Nina Wright - Whiskey with a Twist

“But not Susan Davies,” I said. “Does that mean she’s safe?”

“It’s too soon to tell. Fortunately, I’m here to protect her and those close to her.”

“Especially her niece.”

I couldn’t resist. But my comment had no effect on MacArthur.

“I’m watching out for you, too, Whiskey.”

“Really? If last night’s bullet had gone six inches to the right, that would have been me face down in the parking lot!”

“But it wasn’t you, was it? Because I’m on the job. And now I need to get back to it.”

He started toward the cornfield behind the exhibit hall.

“Can I call you?” I said.

MacArthur raised a brawny arm in what I assumed was an affirmative gesture.

“I check voicemail three times a day.”

With that he vanished among the drying cornstalks like the ghosts of young ballplayers in Field of Dreams.

When I re-entered the exhibit hall, nobody was smooching near the side entrance. In the show ring, I counted seven hounds with handlers. They had attracted at least fifty onlookers. Some sat in folding chairs; others stood around the circle. With “Bad Example” Kori in the competition, there was an added incentive for watching.

Kori’s hot-pink ensemble flared like neon next to the subdued outfits of her peers. The judge, a tall stately man with thick white hair, showed no reaction to her attire. He fixed his full and concentrated attention on the hounds, as was his duty. After scrutinizing them, he flashed a few hand signals appreciated by everyone except me. Bursts of applause and a flurry of movement followed. Hounds and handlers dashed around the ring, some exiting, some staying. Apparently, the judge had narrowed the field, excusing those dogs not selected to continue.

Across the ring from me, Susan stood alone, closely watching the competition. Matt was in the ring showing a dog the same size as Silverado but reddish colored with a dramatic black face. The Two L’s were there, too, each leading a blonde dog that reminded me of Abra, if only Abra had manners.

When Kori and Silverado got the nod to remain, I saw Susan’s face fold-for just a moment. Then she perked up and applauded.

So the Bad Example was not the worst handler, after all. Or, if she was, she knew how to show Silverado well enough to keep him in the competition.

Matt and his dog also remained. So did the Two L’s. I caught Matt and Kori exchanging grins. The Two L’s made a deliberate show of ignoring Susan’s niece.

As the action continued, I inferred what was happening: the judge was evaluating the “survivors” to determine their order of finish. Each handler showed his or her dog and then circled the ring again to a fresh round of applause. When it was Kori and Silverado’s turn, the applause was sparse and forced. Except for mine. I clapped hard and added a whistle as they ran past. That earned me a distinctly dirty look from Susan.

Hey, we Bad Examples gotta stick together.

As that round turned out, I had another opportunity to hoot and holler. Silverado, handled by Kori, finished first. Next was the dog that Matt handled, followed by the dogs shown by the Two L’s. Lauren and Lindsey briskly congratulated Matt and then swept past Kori as if she didn’t exist. No mean feat considering the brilliant glow of her apparel and the broad “eat shit” grin on her face.

I could only wish for luck like that on my upcoming Walk of Shame.

While I wasn’t looking, Susan had disappeared from her post near the ring. She couldn’t have predicted that outcome, which seriously weakened her case for Kori as Bad Example. Although it may have increased the value of her dog and her breeding program, Susan doubtless would have preferred to prove Kori a total loser.

“Are you Whiskey Mattimoe?”

A lean gentleman in a navy blue blazer extended his manicured hand. I shook it, wondering if he’d missed my public pre-humiliation-I mean, introduction-or if he was simply being formal.

Then I read his nametag and knew he’d skipped the Breeder Breakfast.

“Yes! Nice to meet you in person, Perry. Good show… so far.”

The event chairperson pressed his lips into a thin smile that hinted at something beyond polite agreement.

“Thank you. That round was a tad surprising, wasn’t it? Not what the Breeder Education Committee expected at all…”

He let his voice trail off. Perry Stiles had a finely modulated sense of the dramatic. Detecting jubilation behind his words, I suspected that he wasn’t a fan of Susan or her committee.

“Well, my Walk of Shame with Abra will prove ’em right,” I said lightly.

Perry’s expression sharpened. “You don’t have to look bad, you know. That’s not the point.”

Before I could ask what the point was, his cell phone rang. Perry excused himself as he removed it from his inside jacket pocket. Glancing at the caller ID, he replaced the phone without answering it.

“You were saying,” I reminded him, “that I don’t have to look bad. I thought that was why Susan brought me here. To show breeders and handlers what not to do.”

“Yes, but not at the expense of your self-esteem. Certainly not!”

“Abra doesn’t care about my self-esteem… and I’m not sure Susan does, either. In fact, I don’t think she likes me. I’m sure Ramona doesn’t.”

Perry’s eyes flicked around the arena. Then he stepped closer, his manner confidential.

“Susan and Ramona have done a lot for our organization. That being said, they have their detractors. Not everyone likes the way they choose to make examples of people who don’t meet their standards.”

“You mean, they’ve done this ‘Bad Example’ thing before?”

“Every year that they’ve co-chaired Breeder Education. And that’s as many years as I’ve been part of Midwest Afghan Hounds. Of course, Ramona has been at it longer than Susan, but then she’s considerably older. Ramona has been active in this group since… well, since Hector was a pup.”

When I smiled at the dated expression, he added, “You knew what I meant! My aunt used to say that.”

“Mine, too.”

“Wonder why I thought of it now,” Perry mused.

“Maybe because we’re surrounded by dogs?”

He chuckled. “Say, someone told me you’re from Magnet Springs.”

I nodded. “Ever been there?”

“Many times! I live in Chicago, on the Near North Side. Magnet Springs is one of my favorite summertime destinations. I love the beach, but I especially love the stores and restaurants.”

“Chicago has some nice stores and restaurants, too.”

“Of course. But the ones in Magnet Springs are so quaint.”

That’s what big-city people loved about our town: its quieter, calmer, cleaner lifestyle. Kind of like Amish Country, without the horses but with electricity. Plus a beach. Magnet Springs was a popular playground for people from Chicagoland, especially rich people and gay people. I was willing to bet that Perry belonged to both categories.

“Do you usually come to Magnet Springs for the weekend or a longer stay?” I said.

“Weekends, usually, although last spring a friend and I rented a house on the beach for a week.”

“Did you enjoy yourselves?”

Perry sighed. “It should have been our most relaxing vacation ever. I’d lined up someone to babysit my dogs and someone else to babysit my business-I’m a painting contractor, specializing in faux finishes-but at the last minute my friend couldn’t find anyone to take care of his cat. So he brought it along. Big mistake. We should have cleared it with the landlord, I know, but everything was so last-minute, and anyway the cat was a breed that doesn’t shed.”