Nina Wright - Whiskey with a Twist

The chief’s instructions reminded me that I hadn’t seen MacArthur since leaving Magnet Springs. I knew the volunteer bodyguard was around here somewhere because he had told both Jenx and Jeb about Mitchell’s murder. Still, seeing him with my own eyes would be a relief. I couldn’t imagine how one could be an effective protector while staying completely out of sight. Then again, maybe I should have been impressed by MacArthur’s ability to work undercover. Assuming, of course, that he was actually working.

As Brenda Spenser had predicted, the dry toast and hot tea settled my stomach. So I roamed the hall watching breeders and handlers primp their pooches. Being backstage at the dog show was like slipping behind the scenes at a fashion show. Not that I’d ever been to a fashion show.

Doggy divas posed passively while determined humans styled their hair-I mean fur-using essentially the same tools employed by my own stylist: detangling spray, steel combs, pin brushes, and blow-dryers. The only notable difference between my salon and this one, other than the presence of hounds, was the size of the blow-dryers. These were as big as floor lamps with the approximate force of a jet engine. An attractive young handler of the male persuasion helpfully explained why such machinery was necessary.

“With a regular blow-dryer, you can spend two or three hours just drying their coat. It’s like blow-drying a sponge.”

I had once tried to blow-dry Abra but gave up when my arms cramped; I’d left her to finish drying on a bed of towels. My way of grooming my hound was sending her to the doggie salon… when I managed to catch her… and when I could no longer deny that she was a hideous mess.

I watched as the handler lovingly, thoroughly combed the fur on, under, and around his dog’s ears. Then he moved on to the armpits-if that’s what you call them on a dog.

“No point doing that in real life,” I sighed. “Their fur just gets tangled up again.”

That was when he introduced me to the amazing invention known as the snood. It’s a kind of doggie scarf, and apparently every self-respecting Afghan hound needs one. More than one. Way more.

Most of the backstage dogs who already had their hair done were wearing snoods-in every imaginable color and fabric. Vendors were selling them as fast as they could make change. Apparently the snood biz was recession-proof.

The handsome handler man pointed me toward the vendor with the most snoods to sell. I perused the contents of her many plastic bins, trying to decide between a silk leopard-print snood and an iridescent blue-green satin snood. After the vendor finished with a couple clients, she turned to me.

“You won’t have nearly the problems you’ve got with Abra once she starts wearing these.”

I was stunned. Not because she recognized me; Susan and Ramona had made sure everyone could do that. No. I was shocked by the implication that putting a snood on Abra might solve some of her issues.

“Is the snood like… a training device?” I queried hopefully.

Maybe the handsome handler man had been too busy to tell me how truly wondrous these things were. All the snood-wearing dogs around me were behaving beautifully. Could snoods be the secret?

The vendor said, “It keeps their ears from getting wet, soiled, or matted.”

“I know that,” I said impatiently. “I was hoping it would help with other things, like the way she never comes when I call her.“

And then I saw the pitying look in the vendor’s eyes. I’d seen that exact expression at least twenty times today. It implied that I was tragically unfit to share my life with the glorious creature known as the Afghan hound.

The vendor whispered, “After your Walk of Shame, stop by my booth. I’ve counseled many a novice about grooming issues. As for training issues… I have a son in the business, so I may be able to help you there, too.”

So… “Walk of Shame” was more than my private label for this hellish experience. This very public hellish experience.

She accepted my cash for two snoods and slipped me her business card. Then she turned away to sell a hundred dollars’ worth of snoods to the next eager client.

The vendor also sold something called a Pee-Proofing Coat. I almost bought one for Chester’s dog, Prince Harry the Pee Master, thinking it was a house-breaking device. No such luck. It’s a wardrobe item that permits show hounds to do their business without soiling their nether regions.

I read the vendor’s card:

Live to Love Afghan Hounds!

Snoods, Coats, Boots, Beds, Grooming Aids

Gifts for Humans, Too

Sandy Slater, Owner

Slater? As in the late Mitchell? Kori had said that his ex-wife was in London. Could this be a sister or a cousin? Or was Kori just plain wrong?

I studied Sandy Slater and saw no signs of distress. She was in her element selling snoods. Probably a coincidence that her last name was the same as the murder victim’s. Still, as Jenx’s volunteer deputy, I was obliged to snoop around 'til I found out. Digging for personal information among folks who saw me as a dog-owning disgrace might prove almost as difficult as training Abra. My volunteer deputy status was unlikely to motivate anyone; I was a hundred miles outside the jurisdiction where I had no legal clout, anyhow.

My peripheral vision picked up Kori exiting through the side door of the arena, probably to sneak a smoke before her performance. She was accompanied by a big silver-blue Afghan hound, presumably the dog Susan was willing to “sacrifice” in the ring so that others could learn from Kori’s mistakes. If there was time before they made their entrance, Kori might be willing to answer a question or two about Mitchell Slater. Especially if the answers made Susan look bad. Kori might also know Sandy the vendor and others who had been friendly with the dead man.

I followed her, planning my next move. After quizzing Kori, I would interview everyone I’d met here so far: Brenda Spenser, the Two L’s, and the handsome handler man, whose name I didn’t know. There was no point talking to Susan again until I had enough information to formulate some new questions. And there was no point talking to Ramona, period, because she flat-out ignored me.

A canvas curtain hung next to the side exit, partially concealing a stash of folded chairs, tables, and stacked cardboard boxes. As well as a man and a woman in what appeared to my somewhat experienced eyes as a passionate clinch. They kissed and groped each other with a gusto commonly reserved for either honeymooners or adulterers. Since I immediately recognized the couple, I was able to rule out honeymooners.

Susan Davies was swapping spit with the handsome handler dude, who was young enough to be Kori’s boyfriend.

I would have loved to stand and stare at Susan and boy-toy 'til one of them came up for air. What could be sweeter than letting her know that I knew she was a Bad Example, too?

That revelation wasn’t completely comforting, however. I had already suspected Susan of philandering, possibly with my own formerly philandering ex-husband, who was once again my lover. Proof that she had no romantic boundaries only gave me more reason to worry about her and Jeb.

Now I wondered if Susan’s invitation to this event was intended simply to humiliate me. Embarrassment, like beauty, is in the eye of the beholder. If she hoped to shame me in Jeb’s eyes, she’d have to do better-or worse-than Worst in Show. He’d already seen me at the bottom of my game.

If shaming me in front of the Afghan hound crowd was her goal, what was the point? I didn’t expect to do business with Brenda, Ramona, the Two L’s, or anyone else in this hall. In fact, I planned to never see any of them again.