Whiskey with a Twist

by Nina Wright

  MacArthur paused to survey the collection of cars and RVs still on site. Many were now gone. After all, the main show had concluded with a bang. And a whimper. I imagined that some folks planning to show dogs tomorrow had decided the risks were too high.

  “Perry’s Chrysler is still here,” MacArthur said.

  As he spoke, Brenda Spenser emerged from her room, staggering slightly. She carried a shoulder bag and led a gorgeous black Af on a leash. We watched as she struggled to load her dog and her bag through the passenger door. Her coordination was definitely impaired.

  “Brenda’s drunk,” I whispered. “Check her out on your printout. She’s got a big black car!”

  “A Mercedes,” MacArthur confirmed. “But she’s not registered, and I couldn’t find her when I did the interviews.”

  “How could she not be registered?” I said.

  “Room 19 was Matt Koniger’s room,” MacArthur said, checking his sheet. “He listed no car at all.”

  “Impossible. Everybody knows Matt didn’t pay for anything, and that car has got to be Brenda’s!”

  MacArthur grabbed my elbow and steered me toward her.

  “Tell her you’re concerned for her loss, Whiskey. Then let me do the talking.”

  For the first time since I’d arrived at the show, Brenda didn’t look pleased to see me. Although her haircut was still fabulous, she didn’t smile, and her eyes seemed unfocused.

  “Brenda, I’m worried about you. Are you doing all right?”

  “You? Worried about me?”

  Her voice had the shrill brittleness of someone angry and far from sober. Drawing close, I distinctly smelled gin on her breath. Brenda moved to the driver’s side. With difficulty, she opened the door.

  “Yes, I’m worried,” I said. “I don’t think you should drive.”

  “You don’t think I should drive? Oh, that’s a good one! Miss Whiskey thinks I can’t handle a couple shots of Tanqueray. Well, let me ask you this: who the hell is left to drive me? In case you missed the finale, Matt is dead! My beautiful, beautiful man is dead!”

  She froze as if hearing the news in her own voice finally made it real. Brenda wailed piteously, cupped her hands over her face, and folded like a bleacher seat, falling backwards into her car. She landed hard against the steering wheel and then slid sideways onto the seat. If she’d been sober, that would have hurt.

  When MacArthur cleared his throat, I remembered my cue. It was a relief to step aside. I don’t do drama well even though I do it often.

  Brenda’s sobs abated quickly. Either MacArthur had a miraculous effect on her, or her whole meltdown had been a charade. After he helped her stand up, the two chatted amiably, MacArthur leaning on the hood of the car, Brenda draped coquettishly against her open door. I for one wanted to applaud the Afghan hound in the backseat. Abra never would have sat still like that. She wouldn’t have even stayed in the vehicle.

  MacArthur gave Brenda his business card. Which one, I wondered. Cleaner? Bodyguard? Realtor? Whatever it said, she read it with interest. Then she offered him her hand to shake. After he helped her into the car and gently closed the driver’s door, she put it in gear, gave him a flirtatious little wave, and peeled out of the lot, weaving all the way.

  “That woman is unfit to drive,” I declared. “You should have stopped her.”

  MacArthur was dialing his cell phone. “We’ll let the highway patrol do that.” Tersely he told the dispatcher that a black Mercedes, Illinois license plate 4EVRAF, was swerving on Route 20 just west of the Barnyard Inn.

  “You’re really good at getting those plates,” I remarked.

  “‘Forever Af,’” he said. “That one was easy. Anyway, it’s part of the job.”

  We both knew it had nothing to do with being a Realtor.

  I asked MacArthur if in the course of his interviews he’d heard about any trouble between Matt and Brenda.

  “Sandy Slater told me that Matt had ‘issues’ with Mrs. Spenser,” he replied.

  “She was keeping him, but he was having an affair with Susan,” I said. “After Matt got shot, Sandy accused Brenda of wanting him dead because he was blackmailing her. You should have seen what happened next.”

  “Catfight?” guessed MacArthur. “Well, somebody was driving Brenda’s car not long before we got here. The hood was hot.”

  “Could Brenda’s car be the one I saw from the air? If it is, what happened to the dogs?”

  Before MacArthur could offer a theory, a familiar male voice called out to us.

  “Hewwo again! Did you heah about Jeb? He’s going to sing and sell CDs in Chicago!”

  Twenty feet away Dr. David and Deely were loading protest signs into the back of the Animal Ambulance. They looked sunburned and satisfied with their day. I paused for a major mental adjustment. There was no point letting the subject of my ex-husband and his current companion make me insane.

  “Yeah, I heard.”

  I tried to say it like it was a good thing. Like my heart hadn’t been kicked to shreds.

  Although he didn’t say it the way it’s spelled, Dr. David enthused, “Jeb is going to sell a whole lot of Animal Lullabies!”

  “We’re proud of him, ma’am,” Deely added. “Five percent of the profits from every sale go to Fleggers.”

  I pasted a fake smile on my face. It hurt to do that, but letting my real emotions show would have hurt more.

  “Jeb is a real go-getter,” I agreed. “He goes where the opportunities are. With whoever is there to drive him… “

  I probably spoke through gritted teeth. Something belied my smile because the next thing I knew, Deely was coming toward me, her head cocked in sympathy.

  “You’re not jealous of Mrs. Davies, are you, ma’am?”

  “Jealous? Why on earth would I be jealous? Just because she’s rich, cool, and beautiful-and I’m a Bad Example?” My laughter sounded manic even to my ears. “If she wants to spend time with my boyfriend, she’s welcome to him! I divorced him once already, and I can bounce him out of my life again. Like that!”

  I snapped my fingers. Then I belched. And then I started crying. Full-out messy bawling. Which I never do, even when situations are truly sad. And this situation was simply ridiculous. Between my chronic indigestion and my spiky emotions, I hardly recognized myself. I certainly didn’t like what I saw.

  Ever the Damage Control Specialist, Deely produced a handful of tissues. I wanted to cover my face with them. Fortunately, MacArthur and Dr. David did what men do best at a moment like that: they pretended to be busy with something else.

  “Abra’s gone, too,” I sobbed. “She ran off with a herd of goats and ended up with Silverado… in a big black Cadillac! What if I never see her again?”

  Now everyone was staring, and I knew why. They had all been around me long enough to know that I complained nonstop about Abra. Even though I dutifully looked for her whenever she ran away, I also made it perfectly clear that it would be fine if she didn’t come home. Now faced with the prospect that she might be gone for good, I was a basket case. Deely handed me another giant stack of tissues.

  “Don’t worry. We’ll put out a Fleggers All-Points Bulletin for her, ma’am.”

  “I thought Fleggers believed that dogs should be free,” I sniffled.

  “We believe that dogs are entitled to a full life,” Deely said. “That doesn’t necessarily mean they should leave their human families. Not if the humans are enlightened.”

  “You think I’m enlightened?” I asked hopefully.

  Deely deferred to Dr. David on that one.

  He said, “We think you’re moving very nicely along the learning curve.”

  I couldn’t stop weeping. To think I’d imagined that life without Abra would be carefree. Yet here I stood, in a parking lot outside a crummy motel in Indiana Amish Country, crying about my missing dog. Okay, my missing boyfriend was also a factor. But I knew where he was. And I knew he was having fun. Abra and Silverado, on the other hand, could be in seri
ous trouble. Even if they were riding in a Cadillac.

  MacArthur platonically patted me on the back. “Abra has a knack for landing on all four furry feet. Let’s not give up on the old girl yet.”

  Dr. David concurred. “Now that our fellow protesters have gone home, Deely and I are free to be friends first and Fleggers second. On our way back to Magnet Springs, we’ll watch for signs of Abra.”

  “And we’ll ask about black Cadillacs everywhere we go,” Deely promised.

  I pulled myself together enough to thank them. After they drove off, waving, in the Animal Ambulance, MacArthur coughed and said-rather timidly, I thought-“Ready to go fetch Chester?”

  Living with Avery had no doubt taught him respect for, if not fear of, female histrionics. He produced a neatly folded linen handkerchief from his hip pocket. I accepted it, dabbed at my eyes, and stifled another burp.

  “MacArthur,” I said firmly. “We will never speak of this again.”

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  The volunteer bodyguard drove my car, which suited me just fine. Although my tears had washed the remains of bug irritation from my eye, I was rattled by recent events. Having survived two murders, two canine disappearances, and desertion by Jeb, I faced a daunting new challenge: recognizing at ground level the turnoff from Route 20 to the Amish goat farm that Brad had found from the sky.

  “I remember that!” I shouted, pointing to a tire store coming up on our left.

  “Turn there?” MacArthur asked, flipping on the blinker.

  “No. I just remember it, that’s all.”

  He turned off the blinker.

  We rode in silence for at least five more minutes as I desperately scanned the landscape.

  “Everything sure looks different from down here,” I remarked for the sake of making conversation. “Yessirree. This is like being on a road trip instead of, you know, a helicopter ride. Wow, what a difference.”

  “Close your eyes-“ MacArthur said.

  “How is that going to help?”

  “Close your eyes and visualize what you saw from the air. Colors, shapes, sizes. What was the last thing you remember before Brad found the goat farm?”

  I did as I was told and recaptured the physical sensation of leaning forward in my seat as Brad angled the chopper in widening arcs south of Route 20. I’d focused on green-gold fields and white buildings while the gray ribbon of highway receded.… I opened my eyes. MacArthur was adjusting the steering wheel and our speed to accommodate a rare bend in the road.

  “This curve!” I shouted as if I were still in the chopper. “I remember this curve in the highway! I saw it from the air! We were almost directly south of here, I think!”

  “I’ll take the next left,” my driver responded.

  “Yes! That might be the road! But we landed on a dirt lane next to a cornfield. And hiked in from there.”

  “Let’s use the front door this time, shall we?” MacArthur said.

  I liked that idea. We bumped along our unnamed road past tidy rolling fields in various shades of green, copper and brown. This late in the season, many acres had already been harvested.

  “Amish homestead up ahead,” MacArthur announced as we drove over a low hill. “Does this look familiar?”

  “I never saw the house,” I admitted. “Only corn, goats, and the back of a barn.”

  “We got corn and a barn,” MacArthur said. “That’s two out of three.”

  He pulled into the driveway just far enough to clear the road, adding, “We’ll stay back to show respect for their ways.”

  Too little too late. Not only had I inflicted my loopy dog and precocious neighbor on them, but-thanks to me-their teenage nephew had flown off in a chopper and been busted for drinking beer in Elkhart. Oh, yeah, if this was the right house, I could only imagine how pleased they’d be to make my acquaintance.

  I was about to close the passenger-side door behind me, when a familiar roo-roo reached my ears.

  “Did you hear that?”

  MacArthur had frozen, too.

  “Definitely an Afghan hound,” he confirmed. “Yours?”

  And then I saw her, a flash of gold on gold. The late afternoon sun striking her back made her blonde coat glow as if lit from within. Madly she raced away from me along the edge of the cornfield on the other side of the road.

  “Abra!” I shouted. “Abra! Come back here!”

  Without thinking, I launched into a sprint. At first my muscles resisted, but before I’d gone twenty paces every fiber had activated. My legs and arms pumped as my feet slapped the gravel road. I kept my eyes trained on Abra.

  Ahead a silver pickup truck shot out of a narrow dirt driveway, tires squealing. The truck turned toward us fishtailing wildly.

  “Abra!” I screamed, terrified that she would be struck right in front of me.

  The truck lurched and then backfired.

  I felt sudden intense pain, a sharp sting like fiery metal scalding flesh. With my left hand I clutched my right elbow and tried to keep running.

  Another boom, another flash of pain. This time in my right shoulder. I could no longer see my dog. Or call for her.

  “Whiskeeeeyyyy!” MacArthur yelled, stretching my name into a dirge.

  The third and fourth booms came from behind me. My legs buckled as the truck whooshed past. The last thing I glimpsed was its windshield splintering apart.

  Chapter Forty

  “Whitney, wake up. Come on, Whitney.”

  A friendly voice was addressing me by a name used only by attorneys, preachers, IRS agents, and my mother. That didn’t give me an incentive to reply. Opening my eyes had never been such a chore. Focusing them proved even harder.

  “That-a-girl, Whitney! You’re doing fine.”

  Something wasn’t quite right. My elbow and shoulder throbbed when I moved my right arm. And the person coaxing me to wake up may have sounded like Chester, but he didn’t pass inspection. First, Chester’s ever-present glasses were gone. Second, his usually spiked hair appeared to be suffering from a bad case of hat head. Third, his school blazer had been replaced by overalls. And finally, Chester never called me Whitney.

  “You’re at the Elijah Yoder farm,” he went on cheerfully. “And you’re perfectly safe. Mrs. Yoder put a couple poultices on your arm, so please don’t try to get up.”

  Leaning closer, he lowered his voice. “Whatever you do, don’t make me call you Whiskey. It upsets the whole family.”

  Groaning, I tried to find a comfortable position. Lying on my back with my arm propped on downy pillows did not exactly feel natural.

  “What happened to my arm?” I whispered and realized that my throat was parched.

  Chester was ready with a ceramic mug of cool well water. He helped me into a semi-sitting position so that I could drink.

  “You were shot, Whitney. Luckily, both bullets just grazed your arm-one right above your elbow and the other at your shoulder.”

  I drank eagerly, the water tasting better than anything I had consumed in years. Including Pinot Noir. Glancing up, I spotted a worried-looking woman somewhere between age twenty-five and forty studying me from a wooden chair in the far corner of the room. Dressed in dark clothing and wearing a small white cap, she sat with her arms crossed.

  “That’s Mrs. Yoder, Rachel and Jacob’s mother,” Chester said helpfully. “She’s the one who cleaned and dressed the wounds on your arm.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Yoder,” I said. “Sorry to be so much trouble.”

  I wondered exactly how much trouble I was getting credit for. Did she know about Nathaniel? And my dog?

  “You can call me Sarah,” the woman said but not in a way that made me want to take her up on the offer.

  I turned to Chester. “What happened to MacArthur?”

  “MacArthur’s fine. He’s downstairs talking to Mr. Yoder and the elders. They’re trying to decide what to do about you.”

  “What about Abra?” I whispered. “And the silver pickup?”

&n
bsp; “MacArthur says Abra is okay. He saw her dash into the cornfield, and he’s sure she wasn’t shot. As for the driver of the pickup, MacArthur couldn’t get a good look because he-or she-was wearing a hood and dark glasses. They just kept driving.”

  “But why shoot me?” I asked.

  “Why not? Your luck has been pretty bad lately.”

  “I mean, were they trying to shoot me? Or was Abra the target? Or MacArthur? What did they want?”

  “I think you should ask MacArthur,” Chester said.

  With my left hand, I grabbed the strap of Chester’s overalls, pulling him toward me.

  “Where are your glasses, and why are you dressed like that?”

  He grinned. “The Yoders let me go Amish! They loaned me Jacob’s clothes and straw hat. I was helping move the goats to a different part of the pasture when that brown and white one who ate your book charged me. He knocked off my glasses, and I accidentally stepped on them.”

  “Your mother won’t like that.”

  My response was automatic and completely irrelevant. Chester’s mother was Cassina, the perpetually self-involved, stoned celebrity who rarely remembered she had a son, let alone what he did or the fact that he owned two dogs.

  Chester said, “It was so worth it! Wait 'til I tell the kids at my academy that I got to be Amish. They’d pay ten thousand dollars for a day like this!”

  Here’s what I knew about Chester’s academy: all the kids had chauffeurs, personal assistants, and trust funds for life. Being Amish for a day would strike them as exotic.

  “Fortunately, I had my Blackberry,” Chester whispered after verifying that Mrs. Yoder wasn’t listening. He produced his state-of-the-art cell phone from an overall pocket. “As proof that I was here, I made a video of Jacob and Rachel doing their chores, and I asked them to shoot me with the goats. Then I showed them the video of the dog show that I posted on youtube.”

  That caught my full attention. “Are you…?“ I kicked the cobwebs from my memory.

  “luvssdogss?” Chester asked. “Yup, that’s my youtube handle! You should see all the videos I’ve posted of Abra, Prince Harry, and Velcro!”