Nina Wright - Whiskey with a Twist

Deely pointed to the corner of the Barnyard Inn, not far from room 17. Kori’s room. “It was silver, ma’am. Kind of like the dog. Sorry I couldn’t see the license plate.”

“You think a man was driving?” I asked.

Deely looked to Dr. David for his input. Neither one could be sure.

“We heard a man’s voice coming from the truck,” the vet declared. “He shouted, ‘In, boy!’ and the dog jumped aboard.”

“In case you’re keeping score,” I said, “we now have two missing dogs-one well-trained, and one hardly trained at all. Seen Kori Davies lately?”

I was thinking about her man-like voice.

Deely said, “She stopped to talk to us just before the first helicopter left.”

“That’s right,” Dr. David recalled. “She was on her way back to her room to pack. She said she was through with dog shows. Forever.”

“She wished us luck with our mission,” Deely said. “And made a generous donation.”

“Every protest secures another victory,” Dr. David declared. “In her case, a complete conversion, from animal handler to animal advocate.”

I was sure Kori had done it just to piss off Susan. Or to give herself an alibi.

“Did you tell MacArthur you saw Kori?” I said.

“Yes, ma’am,” Deely said. “But he didn’t seem interested.”

I suspected that Kori interested MacArthur very much, and not just for her kisses. He would make the same connections I did: The truck was parked by Kori’s room and driven by someone with a manly voice. Dr. David and Deely last saw Kori before the first helicopter left. She wanted them to remember seeing her, so she made a donation. In the confusion of the chopper’s departure, Kori might have left her room and helped someone steal Silverado. True, I hadn’t seen her in the exhibit hall, and she was too compactly built to be mistaken for the man I’d glimpsed in silhouette. But that didn’t exempt her from a role in the dog’s disappearance.

I had never believed MacArthur’s story about Kori excusing herself to advise her twelve-step group sponsoree. Why would he lie or be receptive to her lies except for the only and obvious reason that men get stupid around women: s-e-x.

Kori would never hurt a dog, so that was not a worry. If she took Silverado, either she had found a better home for him, or she planned to keep him herself. But how would she earn a living without Uncle Liam’s support?

Something else didn’t fit. Kori had claimed to like Matt best among all the handlers. On that point she had seemed sincere. Why would she participate in a crime that resulted in his death? Was that part an accident? Or had Kori’s partner in this venture kept the real agenda a secret?

Dr. David and Deely had something going on that Jeb and I didn’t: a damned good time. Although they officially opposed almost everything happening at the Barnyard Inn, they did so with joy and affection. I saw them exchange cutely covert kisses before rejoining their Flegger ranks. Jeb and I hadn’t touched since he’d landed.

Just in case the chill between us was even remotely my fault, I decided to melt it. I reached for Jeb’s hand as we approached the exhibit hall main entrance. Unfortunately, at the very second I would have made skin-on-skin contact, the double glass doors flew open and out dashed a red-faced Chester, swinging the plastic cat carrier. I couldn’t help but notice that its grated gate was flapping wide open. And Chester was flanked by two bounding hounds.

“Whoa, buddy!” Jeb said, positioning himself to catch my small neighbor.

There’s no way to catch flying Afghan hounds. But I did track which way they went. Straight into the cornfield.

“What’s going on?” I said.

“Yoda-I mean Boomgarden!” Chester panted. “When Perry Stiles took him out of the carrier to verify his identity, Boomgarden got startled by a hound! He clawed Perry, who dropped him on the dog’s head. The dog reared up and bolted around the arena like a wild horse. Every Afghan hound that wasn’t secured joined in. There are at least five dogs running loose inside. And two more outside!”

He’d no sooner spoken than the Two L’s burst out of the arena dangling dog-less leashes and looking angrier than any bluebloods I’d ever seen.

“They went that-away!” I said, pointing helpfully toward the cornfield.

They bounded off without bothering to say thanks. I wondered how the hell they thought they could catch hounds inside those tall walls.

“The place has gone crazy,” Chester said, glancing back at the arena.

“Courtesy of Yoda,” I said. “Before that cat arrived, every dog here was the perfect anti-Abra!”

“That is correct,” Susan Davies announced.

She had followed the Two L’s out the front door and now stood glowering at me. She was also towering over me-a feat made possible only because I was crouching next to Chester.

“Whiskey, the time has come for me, as Chair of the Breeder Education Committee, to invite you to leave.”

When I straightened to my full height, I saw that Susan had brought reinforcements. Behind her, melodramatically leaning on what appeared to be an ivory cane but was probably a plastic theatrical prop, stood Ramona.

“You’ve been more than accommodating in providing us with bad examples,” Ramona said. “In fact, you’ve managed to inspire utter chaos. Please leave immediately. And take your trouble-making little friend with you.”

Melodramatically, she pointed her cane at Chester.

“Thank you so much,” I said, “for finally acknowledging my existence! Because now- Chester, please cover your ears-you’ve made it possible for me to say what I’ve wanted to say since the moment we met: Fuck off!”

Before Ramona or Susan could respond, MacArthur emerged from the arena with four wild-eyed Afghan hounds on leashes.

“I’m pleased to return your dogs,” he thundered. “Ramona, kindly take Laughing Moon’s Son of Flavio and Ego Narcissus. Susan, here are your bitches, Debbani’s Whiter Shade of Pale and Taji Crystal Chandelier. They sorely lack training with felines. May I suggest that next year your own hounds should be your Bad Examples.“

MacArthur loomed ominously large. The only reason I didn’t tremble was that he was on my side. Ramona and Susan flinched as they accepted their AWOL Afghans. We watched them retreat stiffly toward the Barnyard Inn.

Then Chester leapt up and high-fived the cleaner. I joined in.

“Good news,” MacArthur announced. “Perry Stiles convinced Boomgarden to come down from the display curtain. They’re making nice with each other now.”

To Jeb he said, “We can review our strategy options over a cuppa. You can eat if you want. Stay away from the burgers, though.”

I cleared my throat. “Um, what about my strategy? After all, Abra is my Bad Example.”

Annoyance flickered in the cleaner’s eyes, but he recovered quickly.

“Of course, Whiskey! We’ll come up with something you can handle while Jeb and I track the killer.”

“I thought Jeb was here to help me pretend to be looking for Abra.”

Because that sounded awful, and Chester was listening, I added, “During those rare moments when I’m not looking for her by myself. High and low.”

“Indeed,” MacArthur agreed amiably. “We’ll begin by reviewing our strategies, starting with my own wee list.”

From the hip pocket of his jeans, MacArthur withdrew a piece of yellow paper folded to the size of a postage stamp. He opened it deliberately, coughed softly, and read, “Power.”

After a beat I said, “What?”

Chester frantically waved his right hand, an “A” student competing for the teacher’s attention. When MacArthur called on him, he said, “When we know who caused the power outage, we’ll be close to knowing who killed Matt the handler and took Silverado the dog!”