Nina Wright - Whiskey with a Twist

“Good morning! I’ll bet you’re here for the breakfast, aren’t you?”

“That was the plan. But first I need to find a bathroom. Fast!”

Helpfully she pointed to what would have been eleven o’clock on the dial, and I galloped off. When I reached the bathroom stall, I realized that I had no cookies left to toss, just a lot of unhappy gastric juices. So I hung out for a while, breathing deeply and eavesdropping on other people’s conversations.

Susan’s name came up a few times. All references were factual comments about either her Breeder Education committee or her scheduled address to the breakfast crowd. In every case, the words chosen implied emotional neutrality, proving only that the speakers were aware anyone could be lurking behind a stall door.

I emerged from my personal “recovery room” just as one woman remarked to another, “Did you get a look at that bitch Susan brought in as Bad Example? Oh my god, what a mess!”

Both women stood at the sink, brushing chin-length silky blonde hair. Our three pairs of eyes met in the mirror, and they stopped talking. But only for a second.

“She looks awful,” the second woman whispered, her voice husky with disapproval. “She has no sense of shame.”

“None at all,” the first woman agreed. “She turns everything into a circus.”

Didn’t they know I could hear them?

Still grooming their tresses, they frowned at my not-quite-blow-dried curls. My hair was so thick and unruly that it broke brushes. So I finger-combed and hoped for the best.

“A little discipline wouldn’t hurt,” the second woman said.

“She just doesn’t care,” sighed the first woman.

Wanna bet? I was all set to defend my dog and myself, not necessarily in that order, when a stall door opened, and out stepped Ramona Bowden, wearing what looked shimmery silver pajamas. The two blondes blanched.

“Hello, girls,” Ramona said. “I couldn’t help but overhear you. Wait until I tell Susan that you’ve been gossiping about her niece.”

“Her niece?” I blurted. “I thought they were talking about me! Or my dog.”

As usual, Ramona failed to acknowledge my existence, but the two blondes stared. Ramona peered down her aquiline nose at them both.

“Lauren. Lindsey. Best of luck to you. I’m quite sure you’ll need it.”

“We weren’t talking about Susan’s niece!” the woman named Lauren insisted, but Ramona had already swept her considerable bulk from the room.

“Then who were you talking about?” I asked.

“Susan’s niece,” the woman named Lindsey admitted.

“Susan Davies recruited her niece as a bad example… of what?” I said.

“A handler,” Lauren said. “She’s a complete disgrace.”

Lindsey nodded. “She didn’t come up through Junior Showmanship. Like we did.”

They exchanged amused glances. Both women were about thirty years old; Lauren was slightly taller and thinner, while Lindsey was prettier. They wore expensive dark suits and sensible rubber-soled shoes. They looked like athletes. Also the products of private education. I was willing to bet they had played lacrosse.

“What’s Susan’s niece’s name?” I said and realized that I hadn’t offered my own. “I’m Whiskey Mattimoe, by the way.”

“We know,” they said.

“You do?”

“You’re the other Bad Example,” Lindsey said.

“Susan’s niece is Kori Davies,” Lauren said. “You’ll meet her at the breakfast.”

“You won’t be able to miss her,” Lindsey said, and they both tittered.

So it was that I emerged from the ladies’ room at the Midwest Afghan Hound Specialty with the “Two L’s.” Apparently, they had a joint reputation as top handlers. Both had shown “countless” champions at regional and national events, including the Westminster Kennel Club show. This was going to be an extremely busy weekend because they worked for lots of breeders.

Lindsey had been right when she said I wouldn’t be able to miss Kori. It helped that the young woman was standing indignantly by Susan’s side. But the biggest clue to Kori’s identity as Bad Handler was her appearance, outrageous by even my laissez-faire standards: she wore a short-skirted bubble-gum pink suit and matching running shoes. Bubble-gum pink was also the color of the streaks in her spiky black hair. And her dangling earrings, which were large enough to be detected by an orbiting spy satellite.

The combined steam-table smells of eggs, sausage, and bacon almost turned me green again, but I remembered to breathe deeply and think about things other than food. That last part was easy now that I had Kori in my sights.

“Did you find the bathroom all right?”

It was the smiling woman with the perfect haircut who had showed me where to go. Now she was close enough for me to read her nametag: Brenda Spenser from Columbus. I nodded and thanked her.

“You still look pale. Did you get a bad burger from the concession stand yesterday?”

“Yes!” I said. “Did you?”

“No, but my handler did. From now on, stick to hot dogs and nachos.”

She winked conspiratorially. I wasn’t sure how to reply, so I winked back. Then I noticed that everyone not already wearing a nametag was fetching one from a table near the buffet line.

“I need to get myself a nametag,” I said.

“That’s not necessary,” Brenda said, still smiling. “Everybody knows you’re Whiskey Mattimoe.”

“Everybody?”

She nodded sympathetically. “Susan introduced us to your dog last night. Have some dry toast and tea. You’ll feel much better.”

I found some comfort in knowing I wasn’t the only two-legged Bad Example. Oddly, I felt superior to Kori Davies, who was probably there because of nepotism. Or reverse nepotism. Watching the body language between her and Susan-thoroughly chilly-I could only assume that she was the non-blood-relative whom Susan loved to hate.

I had one of those in my ex-stepdaughter. Yes, Kori reminded me of Avery, who for once was far, far away. I must have stared long enough for Susan to pick up my vibe. She waved and started in my direction. The instant she left Kori’s side, I saw the Bad Handler whip out a pack of cigarettes and head for the exit.

“Poor Susan,” Brenda said. “She’s going to be stuck with that girl for the whole school year.”

“Kori’s still in school?” From where we stood, I had estimated her age to be close to Avery’s: twenty-two.

“Community college.” Brenda pronounced the term in the same tone that Ramona had used for designer dogs. “Unless, of course, they can find her a job, which isn’t likely.”

“Liam is her uncle, right? Surely he could find her a job.”

Brenda looked baffled. “Where?”

“How about in his own company?”

“There are no jobs in real estate,” Brenda said. She added, “There are no jobs anywhere when you have a criminal record.”

“Kori did time?”

Brenda nodded, watching Susan stride toward us. “For car theft and vehicular homicide, what Susan calls a ‘joy ride gone wrong.’ Kori has a tendency to sabotage every advantage she has. She’s made a hash of the handler training Susan gave her, which is why she’s here today-“

“Whiskey, welcome to the Midwest Afghan Hound Specialty. I hope you’re feeling much better this morning.”

Susan spoke from at least ten feet away. So as to interrupt Brenda?

“They’re opening the buffet line now,” she continued. “Our guests of honor go first.”

I hoped that didn’t include Abra. But I was quite sure it did include Kori, who had just sneaked out for a smoke.

“Whiskey’s a little off her food this morning,” Brenda told Susan. “She got a bad burger yesterday, just like Matthew did.”