calm although my diction lacked crispness. Since I rate peace of mind higher than clarity of speech, I drank some more. “What keeps bringing you back to Grand Rapids, Susan? Surely not Jeb’s music…”

  “You’re right. Hearing Jeb sing is a treat, but that’s not why I’m in the area. He didn’t tell you why?”

  “Again-no, he didn’t.”

  I frowned at my ex-husband, who was having too much fun to notice.

  Susan said, “Besides my kennel in Itasca, I co-own six dogs in Grand Rapids. The other owner and I started a breeding program. Our bitch is in heat.”

  “How nice for you!”

  “It is, actually. Which brings me to the reason I called. I have a request, Whiskey. It’s unorthodox, not to mention short notice, but I’d like to stop by your home. Tonight. My co-breeder, Ramona Bowden, is with me, and we want to meet your dog.”

  “My dog?” I blinked. “You don’t want to meet my dog.”

  “Oh, yes, we most definitely do.”

  “Why not meet a nice Afghan hound? Mine is a convicted felon.”

  “We know that.”

  Susan Davies didn’t seem to get it. So I spoke slowly. “Abra steals things. Expensive things. She consorts with thieves and kidnappers. My dog has a criminal record.”

  “Her criminal record is why we want to meet her!” Susan said. “It’s why we are inviting her-and you, too, of course-to participate in next week’s Midwest Afghan Hound Show.”

  At least that was what I thought she said. Since it made no sense, I blamed the scotch, set my empty glass on the bar, and waited for Susan Davies to try again.

  “Are you there, Whiskey?”

  “We must have a bad connection. It sounded like you want Abra to be in a dog show. Because she’s a criminal.” I giggled.

  “That’s right. Ramona and I are in charge of Breeder Education. We believe that the most effective way to teach grooming and training is to show how not to do it. Abra is the worst example we’ve ever found.”

  Chapter Two

  Until Odette convinced Liam Davies to sign with us, business had been deadly dull at Mattimoe Realty. Which explained why I was participating in a not-so-happy Thursday afternoon happy hour at Mother Tucker’s Bar and Grill: I had nothing better to do. And no better place to do it.

  The office phones weren’t ringing. A couple new agents had recently quit for lack of commissions or the promise of any, anytime soon. My part-time agents weren’t getting results, and my senior full-time agents were getting restless. Unless you counted foreclosures, nothing much was happening on the local real estate scene.

  But now, thanks to Odette, my company had reason to celebrate. And I had a reason to comply with Susan Davies’ ridiculous request regarding my diva dog. We ended our phone conversation by setting an appointment for her to come by and meet Abra: in two hours, exactly. That gave me sufficient time to get sober enough to drive home. And then try to locate my hound.

  The barkeep replaced my empty rock glass with a mug of black coffee. I set my cell phone on the bar next to Jeb’s.

  “You knew about the dog show thing, didn’t you?”

  “Susan might have mentioned it.”

  “When?”

  What I really meant was “How often do you see this woman?” Fortunately, I stopped myself from sounding like the jealous shrew I am.

  “We run into each other now and then. In Grand Rapids. It’s not that big a town.”

  Way bigger than Magnet Springs, I thought, which automatically qualified it for romantic trysts. I forced myself to choke down half the coffee. During the intervening silence, Odette offered a troubling tidbit.

  “Susan and Liam have one of those on-again, off-again marriages. Or so I hear. They’ve separated a few times but never gone through with the divorce.” She turned to Jeb. “Is the marriage on or off these days?”

  When he shrugged, I didn’t buy it.

  “You don’t know the marital status of your Number One fan?”

  “I thought you were my Number One fan.” He grinned. “As for Susan and Liam, I think they’re working on it. I think they’re always ‘working on it.’ At least that’s the official line.”

  “Rather like Fenton and Noonan,” Odette said, referring to our local New Age gurus. Fenton Flagg and Noonan Starr considered themselves “permanent spouses.” In other words, soul-mates. They had married long ago, split up almost immediately, yet never bothered to divorce. Why? Because they liked each other and had so much in common, including the Seven Suns of Solace step-program for inner peace. That didn’t stop them from having affairs with other people, however. Fenton had almost had an affair with me-before I hooked up with Jeb again.

  “Well, maybe they’re like Fenton and Noonan,” I said cautiously. “Except that Fenton and Noonan are… “ I mentally fished for the appropriate euphemism.

  “Nuts?” Jeb suggested.

  “Unique,” I said and then gave up all pretense. “Are Susan and Liam crazy, too?”

  “I haven’t met Susan,” said Odette, “but I can tell you that Liam is logical and blunt. When it comes to doing business, he’s a straight shooter who wastes nobody’s time.”

  She and I looked to Jeb for his assessment of Susan. He took a long swig of scotch. And remained silent.

  “Well?” I prompted.

  “I don’t know what Susan’s like when it comes to doing business. I only know her as my Number One fan.”

  I threw a cocktail straw at him. Even with two and a half drinks in his system, Jeb’s reflexes were excellent. He snatched the straw in midair and lobbed it back at me. Only I didn’t duck in time. Or even blink. The straw hit me right in the eye like a tiny javelin.

  “Ouch!”

  It really did hurt. Apparently I needed a lot more coffee. As well as some ice for my eye. And a couple aspirin. Jeb and Odette decided that I also needed someone to drive me home. My ex won the
coin toss. At least I think he won; in any case, he provided the ride.

  I resisted leaving my car at Mother Tucker’s until Jeb promised he’d drive me to work in the morning. Translation: he planned to spend the night. With ice on my eye, I was in no position to argue. I just wanted to get through the damn meeting with Susan Davies and her associate. Presumably they needed to eyeball Abra in order to confirm that she was as awful as her reputation. I should have been mortified; their choice of her as the worst possible Afghan hound clearly condemned my skills as pet owner.

  But I had an out. I’d come to accept that I didn’t “own” Abra any more than I owned the wind. According to Four Legs Good (Fleggers)-the Ann Arbor-based animal rights advocacy founded by my veterinarian and my former nanny-all creatures were entitled to… some version of legal independence. To be honest, I couldn’t quite follow their reasoning. If it got me off the hook when Abra broke the law, then I was on board. The Afghan hound was free to be her own “person.” I just wished she could afford her own lawyer.

  “Do you even know where Abra is?” Jeb asked once we were inside his shiny red Beamer, the first brand new car he’d ever been able to afford.

  “Uh, I saw her this morning.”

  “You don’t have a clue, do you?”

  “Nope.”

  And I doubted that I could locate her in time for the meeting with Susan Davies. Granted, I had in place a secure exercise area with an eight-foot-high fence and a doggie door that opened directly into my kitchen. I had also hired Deely Smarr, former Coast Guard Damage Control Specialist and nanny (hence “Coast Guard nanny”) to train Abra. But those measures were less effective than they sounded.

  Since my stepdaughter Avery had removed her charming infant twins and her charmless whining self from my home in July, I hadn’t seen much of Deely. Funny how that worked: Avery no longer required the nanny’s services once I stopped signing her checks. So Deely had to find a new full-time gig. She hired on as assistant to her veterinarian boyfriend and fellow Flegger, David Newquist. That left precious little time for her to drive out to my home in the country and work with my dog-I mean, the canine who lives with me.