Nina Wright: Whiskey with a Twist

“Did you say ‘Davies’?” Jeb rejoined the conversation.

Odette summarized her latest coup. My ex congratulated her and told me to expect a call.

“From who?”

“The other Davies. She phoned me, looking for you.”

“Did you ask her to take Abra?”

“No, but you can,” he said as my cell rang. “That’s Susan now.”

The first zing from my free scotch hit me the instant I opened my phone. I was pretty sure I slurred my greeting. “This is Whiskey.”

“Hello, Whiskey,” said a warm female voice. “This is Susan Davies. I believe we’re both fans of Jeb Halloran. He’s told me so much about you and your Afghan hound. I hope you don’t mind that I asked him for your number.”

Scotch buzz notwithstanding, I had three instant questions, none of which I asked out loud. First, which horror stories had Jeb shared about me and my diva dog? Second, when and where had he shared them? Third, and this was related to Second, what did Susan Davies mean by claiming that she and I were both “fans”? As Jeb’s former wife and current lover, I was way more than a fan. Was she? I suddenly remembered one painful reason for our long-ago divorce: Jeb liked to stray.

I took another slug of scotch. “How do you know my ex-husband?”

“He didn’t tell you?”

“He didn’t.”

I glared at Jeb, who was leaning on the bar, laughing with Odette.

“Liam and I caught his act at the Holiday Inn in Grand Rapids. That was in August. Since then, my husband has been too busy to go back, but I’ve heard Jeb at least five more times.”

“Five more times?”

“At least. Fabulous, isn’t he?”

“That’s one word for him.” My voice was calm although my diction lacked crispness. Since I rate peace of mind higher than clarity of speech, I drank some more. “What keeps bringing you back to Grand Rapids, Susan? Surely not Jeb’s music…”

“You’re right. Hearing Jeb sing is a treat, but that’s not why I’m in the area. He didn’t tell you why?”

“Again-no, he didn’t.”

I frowned at my ex-husband, who was having too much fun to notice.

Susan said, “Besides my kennel in Itasca, I co-own six dogs in Grand Rapids. The other owner and I started a breeding program. Our bitch is in heat.”

“How nice for you!”

“It is, actually. Which brings me to the reason I called. I have a request, Whiskey. It’s unorthodox, not to mention short notice, but I’d like to stop by your home. Tonight. My co-breeder, Ramona Bowden, is with me, and we want to meet your dog.”

“My dog?” I blinked. “You don’t want to meet my dog.”

“Oh, yes, we most definitely do.”

“Why not meet a nice Afghan hound? Mine is a convicted felon.”

“We know that.”

Susan Davies didn’t seem to get it. So I spoke slowly. “Abra steals things. Expensive things. She consorts with thieves and kidnappers. My dog has a criminal record.”

“Her criminal record is why we want to meet her!” Susan said. “It’s why we are inviting her-and you, too, of course-to participate in next week’s Midwest Afghan Hound Show.”

At least that was what I thought she said. Since it made no sense, I blamed the scotch, set my empty glass on the bar, and waited for Susan Davies to try again.

“Are you there, Whiskey?”

“We must have a bad connection. It sounded like you want Abra to be in a dog show. Because she’s a criminal.” I giggled.

“That’s right. Ramona and I are in charge of Breeder Education. We believe that the most effective way to teach grooming and training is to show how not to do it. Abra is the worst example we’ve ever found.”

Until Odette convinced Liam Davies to sign with us, business had been deadly dull at Mattimoe Realty. Which explained why I was participating in a not-so-happy Thursday afternoon happy hour at Mother Tucker’s Bar and Grill: I had nothing better to do. And no better place to do it.

The office phones weren’t ringing. A couple new agents had recently quit for lack of commissions or the promise of any, anytime soon. My part-time agents weren’t getting results, and my senior full-time agents were getting restless. Unless you counted foreclosures, nothing much was happening on the local real estate scene.

But now, thanks to Odette, my company had reason to celebrate. And I had a reason to comply with Susan Davies’ ridiculous request regarding my diva dog. We ended our phone conversation by setting an appointment for her to come by and meet Abra: in two hours, exactly. That gave me sufficient time to get sober enough to drive home. And then try to locate my hound.

The barkeep replaced my empty rock glass with a mug of black coffee. I set my cell phone on the bar next to Jeb’s.

“You knew about the dog show thing, didn’t you?”

“Susan might have mentioned it.”

“When?”

What I really meant was “How often do you see this woman?” Fortunately, I stopped myself from sounding like the jealous shrew I am.

“We run into each other now and then. In Grand Rapids. It’s not that big a town.”

Way bigger than Magnet Springs, I thought, which automatically qualified it for romantic trysts. I forced myself to choke down half the coffee. During the intervening silence, Odette offered a troubling tidbit.

“Susan and Liam have one of those on-again, off-again marriages. Or so I hear. They’ve separated a few times but never gone through with the divorce.” She turned to Jeb. “Is the marriage on or off these days?”

When he shrugged, I didn’t buy it.

“You don’t know the marital status of your Number One fan?”

“I thought you were my Number One fan.” He grinned. “As for Susan and Liam, I think they’re working on it. I think they’re always ‘working on it.’ At least that’s the official line.”

“Rather like Fenton and Noonan,” Odette said, referring to our local New Age gurus. Fenton Flagg and Noonan Starr considered themselves “permanent spouses.” In other words, soul-mates. They had married long ago, split up almost immediately, yet never bothered to divorce. Why? Because they liked each other and had so much in common, including the Seven Suns of Solace step-program for inner peace. That didn’t stop them from having affairs with other people, however. Fenton had almost had an affair with me-before I hooked up with Jeb again.

“Well, maybe they’re like Fenton and Noonan,” I said cautiously. “Except that Fenton and Noonan are… “ I mentally fished for the appropriate euphemism.

“Nuts?” Jeb suggested.

“Unique,” I said and then gave up all pretense. “Are Susan and Liam crazy, too?”

“I haven’t met Susan,” said Odette, “but I can tell you that Liam is logical and blunt. When it comes to doing business, he’s a straight shooter who wastes nobody’s time.”

She and I looked to Jeb for his assessment of Susan. He took a long swig of scotch. And remained silent.

“Well?” I prompted.

“I don’t know what Susan’s like when it comes to doing business. I only know her as my Number One fan.”

I threw a cocktail straw at him. Even with two and a half drinks in his system, Jeb’s reflexes were excellent. He snatched the straw in midair and lobbed it back at me. Only I didn’t duck in time. Or even blink. The straw hit me right in the eye like a tiny javelin.

“Ouch!”

It really did hurt. Apparently I needed a lot more coffee. As well as some ice for my eye. And a couple aspirin. Jeb and Odette decided that I also needed someone to drive me home. My ex won the coin toss. At least I think he won; in any case, he provided the ride.

I resisted leaving my car at Mother Tucker’s until Jeb promised he’d drive me to work in the morning. Translation: he planned to spend the night. With ice on my eye, I was in no position to argue. I just wanted to get through the damn meeting with Susan Davies and her associate. Presumably they needed to eyeball Abra in order to confirm that she was as awful as her reputation. I should have been mortified; their choice of her as the worst possible Afghan hound clearly condemned my skills as pet owner.