Nina Wright - Whiskey with a Twist

“There are no bad dogs,” he began.

“I know,” I said. “Only bad owners. I guess that makes me the Bad Example.”

“I was going to say, there are no bad dogs, only dogs that need training.”

I liked his version much better than Susan’s. In fact, I liked him better than Susan. He was way too charming to wield a high-powered rifle.

We stepped from the cramped lobby into the late afternoon sunlight. The mild air held a hint of crispness. I smelled freshly turned earth.

“You can recommend a better tour?” I asked, brandishing my brochure.

“Much better.” He plucked the pamphlet from my fingers and proceeded to tear it into shreds.

“You don’t care for that tour, do you?” I said.

He shook his head and continued ripping, his eyes on me. Specifically, his eyes were on a part of my anatomy below my chin and above my waist. I wasn’t sure if this was flattering or just plain rude.

“So which tour do you recommend?” I said.

He tossed the tiny bits of glossy paper into the air like confetti.

“My tour,” he said.

“Excuse me?”

“I recommend that you let me show you Indiana Amish Country. I grew up in Elkhart. Trust me, I know all the back roads.”

I was willing to bet that he did. Suddenly I understood why Mitchell Slater’s face seemed strangely blank: Botox. The man had surely had injections. His neck, his hairline, and his hands confirmed that he was closing in on the big Five-Oh. Yet his face had almost no lines at all. Skin as smooth as a teen-ager’s and an attitude to match.

“Well, that’s very nice of you,” I babbled, “but I’m sure you’ll be busy with the show.”

“Not very. Most of my committee work is done, and I hire handlers to show my dogs. So all that’s left is the socializing. And collecting my ribbons, of course.”

“Of course. But I’m afraid I will be busy. I’m… the Bad Example, remember?”

“Let me talk to Susan about that. There’s no reason she should monopolize your time.”

Mitchell talk to Susan? According to Ramona, he shunned her at every event.

“So… you and Susan are… friends?” I ventured.

He barked a short laugh. I couldn’t read the emotion.

“You might say that. I left my wife for her.”

Before I could concoct a response to that bombshell, a firecracker exploded nearby. I jumped at the sound.

Then I shrieked like a terrified toddler. But not because of the bang.

I screamed when Mitchell Slater staggered and fell against me. I saw no blood, but I knew by the way his muscles let go that life had left his body.

The reason I didn’t see blood was that the bullet shattered the left side of Mitchell Slater’s head. The side not facing me.

I found that out from the cops. Later.

When Slater laughed at my question about him and Susan being friends, he pivoted toward the road. And in that instant, the shooter found his mark.

It was the closest I’d ever been to a murder victim as he was murdered.

Naturally, I passed out.

When I awoke, a woman was holding something smelly much too close to my face. In my haze, I briefly thought it was the unpleasant desk clerk trying to stuff my stinky key up my nose. Then I realized that the desk clerk was standing a few feet away, holding her baby and a cell phone, and chattering in the language of that unseen TV game show. The woman next to my face was wearing a uniform.

“Welcome back,” she said, capping the smelling salts.

Some welcome. I had graduated to a sitting position, but I felt woozy. And then I saw the blood: a wide red spray arced across the gravel where Mitchell and I had sagged together, one of us already history. Blood also stained my shirt and my pants.

I instantly tasted Chester’s waffles again. How was that possible after so many hours?

“Breathe,” the uniformed woman ordered.

Although she looked young, she sounded professional. So I complied. I also closed my eyes, which was my own idea. I heard voices murmuring, gravel crunching, car doors slamming. A dog howling. My dog.

“Can you open your eyes?” the uniformed woman said.

I knew I could, but did I want to? As if blood and death weren’t awful enough, I’d also have to handle Abra. I was a big girl, though, so I took an extra-deep breath and prepared to face the world.

The officer was leaning in so close that she was the only part of the world I could see.

“We’re going to help you stand up,” she said.

Immediately, two beefy men hoisted me to my feet, facing away from the nasty spray on the gravel and directly toward my car. Abra bounced between the front seat and the back seat in a mad, howling dance. Proof that even Jeb’s mellifluous voice had its limitations.

The Elkhart County sheriff’s department had a few questions for me. Quite a few. They suggested that I take my dog out first, correctly guessing she needed to relieve herself but incorrectly guessing she also needed to see that I was all right. Abra didn’t give a shit about me. She was, however, fascinated by movement, noise, and odors. As usual, she longed to be in the thick of things and resented my restraining her with a leash.

Like getting to my feet, shoving Abra back into my car required police assistance. She was adrenalized with excitement. Crime has that effect on my canine.

Once Abra was safely stowed away again, the female officer summarized what had happened after Mitchell Slater was shot: The desk clerk heard me scream and looked outside. When she saw us sprawled on the gravel surrounded by blood, she assumed we were both dying and dialed 9-1-1. I came to, responded to police questions, submitted to a brief examination, and passed out again. Slater was removed by ambulance. I couldn’t remember any of it.

Now I sat in the front seat of a police cruiser answering more questions… to the tune of Abra howling in the background again. The officer handed me a standard report form on a clipboard and told me to write out the sequence of events. My head throbbed. I was straining to focus on the report and tune out Abra’s wails when Susan Davies rapped on the patrol car window. I opened the door.

“Mitchell Slater is dead,” I said numbly. “Somebody shot him.”

“I know. Two officers came to the exhibit hall. That’s why I’m here. What can I do for you?”

Susan seemed completely composed. There was no sign in those clear blue eyes that she’d just received jolting news.

Abra issued a fresh howl, this one louder, higher, and more sustained than any that had come before. The look I gave Susan must have said it all.

“I’ll take care of her,” she offered. “You need to lie down.”

“Actually, I need food.” I knew that low blood sugar could give me a throbbing headache, and it had been a long time since I’d eaten.

“What room are you in? I’ll bring you a sandwich and a Coke.”

“Seventeen. But don’t bring the dog.”

I handed over Abra’s leash, eager to watch Perfect Trainer confront the Hound from Hell. This just might be the most entertaining event of the whole weekend: watching Susan extract my canine from my car. First of all, Abra was not generally receptive to strangers. Second, she had a two-response repertoire to any open door: flying leap or complete inertia. I hoped the pretty lady had above-average upper-body strength.

Susan approached the vehicle slowly, showing the leash. Abra stopped bouncing and stared. Susan’s back was to me, so I couldn’t see her face, but as she neared the window, she must have said something to Abra. I watched in shock as the dog sat demurely in the front passenger seat and waited for Susan to open the door. Then Abra not only allowed the leash to be attached, but she actually heeled as the two strutted off toward the exhibit hall.