Nina Wright: Whiskey with a Twist

Visibly shaken, Susan said, “Someone shot at us! About a mile up the road.”

Her otherwise spotless Audi sported two black holes in the door near the left rear tire.

“I’m about to pass out from the shock,” announced Ramona. And then she did, collapsing in my driveway like a deflated balloon. Finally I had met someone who fainted as easily as I did.

Jeb attended to Ramona. He was a gentleman that way. Since it was my driveway that she was lying on, I probably should have done something. In my defense, however, I was the one who usually fainted, so I didn’t know how to respond when someone else did it. Jeb gently elevated her head, patted her wrist, and repeated her name until she came to. When she fluttered her cow eyes at him, I suspected Ramona of staging the faint. Uncharitable of me, I know, but she clearly craved attention, specifically of the male variety. As Jeb helped her sit up, she moaned and sighed, acting far weaker than a fifty-year-old woman of her plus-sized proportions should.

“Somebody, get me water,” she gasped.

She had to say it twice before I realized that “Somebody” meant me. Ramona seemed to assume that I existed to serve. Her. Fortunately for both of us, Chester was faster and more motivated to please. He dashed into my house and quickly returned with a tall glass of tap water. Ramona asked Jeb to hold it to her lips so that she could sip it, slowly.

“I would have put ice in it,” Chester said, “but Whiskey’s icemaker’s broken, and she always forgets to put water in the trays.”

“Yes, whiskey. A wee dram would be nice,” Ramona panted.

Although Chester knew the meager contents of my kitchen better than I did, he generally deferred to me on the matter of my liquor cabinet. Out of politeness, rather than ignorance, I was sure. Given his parents’ debauched lifestyle, he was probably well-versed in the types and effects of alcohol.

“Scotch or bourbon?” I asked Ramona.

“Johnny Walker Black would be nice,” she sighed, never taking her eyes off Jeb.

Perhaps it wasn’t Susan Davies who lusted after my ex, after all. I had barely had time to size up the builder’s wife. This would have been the perfect moment to do so, while Jeb had his hands full of Ramona. But it didn’t seem right to dispatch an eight-year-old for a bottle of booze. So I had to go play barmaid.

A surprise awaited me on the sofa in my library-slash-bar: Abra the Afghan hound, fast asleep, missing all the human action. A day on the loose hadn’t improved her hairstyle. Her tangled blonde tresses were now adorned with dried leaves and twigs.

“So this is the famous Abra!”

I jumped when I heard the voice behind me. Susan Davies had followed me inside and now beamed at the sleeping hound.

“More like the infamous Abra,” I said. “Sorry about the state of her coat, but she got away from me today-“

“Why be sorry? This is what Ramona and I were hoping for. The dog is a complete and utter mess!”

As if to punctuate that pronouncement, the dog farted.

“Perfect,” Susan murmured.

“Abra showed up about four o’clock,” Chester announced, joining us in the library. “Whiskey, you forgot to put out food for her. Again.”

“Wonderful!” Susan remarked happily.

“So I fed her,” Chester told me. “I gave her fresh water, too.”

“And who are you?” Susan inquired.

“I’m the neighbor. I come here a lot.”

“I see. You have to let the dog in and feed her because Whiskey forgets to. This is almost too good to be true!”

If Susan got any more excited, I was afraid she’d have an orgasm in front of the kid. The color had returned to her patrician face. Her sleek chestnut hair and piercing blue eyes would make any man look twice. Then there was her body: trim but nicely curved. I imagined she was quite distracting in a tennis dress or golf shorts.

“Do you really think somebody’s trying to kill you?” Chester asked Susan, sounding more like a reporter than a curious child.

“I’m sure someone shot at my car,” she said evenly.

“Somebody doesn’t like you,” Chester observed.

Probably someone whose husband does like you, I thought. No question about it; Susan was a potential threat to most of the female population. Or could be if she liked to flirt.

“I’m a little nervous about going to the show this weekend,” Susan admitted.

“What show?” I said.

“The one we’ve invited you and Abra to: the Midwest Afghan Hound Specialty. In Elkhart, Indiana.”

“Elkhart?”

I wrinkled my nose. I had assumed the show would be in a real city. Like Chicago.

“Actually, it’s just outside Elkhart. In Indiana Amish Country,” Susan said.

“Amish Country?”

I sounded like a slow student. The kind who learns by repeating everything.

“Yes. It’s being held at a convention hall in Nappanee.”

“Nappanee?”

“That’s what she said,” Chester confirmed. “The Midwest Afghan Hound Specialty is in Nappanee, near Elkhart, in Indiana Amish Country.”

“Well, at least it’s somewhere safe,” I muttered, wondering how on earth I would kill time there. Shop for cheese?

“It’s not safe at all,” Chester said. “If somebody’s out to get you, Amish Country could be dangerous. Too many open spaces and very few cops.”

I nodded, following his logic. “Plus all those Amish. They look alike, you know.”

Susan and Chester frowned at me. Then Chester said to Susan, “I could recommend a bodyguard. If you’re hiring.”

“Oh no!” I said. “You’re way too young for that kind of work.”

“Not me,” Chester said. “A professional. I was thinking of MacArthur.”

“MacArthur? I thought he was a cleaner. And a driver and a Realtor.”

“He is, but being a cleaner is mostly about being a bodyguard. That’s his job when he’s with Cassina and Rupert.”

“Really?”

I was under the impression that MacArthur’s main job was keeping Cassina sober.

“But MacArthur’s not available,” I said. “He works part-time for me.”

Chester pulled a face. “Nobody’s buying or selling real estate!”

He extracted a business card from the inside pocket of his school blazer and handed it to Susan.

“I happen to know that MacArthur is looking for work this weekend,” he told her.

“You said he was gone,” I protested. “You said nobody was at the Castle!”

“I said nobody answered the door. Cassina and Rupert are in Brazil for some R and R. They left their bodyguard at home.”

“What about Avery and the twins? Where are they?”

“At a New Age ‘Mommy and Me’ retreat in Sedona,” Chester replied. “MacArthur was probably taking a nap when I knocked. He gets bored when everybody leaves the Castle.”

Before I could comment, three shots rang out in rapid succession. A woman, presumably Ramona, screamed theatrically.

What Susan, Chester, and I did next wasn’t smart, but it was expedient. We dashed to the nearest window that faced my driveway and peered out. Sprawled on the pavement next to Susan’s Audi lay a human heap. Jeb had flung himself on top of ample, prone Ramona, who appeared to be not only alive and unhurt but also capable of seizing the moment. Her bejeweled left hand gripped Jeb’s firm ass.

Chester turned to Susan. “If you’re going anywhere with that lady, or in that car, you’d better call MacArthur now.”

“You can call the cleaner later,” I told her. “First, we’re phoning Jenx.”

It was time, once again, to summon the Magnet Springs police force to my home. Fortunately, I had the chief on speed dial.

To call it the Magnet Springs “police force” is an exaggeration. It’s really the full-time chief and her trained canine, plus one part-time officer. The officer, Brady Swancott, is a nice enough, smart enough guy, but he’s better suited to pursuing online degrees than felons. So I was glad when Chief Judy “Jenx” Jenkins answered her own phone.