Whiskey with a Twist

by Nina Wright

  “Not a problem,” Brad said. “I do what Mr. Davies tells me to. Within reason.”

  When I stepped out of the chopper into churning air, MacArthur jogged toward me across the blacktop.

  “The dogs are in a black Cadillac heading east!” I shouted. “And Chester is with the Amish.”

  Without replying, he grabbed me by the arm and pulled me along until we were well beyond the helicopter’s wind and noise.

  “Kori’s gone,” he said without preamble. “Jeb went to interview her, but she’d checked out.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” I told him. “I know about her silver pickup!”

  “That’s not hers. Kori drives a black Lincoln, courtesy of Liam.”

  “From the sky, does a Lincoln look like a Cadillac?”

  I filled MacArthur in on what we’d witnessed along Route 20.

  “A Lincoln might look like a Caddy,” he said, “to you and an Amish kid.”

  “The pilot was there, too! He didn’t disagree.”

  “He doesn’t get paid to.”

  “Well, all I know is somebody’s driving Abra and Silverado down Route 20 right now! They just passed the Barnyard Inn, and I’m going to follow them!”

  MacArthur reacted in a way I could not have predicted. He doubled over in laughter.

  “What the hell is so funny, Mr. Never-Here-When-I-Need-You Bodyguard?!”

  “What’s funny, Whiskey, is that you have no training whatsoever in aggressive driving!”

  He rolled a whole lot of Rs in that sentence, but I was still annoyed.

  “Isn’t aggressive driving something you get ticketed for?” I said.

  “I’m talking about competitive and evasive techniques used by professional drivers. I took a course in Glasgow. You’re coming with me!”

  With that he grabbed my arm again, and we took off running toward… I didn’t know where. Presumably toward MacArthur’s car. Since I had never actually seen his car, I didn’t have a clue what it looked like.

  “What’s up with Jeb and Susan?” I panted. “I thought you were going to question her.”

  “I did,” MacArthur replied as we ran.

  “Well, there he is, flirting with her again!”

  MacArthur braked abruptly, pulling me around to face him.

  “I can’t keep your man on a leash, and neither can you. Take a wee spot of advice from Fleggers on this one, and let it go. Now, shall we find Abra?”

  Off we went again, dashing past many parked cars, including Susan’s. I refrained from waving at her and Jeb. Or giving them the finger.

  “Where the hell are you parked?” I gasped as we left the lot behind us and continued along the side of the exhibit hall, running on grass. I knew that MacArthur had slowed his pace for me. Even so, he was twenty feet ahead.

  “Over there,” he said at the exact instant I spotted his vehicle.

  “Oh no!” I wailed. “I don’t know how to ride a motorcycle!”

  “That is no motorcycle. That is a Harley. You don’t have to know how to ride it. All you have to do is hold on. And wear this.”

  He tossed me a Darth Vader-type helmet, then leapt astride the machine as if mounting a stallion. How can I put this? MacArthur took what was left of my breath away.

  I would have put the freaking helmet on backwards if he hadn’t stopped me. After that I sat where he told me to sit and put my hands where he told me to put them: around his massive chest. Okay, so that part was pleasant enough. When MacArthur kicked the bike to life, I inhaled the last complete breath I would catch for some miles. I only wished I could have seen the expression on Jeb and Susan’s faces as we roared past. Unfortunately, I was too terrified to open my eyes.

  “How fast was the Caddy going?” MacArthur whispered in my ear.

  That is, it sounded like he was whispering. Actually, he was speaking through the headset built into my helmet. Since I had a mouthpiece in my helmet, there was no need for me to shout. Except of course from pure terror.

  “How the hell should I know how fast it was going? I was in a helicopter!”

  “Allow me to rephrase the question,” MacArthur said calmly. “Was the Caddy passing other cars, or were other cars passing the Caddy?”

  “The Caddy was the passer!” I yelled.

  Through my now slightly open “good” eye, I saw MacArthur touch his helmet. Possibly to turn down the volume dial.…

  “One more question,” he said. “Was the driver in complete control of the car? Or did he swerve?”

  “No swerving!”

  MacArthur touched his helmet again. “Then we have one very cool customer.”

  “Or one very reckless one,” I said. “Did you check Kori’s driving record?”

  MacArthur didn’t answer. Instead, he commanded me to hold on tight. Tighter. I squeezed my eyes shut again. From the sound and the smell-and the eternity required to get around it-I gathered that we were passing an eighteen-wheeler. By the time we were back to the regular roar of the road, I had forgotten what I wanted to ask him. Hell, I had forgotten my middle name.

  If there was a blood clot anywhere in my body, road vibrations had surely jarred it loose by now. Who worried about stroke or heart attack? I was way more afraid of ending up a smear on the pavement.

  As we wove in and out of traffic, leaning into what felt like a series of forty-five degree angles to pass every car and truck, I wondered if MacArthur had a death wish. More important, I wondered if I could make him understand that I didn’t. No simple task when I couldn’t gather enough oxygen to speak.

  Suddenly I heard and felt a vehicle surging up behind us. When the driver leaned into the horn, I knew we were in trouble. The next instant we were buzzed by a silver pickup passing so close that it literally forced us off the road. The hair on my arms stood at attention.

  MacArthur kindly let me scream 'til my throat hurt and my blood pressure slid back to normal.

  “Feel better?” he inquired.

  By then we were parked on the berm, holding our helmets.

  “You sure can ride that thing,” I conceded. “Thanks for stopping.”

  His black curls were matted with sweat, and rivulets of perspiration sprang from his hairline.

  “I couldn’t risk your life,” he said. “Somebody wants us out of the way.”

  “Do you think they were chasing the Caddy, too?” I asked. “Or are both drivers working together?”

  “My guess is they’re meeting up somewhere down the road.”

  “Why on earth would anyone go to all that trouble to steal my Bad Example?”

  “Get real, Whiskey. It’s only Silverado they want. Abra is along by accident.”

  He had to be right. I said, “You don’t think they’ll just dump her, do you?”

  “They could try,” MacArthur said, grinning.

  Abra had a long history of making human life miserable, and not just mine. Most of the criminals she had consorted with ended up wishing they’d never met her.

  “What now?” I asked.

  “If we were in Magnet Springs, I’d suggest contacting local law enforcement. But here they’re unlikely to know the finer points of dog-napping, so they’d no doubt waste our time.”

  My mind was on retrieving Chester and getting back to real estate where I belonged. Not that I was willing to give up on my dog, but I was more willing to get on with my life.

  MacArthur said, “We need to find out from the Barnyard Inn what kind of vehicle every show participant drove. That will narrow our field of investigation.”

  “We’re still investigating?” I let my disappointment show.

  He didn’t notice, though, because he was dialing his cell phone.

  “Hello, Jenx!” he boomed. “Could you run a plate for me?”

  MacArthur had managed to get the license number of the pickup that almost killed us. I hadn’t even managed to keep my eyes open. Speaking of which, my right eye no longer felt so bad. Nothing like a near-death experience to put minor aches and pa
ins in perspective.

  “You forgot to tell Jenx we were almost killed!” I said.

  “She knows I only call her if it’s a matter of life and death.”

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  As we headed west on Route 20, I was stunned by how common big black cars are. Although I couldn’t identify the make of most that rushed past us, many reminded me of the vehicle we’d seen from the air.

  Back at the Barnyard Inn we parked at the end of the building, in a spot not visible from the office. I asked MacArthur how he liked his motel room.

  ”I didn’t register,” he replied. “I’m working undercover.”

  I wanted to know where one sleeps if one travels by Harley and doesn’t rent a room, but he wasn’t talking. Had MacArthur shared Kori’s room, the one right next to mine? He opened the lobby door with exaggerated gallantry.

  The scene was exactly as it had been twenty-four hours earlier. Since then, however, two guests had died, one had been shot at twice, and a couple dogs were missing.

  The lobby smelled of curry, dog urine, and disinfectant. Although no one was at the desk, a television blared through the slightly open fake-wood door behind it. This time the foreign-language program sounded like a soap opera.

  I expected MacArthur to demand service. Instead, he reached over the counter, adjusted the computer keyboard and screen, and started typing.

  “You can’t do that,” I hissed.

  But of course he could. And did. My amazement was incomplete, however, 'til he activated the noisy printer, which ground out four full pages, testing the limits of my frayed nerves. I was absolutely sure that the clatter would draw somebody to the desk. As the fourth page ever so slowly made its way through the machine, the phone on the desk jangled. I jumped. The TV volume dropped, and footsteps rapidly approached the door.

  “MacArthur!” I cried, but he kept his eyes on the printout.

  Suddenly a baby wailed, and the footsteps receded.

  MacArthur ripped the last page from the printer, readjusted the monitor and keyboard, and pushed me gently toward the door. We were out of there by the end of the second ring.

  “Just as I thought,” he said, scanning the printout. “Nobody registered a Ford pickup.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Either somebody lied when they checked in, or somebody arrived here expressly to steal that dog. Or to kill Slater and Koniger.”

  “That’s a lot of or’s,” I said.

  “They’re all connected. We just need to find the link.”

  “You can look for the link! And Abra, too. I need to collect my neighbor and go home. I should probably look for Jeb, but I don’t think I’ll like what I find.”

  My cell phone rang. Apparently it was my turn to hear from Magnet Springs’ finest.

  “Yo, Whiskey,” Jenx said. “Still no luck finding the dogs?”

  “We really only want one back,” I said.

  “You should talk to your ex. He’s a little worried and a lot P-O’ed. Why ya giving the guy a hard time? He’s only trying to help.”

  “He’s only trying to help Susan,” I said.

  “Save your insecurities for the bedroom! We got bigger things going on. The dog show murders are on Yahoo! News already. And there’s a youtube video of Silverado and Kori, posted forty minutes ago by somebody with the handle luvssdogss. You should see all the text comments. Everybody’s worried about Silverado. This could be as big as Vivi the whippet!”

  “Oh, come on,” I said. “Vivi disappeared after winning the Westminster! Silverado’s lost in Amish Country.”

  “Where tourists flock to eat smorgasbords and ogle buggies,” Jenx said. “I tell you, Amish Country is what makes this story hot!”

  When she asked to speak to MacArthur, I passed him the phone. He listened for a minute, grunted once, and closed the call.

  “What now?” I said.

  “Jenx isn’t happy that you left Chester with the Amish.”

  “He wanted to stay! He’s probably milking a cow right now and tipping the Amish for the privilege.”

  “No matter. Jenx wants us to fetch him.”

  “How are we supposed to do that? In the first place, I haven’t got a clue how to get there by road! And in the second place, Brad the pilot said he’d pick up Chester! Just as soon as he returns Nathaniel from the Cadillac dealership.”

  “We won’t be waiting for Brad and Nathaniel. Jenx says Brad was busted in Elkhart for buying Nathaniel a beer.”

  Either Brad was less virtuous than he had seemed, or Nathaniel was a real conniver. I voted for Nathaniel. An Amish teen who aspired to sell used cars was made of something stronger than cheese.

  I’d meant what I said about having no idea how to find Chester. In the highly unlikely event that I could remember the general vicinity of our turn-off from Route 20, I had no idea which road Rachel and Jacob’s house was on. Or what it looked like… other than that it was white with a big white barn and a long white fence. Like fifty other farms.

  “I don’t even know their last name!” I told MacArthur.

  “That wouldn’t help us much, anyway,” he said. “Almost everybody here is a Yoder or a Miller.”

  Our unproductive discussion was interrupted by the arrival of Susan Davies in her Audi. After spraying me with gravel, she powered down her window and spoke directly to MacArthur.

  “I’m driving Jeb to Chicago on business. Thanks for keeping me alive. No thanks for losing my winning dog. And my best handler.”

  What a bitch. I couldn’t believe her nerve in nabbing my ex-husband, who had come to help me. The comment about MacArthur losing her dog and her handler wasn’t very nice, either.

  Jeb leaned across Susan to speak to me.

  “Wish I could help, Whiskey, but you’ve got MacArthur, so you’ll be fine. Susan lined up a last-minute gig for me at her country club. I’m playing the brunch tomorrow. It’s an Afghan hound rescue fundraiser.”

  I could have shouted any one of a dozen retorts that satisfied my bruised ego now but made me cringe later. In a rare moment of maturity I simply said, “Good luck.”

  And I almost let it go at that. Then I considered what Jenx had said and decided I had nothing to lose but loss. I strode to the car window and leaned in above Susan’s firm breasts. My face and Jeb’s were inches apart.

  “Did you come here to help me or to love me?” I asked him.

  “I came to do both,” he replied. “But you didn’t want either.”

  “I want both! I want you.”

  Susan’s perfume was everywhere-light and floral with a hint of ginger. Too expensive and girly for me. I was the blunt one, the clumsy one, the one who stank of goat shit. Also the one who loved Jeb.

  I couldn’t recall another time when I’d been so public in my display of affection. Or desperation. In the backseat Susan’s two blonde show dogs panted eagerly.

  “We’ll talk about this later,” Jeb said, his voice soft.

  “Get your head out of my car, please!”

  Susan revved her engine. Let me tell you, German engineering can sound ominous. I withdrew just in time; Susan peeled out of the lot, spraying me with gravel. Again.

  MacArthur laid a steadying hand on my shoulder and said one word only: “Chester.”

  “You’re right,” I sighed, wrestling control of my emotions. “Screw dogs and lovers. We have a child to save.”

  Considering that Chester was with the Amish, I doubted he needed saving. Then I thought about Nathaniel. There were no guarantees.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  “First things first,” MacArthur said, helpfully distracting me with those deliciously rolled Rs. “Let’s call Chester and tell him we’re on our way. Maybe he can provide directions to the farm.”

  I nodded, speed-dialing my diminutive neighbor.

  “Uh-oh. He has a new outgoing message.”

  I switched my phone to speaker mode.

  “Greetings from Amish Country! Wish you were
here. In honor of my host family’s religious beliefs, I’m turning off my cell for the duration of my visit. But feel free to leave a message. I’ll return your call as soon as I resume my regular hedonistic lifestyle.”

  “Next suggestion?”

  “We’re going to follow your memory and my instincts,” MacArthur said. “In your car.”

  He and I were already walking toward the back of the Barnyard Inn, where I had parked. MacArthur was again studying the printout from the front desk.

  “Interesting,” he murmured. “Besides Kori, three folks here drive big black cars.”

  “Not Susan,” I quipped. “Susan drives white, like one of the good guys.”

  And then I did something I’d never done before. I spat in the dirt. It was satisfying… in a vicarious kind of way.

  “Not Susan,” MacArthur agreed. “But guess who?”

  I shrugged, working up enough resentment and saliva for one more good shot.

  “Perry Stiles, Ramona Bowden, and Mitchell Slater.”

  I gagged on my spit. “Mitchell’s dead.”

  “Yes, but he drove a Cadillac DTS, exactly like your Amish kid identified. Maybe somebody borrowed it. Mitchell Slater won’t need it anymore…”

  “What does Ramona drive?” I said.

  “A Caddy. Not a DTS, though. She has an older model. A Seville. One of her husbands left it to her.”

  “You got that off the printout?”

  “I got that from my interview. I quizzed her, remember, while you were in the sky?”

  “How about our own Mr. Stiles?” I asked. “What kind of black car does he drive?”

  I hadn’t pictured Perry as a fan of the Big Three automakers. He seemed like a Saab or Volkswagen kind of guy.

  “He registered as driving a Chrysler 300,” MacArthur replied. “A rental. I interviewed him, too. He said he was in Cincinnati on business last week and rented a car to drive here. A big enough car for the two dogs he traveled with.”

  “He lives in Chicago and paints houses in Cinci?” I asked.

  “He was there to investigate the possibility of opening a faux-painting franchise. Or so he said.”