Nina Wright - Whiskey with a Twist

Brenda excused herself, smiling so sweetly that I felt quite at home. Maybe I’d been wrong-and Sandy had been just plain mean-in assuming that the breeders didn’t like me. True, I didn’t have a clue how dog shows worked. And my Bad Example bitch had run off with a herd of goats. But that didn’t necessarily make me an outcast.

Odette headed toward me, hips wagging. She waved her latest designer bag in the universal sign for “I got money!”

“Peg will be feeling no pain,” she announced.

“Peg’s losing her cat,” I said. “And she’s stuck with that awful tattoo.”

“Peg’s gaining a thousand bucks! Perry’s friend misses that little monster. I’ve already phoned Liam’s second pilot, the one who’s bringing Jeb. He’ll take a slight detour to pick up Yoda, too.”

Odette glanced at her Rolex, a diamond-encrusted model, which I happened to know she had purchased with her latest commission check.

“Liam and I are off to meet with his Chicago people. The next time we speak, Whiskey, I want to hear that you’ve finished looking for Abra, whether you’ve found her or not!”

Odette was the only employee I made a habit of taking orders from. Doing so generally proved profitable.

Now I surveyed the scene around the show ring. Sandy had timed her lunch break well. No one would be buying snoods during the final round of judging. Other vendors had left their booths, too, including the red-haired author of Afghan hound mysteries. Still smiling, the novelist stood with the rest of the crowd. When her eyes briefly met mine, I wondered if she could tell from a distance that I wasn’t a reader.

Spectators had flocked to the ring; at some points they stood two and three people deep. The tall, distinguished judge was in place, like an elder statesman about to preside over matters of national import. I guessed that we were waiting for him to summon the hounds and their handlers. Searching the sidelines for a glimpse of Silverado, I wondered who would be on the other end of his leash.

“I don’t have a hound in this round, but I do have a handler.”

Brenda Spenser had joined me ringside. She winked as if sharing a private joke, which I didn’t get… until the hounds arrived. Stepping lively, Silverado was the third dog to enter the ring, with Matt holding his lead.

I should have known. From our first phone conversation-the one that landed me here-Susan had struck me as a woman who got what she wanted when she wanted it. And she wanted Matt to handle her dog.

As the judge reviewed the finalists, Brenda kept up a chatty commentary about who owned whom, who bred whom, and who won what when. I wanted to pretend to care. Really I did. But the best I could manage was a few vague grunts while my mind wandered as waywardly as my dog.

What had been Liam’s real reason for detouring here en route to Chicago? Was he trying to prove that he loved his wife, or that he had a sexy new business partner? Or did he just enjoy impressing the hoi poloi with the fact that he was rich enough to travel by helicopter?

How much did Liam know about Susan’s kissy-face relationship with Matt? According to Perry, everybody knew about both spouses’ infidelities. The real question was did anybody, Liam and Susan included, care?

I now suspected that the Davies duo were simply exhibitionists. Tiresome ones at that. Everybody they invited into their lives was there for one purpose only: to give them attention.

Like Liam, Kori must have moved on. I couldn’t see Susan, either. But she had to be there somewhere, applauding her dog and her handler, if not also her tidy triumph over Liam and his niece. Frankly, I doubted that Liam cared all that much who handled which dog. He had made it amply clear that he didn’t like dog shows.

Studying Matt standing next to Silverado, I had to agree with Brenda that they looked like winners. In his dark gray suit with his perfect posture and athletic sprint, Matt served only to enhance the sleek dog’s graceful performance.

Brenda was blathering on, no doubt for my enlightenment, about the relationship between handler and hound.

“The handler is there but not there,” she explained. “Like strings on a marionette. The audience can see the strings, but we try not to because they’re not part of the show.”

I was impressed that anyone as handsome as Matt could blend into the background. And yet he ensured that every moment was all about the dog.

Kori had proven she could get Silverado to do what he needed to do in order to win. Still, there was no denying that her hot pink suit, spiky streaked hair, and sparkly jewelry had demanded attention, too. I’d overheard the Two L’s say that Kori turned the show ring into a “circus.” That was hard to deny. Even I, a complete dog show novice, could see and respect the difference between a professional handler like Matt and a rebel like Kori. She stole the show; he kept the focus on the dog. At this level of competition, it mattered.

I made a comment to Brenda about Matt’s skill, but my words drowned in a sea of applause. As the finalists trotted around the ring, each one had a strong and enthusiastic fan base.

Naturally, Brenda wanted Matt’s canine client to win. I wondered again if she had a clue about him and Susan. Of course I cheered for Silverado, and not just because I was standing next to Brenda. Silverado was the only dog I knew personally. Plus, he had it bad for my bitch, so the poor guy deserved my support.

But I couldn’t begin to guess who deserved to be Best in Show. They were all perfectly behaved and flawlessly groomed. In other words, the opposite of Abra. Besides Silverado, who was a blue, the finalists were a solid black, a black and tan, a self-masked gold, and a cream brindle domino.

When I caught myself describing them that way in my head, I gasped. I must have actually been listening to Brenda.

Coming to this show had changed me. I had accidentally learned something about Afghan hounds. I had also lost my Afghan hound, but that happened frequently.

The judge gave each finalist one more hard look. The canine contenders posed patiently. The crowd watched, transfixed.

I was sure of one thing only, that no dog was the clear crowd favorite. If we’d relied upon an applause meter for the results, we would have had a five-way tie. Not to mention a specialty show that failed to comply with AKC regulations.

Suddenly the judge made a series of rapid-fire signals I couldn’t read; dogs and handlers looped the ring on their last circuit as the crowd hooted. When Brenda shrieked with joy, I assumed that Matt and Silverado had done well. But before I could ask, and before the dogs reached their ranked positions, the entire exhibit hall was plunged into blackness.

I heard Brenda gasp and say, “Oh, my!”

A male voice shouted, “Nobody move! Stay exactly where you are. I repeat: Nobody move! The back-up generators should kick on momentarily.”

“I hope so,” Brenda said. “Matt and Silverado deserve their moment of glory!”

“They won?” I whispered into the darkness.

“Best in show!” Brenda confirmed.

The arena, which a moment earlier had echoed with applause, was now a pitch-black den of whispers. Since the building lacked windows, no light at all filtered into the space. If someone could just open that infamous side door, I thought, it might admit a little illumination. Scuffling sounds-scrapes and grunts-emanated from the ring. I assumed that the dogs were restless.

“I said, nobody move!” the male voice repeated, sounding annoyed enough to be almost menacing.

A chorus of alarmed and alarming barks filled the air, followed by a human cry. Suddenly, that side door opened just wide enough and long enough to reveal the silhouette of a large man. Then the door closed, and the arena sank back into darkness.