Nina Wright - Whiskey with a Twist

Suddenly I realized something: Mitchell Slater was killed while flirting with me.

Did that make me a femme fatale?

As soon as Susan left, I crawled to the end of my lumpy bed and reached for the food parked on top of the TV. Hoping to distract myself while I ate, I searched for the remote control. There was none. Apparently the TV was free, but the remote was extra. So was cable. I was able to bring in a total of four channels, none of them worth watching. But that had never stopped me before. I did my best to turn my two skinny pillows into a bolster, and I unwrapped my sandwich.

It was a lukewarm overcooked burger with everything on it except cheese, bacon, and mushrooms. Unfortunately, cheese, bacon, and mushrooms are the only things I like on my burger. So I picked off the wilted lettuce, tomato, onion, and pickles; used a napkin to wipe the condiments from the bun; and scarfed the whole thing down while watching five minutes of a sleep-inducing PBS documentary. At least my Coke tasted good. With the TV still on, I dozed off.

I awoke barely in time to make it to the toilet before I heaved. And kept heaving for what seemed like an hour. This was one meal I couldn’t blame on Chester.

Either my insides were seriously on the blink, or Susan had brought me a bad burger. I did my best to convince myself that she hadn’t made me sick on purpose. Provided I was well enough to get to the dog show in the morning, I would inquire as to whether anyone else who’d eaten food from the concession stand got sick.

Shakily I dragged myself back to bed, grateful I had a little Coke and ice left to sip. I jumped when my cell phone rang. What time was it? Barely midnight. Still early for most folks on a Friday night. Folks having fun, that is.

Jenx said, “No need to let your chief of police know you were nearly killed. MacArthur gave me a call.”

In the pandemonium following Slater’s murder, I’d completely forgotten about Jenx. And MacArthur; I hadn’t seen him anywhere.

“He must be keeping a low profile,” I said. “More like a spy than a bodyguard.”

“Whatever,” Jenx said. “He knows what’s going on.”

“Yeah, but is he trying to keep me alive?”

“You’re still ticking, aren’t you?”

Jenx wanted to hear from me what had happened. After I’d told her everything, including the fact that Susan’s meal had made me sick, she said, “You’ve had a pretty shitty day.”

“Can I go home now?” I asked, hoping an authority figure would give me permission.

“You made a commitment to show your dog,” Jenx said. “After you do that, you can go home.”

“Abra is no show dog,” I muttered.

“No shit,” Jenx said. “Unless you mean ‘Worst in Show.’”

She pointed out that I had additional reasons to be there, like schmoozing Susan.

“This started as a business trip,” she reminded me. “So do your business! Odette says it’s high time you do some PR for the company.”

Was this public relations-or public humiliation? Now that I was here, surrounded by gorgeous dogs and serious dog-people, I wasn’t sure how being a Bad Example could be good for my business. Would Liam Davies like Mattimoe Realty better because his wife proved I couldn’t handle my dog?

I expressed my doubts to Jenx.

“Going to the show proves you care about your community,” she said. “And that’s gotta be good for business.”

“How does going to a dog show in Indiana prove I care about Magnet Springs?”

“You’re admitting that Abra is a public menace, and you’re asking for help. Speaking of help, have you talked to Jeb? He’s worried about you.”

Just then a call from the man himself beeped in my ear. I told Jenx I’d call her back. She told me not to… unless I got in more trouble.

I greeted Jeb’s incoming call by quoting Jenx: “I’ve had a pretty shitty day.”

“So I hear. MacArthur told me you saw a man die.”

“When did you talk to MacArthur?”

“I asked him to phone me if anything bad happens to you. He’s called twice already. You haven’t called at all.”

Jeb’s voice had that whispery edge I always found sexy.

“Sorry,” I said. “Catching a dead body when it falls is distracting. How are you?”

“Fine, but lonely. Chester’s cooking up a storm.”

“I couldn’t eat a bite. Did you really tell MacArthur to let you know if something bad happened to me?”

“Yup, and I expect more calls.” Jeb hesitated. “You know I’d come if you asked. Any chance you’re asking?”

Part of me wanted to, but instead I said, “I’m a big girl.”

“Yes, you are. Keep your head down, babe.”

“I’m not sure that’ll help. Still, I feel good knowing you’re on my team.”

“You got MacArthur, Jenx, and Chester on your team, too. But I’m the one who knows how to make you feel way better than good.“

He whispered a few more lines designed to get me hot and bothered. I went to sleep dreaming about his smooth hands all over my body.

I forgot to set an alarm, which turned out not to matter since Susan remembered to wake me up. At 6:15.

From the other side of my door, she called, “Good morning, Whiskey! I’m leaving a cup of hot coffee out here to help you get started. The Breeder Breakfast begins at seven. See you then!”

Despite my mother’s teachings, I could not find it in my heart to say thank you. Susan seemed to do almost everything right. As a result, almost everything she did offended me.

The coffee tasted good, much better than last night’s burger. Jeb had probably been right when he said Susan wasn’t to blame for that. Most concession stands produce mediocre fare, at best.

I’d been looking for ways to fault Susan ever since I met her. It’s satisfying to suspect an attractive woman of having hideous flaws. In this case: compulsive lying, marriage-busting, and food-poisoning. Two out of the three were still distinct possibilities.

I didn’t know what to make of her interest in Jeb. Was she just a loyal fan? He seemed to think so, and I wanted to believe him.

What about Mitchell Slater? If he’d left his wife for Susan, she must have given him a reason. According to her, she would have been his “trophy.” Whatever that meant.

Standing in the shower, letting hot liquid jets revive me, I mulled over Susan’s possible reasons for insisting I come to the dog show. Was I really here because of Abra? Or did she need me for another purpose? And if so, what was it? I was hardly the best choice in personal protection even if I did come with a professional cleaner willing to work for free.

I couldn’t buy the notion that she’d invited me and Abra because she wanted to “do good works.” I’d lived long enough to recognize Susan‘s type. Sure, she was a reputable breeder and a frequent volunteer. But I believed that her personal agenda always came first. As soon as I could figure out Susan’s intentions, I would know why Abra and I were here. Then I might be able to guess what would happen next. For now, though, I was completely in the dark.

Overnight the temperature had dropped sharply, imparting a silvery finish to the still-green grass. I inhaled decidedly autumn smells: morning dew mixed with damp earth and drying leaves.

After the ordeal of the previous evening, I felt surprisingly strong and upbeat. Even my stomach seemed normal. Until I entered the exhibition hall and caught a whiff of the hot breakfast buffet.

Hello, gag reflex. Good-bye, morning calm.

I was desperately scanning the walls for a restroom when a smiling woman with a nametag I couldn’t read and a haircut I coveted waved at me.