by Diana Orgain
“I’ll be right there.”
“No, uh … Maggie, you have to do Yappy Hour. There’s a woman … oh … I can’t remember her name. She going to visit the bar tonight. You have to be open. She’s the editor of Doggie Day—”
Yolanda let out a squeal. “Doggie Day!”
“Who’s that?” Rachel asked.
“Yolanda,” I said.
“Hi, Yo,” Rachel said. “Let me talk to her.”
“I’m not bartending while you’re in the hospital!” I said. “I’m coming to see you—”
“I’m not dying, Maggie. You can check on me later. They’re just holding me to monitor—”
“I’m on my way.”
“No! Ugh … You’re impossible. Let me talk to Yolanda,” Rachel said.
Yolanda snatched the phone out of my hand and walked away from me so I couldn’t eavesdrop on their conversation. Although I could clearly hear Yolanda’s exaggerated gasps and whispers of, “Doggie Day? Oh my goodness gracious! They’re coming here?”
Through the front window of the bar, I saw a crowd approaching. I glanced at my watch. Just like clockwork, the Roundup Crew was ready for Yappy Hour. My friends Abigail, Brenda, and Max were in the lead. Brenda and Max had started up a romance and were holding hands. Behind them, I could see Yolanda’s nemesis, the infamous Geraldine, and next to her was a woman I hadn’t seen before.
Each of them had a small dog attached to the end of a Wine and Bark Day-Glo green leashes. They had just come from their Friday afternoon walk on the beach, so most of them were wearing shorts and sunhats.
I took a deep breath to fortify myself; dealing with the dogs had never been my strong suit, especially as they never seemed particularly fond of me.
The door flung open, and Beepo eagerly ran to greet them, his tiny nails scratching along the terra-cotta floor. As the group streamed into the bar, the cacophony of yapping dogs reverberated off the walls.
Abigail rushed over to me. “Maggie! I didn’t expect to see you here. I thought you’d be packing.” Her dog, Missy, a white Shih Tzu wearing a rhinestone bow on the top of her head, sniffed around my ankles and barked accusingly. “Oh, can you give her a Bark Bite?” Abigail asked. “She was such a dear at the beach, I promised.”
How can Missy know what Abigail promised? I wondered, but I didn’t say anything out loud. Even though I’d only recently met all of these doggie aficionados, I knew them well enough not to ask.
The rest of the crew took up several tables in front of the bar and someone shouted, “Hey, Maggie! How about a round of Salty Dogs?”
Abigail and her dog, Missy, followed me to the bar. I went around to the back side and grabbed a Bark Bite from the bowl nestled near the cash register. As soon as I tossed the biscuit to Missy, the rest of the dogs scampered over.
“How about us humans? Any food around?” Abigail sniffed the air. “Is something burning?”
Ugh!
I raced to the back kitchen and pulled the Arf d’oeuvres out just in time. Only a few needed to be sacrificed, I turned to pitch them into the trash and stumbled over Beepo.
“Why are you always underfoot?” I asked.
Beepo looked up at me with watery sad eyes and I immediately felt guilty for scolding him. I scratched him between his tiny triangle ears and he padded away from me, contented for the moment.
Max peeked around the corner. “Because there’s food around,” he said. He strode over and picked a doggie in a blanket off the tray and popped it into his mouth. “Hot!”
“They just came out of the oven, genius.”
Max smirked at me. He had a classic boy-next-door vibe about him and we’d quickly become friends.
“You need help behind the bar?” Max asked. “I can whip up the pitcher of Salties for you.”
“Yes. You’re a lifesaver.”
I tossed the overly crisp Arf d’oeuvres to Beepo, who caught them midair in his mouth.
“Don’t tell the others,” I warned Beepo, “or I’ll be overrun with begging canines.”
Beepo’s little tail wagged so hard, it shook his entire body.
Max and I went behind the bar where he immediately pulled a bottle of Stoli from the rack. “Where’s Rachel?”
I salted the rims of the glasses while Max grabbed a pitcher of ice. “She’s sick. Salmonella.”
Max made a face. “Oh, no. That’s awful. Where’d she get it from?”
I cringed. I hadn’t had a moment to contemplate the question. Where had she gotten whatever made her sick? I shrugged. “Rachel and I had both had cheese and crackers last night for dinner. I didn’t get sick.”
Max poured the vodka over ice and then grabbed a bottle of grapefruit juice. As he finished preparing the pitcher, I pulled out a tray and, after placing the best-looking Arf d’oeuvres onto a plate, added the martini glasses. Max put the pitcher onto the tray and I walked it over to the table by the window.
Yolanda seemed to be holding court. She stood at the head of the table and towered over the ladies. She was mid speech. “I wanted to scratch her eyes out. She’s so rude.”
Brenda gave Yolanda a sympathetic look, while Geraldine scowled.
The woman I didn’t know had long blond hair pulled through the back loop of a baseball cap. The image on the cap was the Verdant Vines logo. She said, “Fran? Oh, she’s a nightmare. Don’t even get me started.”
Geraldine let out a low whistle and the poodle seated at her feet came to attention. “I don’t want to hear any negative talk about Fran. She’s been a good friend to me.”
“Ladies,” I said in greeting as I placed the tray in the middle of the table.
“I don’t know her,” Brenda said. “I’ve only seen her around town.”
I carefully poured the drinks into each glass as they continued their gossip. I couldn’t afford to spill drinks on any other patrons or Rachel would never let me live it down … On second thought … Maybe that was a way to get out of tending bar!
No. I was way too uptight to make mistakes on purpose. Lord knew they happened frequently enough on their own.
Geraldine leveled her gaze at the new woman. “You don’t like Fran because she used to date Hendrick.”
The woman self-consciously adjusted her cap. “That’s not the reason. He’s dated a lot of woman. It’s that Fran is so snobby.”
Geraldine harrumphed and said, “She is not.”
Yolanda snickered and said, “Birds of a feather.”
Geraldine cut Yolanda a mean glare, while I turned back to the bar as quickly as I could. Max joined the table, sitting close to Brenda with a hand on her knee as they giggled together.
Yolanda followed me back to the bar. “Rachel said not to worry about her. She’ll likely get released from the hospital in the morning. I’ll pick you up at nine o’clock and drive you.”
As I didn’t have a car, riding with Yolanda was the best option for me. “What about that editor that’s supposed to show up? Am I supposed to do anything special?”
Yolanda shook her head. “Oh, the woman called while Rachel and I were on the phone. She can’t make it tonight. She’ll probably come by tomorrow.”
Well, that was a relief. I didn’t want to be responsible for the editor’s impression of the bar. I shuddered to think about a review on the slightly crispy Arf d’oeuvres. I could see the title now “Yappy Hour’s Bark Is Worse Than Its Bite!”
Yolanda fiddled with a coaster on the bar. “So what about your trip? Are you really leaving us?”
I wiped the counter and squinted at Yolanda. “You’ve known for a couple of weeks that I’m leaving. Don’t give me any static now. Ten-day Mexican Riviera cruise: Baja, Cabo San Lucas, Puerto Vallarta, Mazatlan.”
Yolanda tossed her full blond hair at me. “I’ll miss you, Mags. And you’ll miss us, too. You just don’t realize how much. Until you’re on that boat, way far away from us, with nothing to do.”
“Except shop in the Mexican stores, lie on the beaches, and
drink margaritas.”
“Pfft.” Yolanda waved a hand around. “Who needs margaritas when you can have a Muttgarita?”
I studied her. “Is that what you’d like now?”
She shrugged her shoulders. “What I’d like is for you to stay.”
I ignored her comment and began to mix up a Muttgarita for her. A steady stream of patrons were starting to arrive, so after I fixed the Muttgarita, and put it in front of Yolanda, I got busy pouring drafts and opening various wines. The table near the window was getting increasingly louder and both Yolanda and I glanced over. It seemed like Geraldine and the woman with the ball cap were having a heated discussion.
Yolanda turned back to me. “I don’t know what it’s going to take, but I’ll get you to stay.”
I said nothing.
“Do you know how seasick those cruise people can get?” she asked.
I laughed.
“Plus, if you leave, you’ll miss out on all the gossip.” Yolanda glanced over her shoulder at the table by the window.
It looked like Geraldine and the woman with the Verdant Vines cap on were about to come to blows. Both stood at the same time and were glaring at each other. Their respective dogs had come to attention and were barking at each other.
I raced from behind the bar toward the table, Yolanda on my heels. “Is everything all right here, ladies?”
“You can tell Fran, if I ever see her near Hendrick again I’ll strangle her little chicken neck!” the woman with the cap said.
“And you can leave right now!” Geraldine said, pointing to the door.
“Wait! You can’t kick her out!” Yolanda said. “If you don’t like what she’s got to say, then you leave!”
“Now, everyone calm down,” I said in my best diplomatic voice.
The woman turned on a heel. “No, I’ll leave. I have plans with Hendrick tonight.” She marched toward the front door, her Maltipoo trailing behind her. Once she reached the door, she yanked it open and, with a dramatic gesture said, “You should serve some of his wine here. It would class the place up!”
As soon as the door closed, Geraldine said, “I think that woman is a mole!”
“A mole? What do you mean?” Brenda asked.
“In our Roundup Crew,” Geraldine said. “I think she just joined us so she could try and sell her boyfriend’s wine here.”
“Oh, Geraldine,” Max waved a hand around. “I hardly think someone would target the group to—”
“Really?” Geraldine screeched, cutting him off. “I know some people who even faked owning a dog to be part of our group.” Geraldine’s coiffed show poodle howled on cue, showing the maximum disdain for anyone posing as a dog owner.
Max reddened. Only a few weeks earlier, he had borrowed a dog in order to get close to Brenda.
Brenda laughed. “Gerry! You can’t be serious.”
Abigail sat a little straighter and sipped her cocktail. “I know Gerry doesn’t like anyone talking bad about Fran, but I certainly have a bone to pick with her.”
Yolanda took the open seat across from Geraldine. Despite her feud with Geraldine, the gossip draw was just too much for her to resist. “Do tell,” she prompted Abigail.
“Well, my cousin Ronnie, the poultry farmer—”
“Sexy cousin Ronnie?” Brenda interrupted. Max pulled his hand off her knee and she said, “I mean sexy in a farmer way. Suspenders and stuff.” She wrinkled her nose at him and said coquettishly, “Not like you.” Max smiled shyly and replaced his hand. Brenda turned to Abigail. “You should introduce him to Yolanda.”
Yolanda waved an impatient hand around. “I don’t do suspenders.” The table laughed, but Yolanda prompted, “What about him, anyway?”
“He has a prize chicken,” Abigail said. “And the little girl artist, Coral, at Meat and Greet, well, she did up a very nice watercolor rendition of it. Then Fran just stole the image for the logo she uses for her shop.”
The table gasped in unison.
“That’s illegal!” Brenda said. Ever the attorney, she added, “We can sue.”
Geraldine’s face contorted and she let out a little whimper as if in pain.
“I love her logo,” Yolanda said. Then she stroked her cheek thoughtfully. “Would a suit put her out of business?”
“You just want to see her close up shop!” Geraldine said, in an accusing tone.
Yolanda thrust out her chin defiantly. “I love her shop. In fact, I offered to buy her out, and she ridiculed me.”
Due to the tension between Geraldine and Yolanda, I began to clear the table of drinks. No good would come from fanning tempers with more alcohol.
“She should!” Geraldine fired back. “You happen to be ridiculous!”
Yolanda took a sharp inhale of breath, but before she could reply, I said, “Well, y’all certainly know how to take the happy out of Yappy Hour.”
“I don’t think Ronnie wants to sue,” Abigail said. “He’s pretty happy on his farm. He just wants to grow his business. I think he had a meeting with Rachel to sell her some chicken. She is going to use his chicken dogs in the Arf d’oeuvres.”
Panic suddenly overwhelmed me. Chicken in the Arf d’oeuvres?
Rachel is in the hospital with salmonella poisoning!
Did it have anything to do with Ronnie’s chicken? Alarm coursed through my veins as I watched Geraldine pick up one of the Arf d’oeuvres.
“I was wondering why these taste different. Quite yummy!” Geraldine raised her hand to her mouth and I slapped the Arf d’oeuvres out of it.
She recoiled in shock, her poodle barking ferociously at me.
“Rachel’s in the hospital with salmonella,” I said.
Geraldine frowned, but Abigail jumped up. “You’re not blaming Ronnie, are you?”
“No, no. I don’t know.” I rushed to clear away the tray of Arf d’oeuvres. “Maybe they sat out on the counter before Rach froze them or something. I just don’t want anyone to get sick. Better safe than sorry.”
I bused the tray to the back of the bar, as Brenda called out, “You can’t get salmonella from vodka, right? Maybe we should have another round of Salty Dogs.”
Chapter Three
The following morning, Yolanda turned up at my apartment right on time. She drove a flashy red convertible and, as was her habit, she leaned on the horn until I came out.
I rushed around my apartment ensuring all lights were off and all doors were locked, before racing downstairs to meet her.
“Stop honking,” I said. “I’m here. You’re going to wake the neighborhood!”
She let off the horn and glanced at her slim gold bracelet watch. “It’s nine A.M. The neighborhood should be up. What’s wrong with these people?”
I laughed as I opened the passenger side. Beepo, who seemed permanently housed on the passenger-side seat, growled at me. “Beach town, I guess,” I said, ignoring Beepo, who barked madly at being upended.
“Hush now, Beepo!” Yolanda scowled, scooping him onto her lap.
“When I lived in New York, I was always up at the crack of dawn, but it seems like everyone in Pacific Cove sleeps in.”
“Do you think it’s the sea air?” Yolanda asked.
I shrugged. “Well, New York has sea air, right?”
She wrinkled her delicate nose. “It’s not the same.”
I laughed. She was right. New York City and Pacific Cove had zero in common. One of the reasons I’d recently relocated to Pacific Cove was to escape the never-ending hustle and bustle that pulsed through New York, especially when I was a financial advisor.
Thinking of New York brought Gus to mind, and a little pang pricked my heart. I imagined him already settling into a fine hotel in New York, getting ready for Gourmet Games audition. New York definitely had big opportunities to offer.
Yolanda put the convertible in reverse and gunned it out of my apartment house driveway. The wind bellowed through her blond hair fanning it around her face. “I’d like to make a little pit
stop on the way to the hospital, if you don’t mind.”
From the way Yolanda narrowed her eyes at me, I could tell that I clearly should mind. What kind of pit stop was she contemplating?
“Where?” I asked.
She pressed her full, glossy red lips together and glanced at her own reflection in the rearview mirror.
“Have you talked to Rachel this morning?” I asked. “When I called, the nurse told me she was still asleep. She said I’d have to talk to the doctor about discharge, but he wasn’t going to do his rounds until eleven or so.”
“I haven’t talked to her.” Yolanda said. She gave a sidelong glance. “I want to stop at Chic Chickie on the way.”
I frowned. “Where’s that?”
“It’s on the way.”
“What is it? A shop?”
She nodded eagerly. Almost too eagerly … Beepo yowled in agreement.
“I don’t think we have time for shopping,” I said. “I kinda want to get straight to the hospital.”
“You said yourself she won’t be discharged until eleven. We have plenty of time,” Yolanda said.
I sighed.
“It’ll only take us a few minutes and it’s such a cute shop!” Yolanda pressed. “You’re going to love it.”
I laughed. Yolanda and I had completely different taste in fashion. She favored stilettos, halter tops, and skintight pants and skirts, while I was conservative by nature. Blame it on my accounting degree, but this morning I was decked out in tan chinos and a sky-blue sweater set.
“Please, Maggie,” Yolanda whined, while Beepo simpered alongside her.
“If it’s on the way, I suppose it’s fine.”
She clapped her hands loudly and then flung the car around in a U-turn. It was such a sharp turn that Beepo, frightened for his life, sprang into my lap.
“Whoa! I thought you said it was on the way.”
She waved a hand around nonchalantly. “It is.”
A few minutes later we pulled off the main road onto a side street. Yolanda parked the convertible and set the alarm with her key fob. In front of us was a small boutique shop featuring some very dramatic chicken hats in the window.
Oh, no!
“Wait a minute!” I said in an octave altogether too high. “Is this Fran’s store?”
