Nina Wright - Whiskey with a Twist

“Allow me to rephrase the question,” MacArthur said calmly. “Was the Caddy passing other cars, or were other cars passing the Caddy?”

“The Caddy was the passer!” I yelled.

Through my now slightly open “good” eye, I saw MacArthur touch his helmet. Possibly to turn down the volume dial.…

“One more question,” he said. “Was the driver in complete control of the car? Or did he swerve?”

“No swerving!”

MacArthur touched his helmet again. “Then we have one very cool customer.”

“Or one very reckless one,” I said. “Did you check Kori’s driving record?”

MacArthur didn’t answer. Instead, he commanded me to hold on tight. Tighter. I squeezed my eyes shut again. From the sound and the smell-and the eternity required to get around it-I gathered that we were passing an eighteen-wheeler. By the time we were back to the regular roar of the road, I had forgotten what I wanted to ask him. Hell, I had forgotten my middle name.

If there was a blood clot anywhere in my body, road vibrations had surely jarred it loose by now. Who worried about stroke or heart attack? I was way more afraid of ending up a smear on the pavement.

As we wove in and out of traffic, leaning into what felt like a series of forty-five degree angles to pass every car and truck, I wondered if MacArthur had a death wish. More important, I wondered if I could make him understand that I didn’t. No simple task when I couldn’t gather enough oxygen to speak.

Suddenly I heard and felt a vehicle surging up behind us. When the driver leaned into the horn, I knew we were in trouble. The next instant we were buzzed by a silver pickup passing so close that it literally forced us off the road. The hair on my arms stood at attention.

MacArthur kindly let me scream 'til my throat hurt and my blood pressure slid back to normal.

“Feel better?” he inquired.

By then we were parked on the berm, holding our helmets.

“You sure can ride that thing,” I conceded. “Thanks for stopping.”

His black curls were matted with sweat, and rivulets of perspiration sprang from his hairline.

“I couldn’t risk your life,” he said. “Somebody wants us out of the way.”

“Do you think they were chasing the Caddy, too?” I asked. “Or are both drivers working together?”

“My guess is they’re meeting up somewhere down the road.”

“Why on earth would anyone go to all that trouble to steal my Bad Example?”

“Get real, Whiskey. It’s only Silverado they want. Abra is along by accident.”

He had to be right. I said, “You don’t think they’ll just dump her, do you?”

“They could try,” MacArthur said, grinning.

Abra had a long history of making human life miserable, and not just mine. Most of the criminals she had consorted with ended up wishing they’d never met her.

“What now?” I asked.

“If we were in Magnet Springs, I’d suggest contacting local law enforcement. But here they’re unlikely to know the finer points of dog-napping, so they’d no doubt waste our time.”

My mind was on retrieving Chester and getting back to real estate where I belonged. Not that I was willing to give up on my dog, but I was more willing to get on with my life.

MacArthur said, “We need to find out from the Barnyard Inn what kind of vehicle every show participant drove. That will narrow our field of investigation.”

“We’re still investigating?” I let my disappointment show.

He didn’t notice, though, because he was dialing his cell phone.

“Hello, Jenx!” he boomed. “Could you run a plate for me?”

MacArthur had managed to get the license number of the pickup that almost killed us. I hadn’t even managed to keep my eyes open. Speaking of which, my right eye no longer felt so bad. Nothing like a near-death experience to put minor aches and pains in perspective.

“You forgot to tell Jenx we were almost killed!” I said.

“She knows I only call her if it’s a matter of life and death.”

As we headed west on Route 20, I was stunned by how common big black cars are. Although I couldn’t identify the make of most that rushed past us, many reminded me of the vehicle we’d seen from the air.

Back at the Barnyard Inn we parked at the end of the building, in a spot not visible from the office. I asked MacArthur how he liked his motel room.

”I didn’t register,” he replied. “I’m working undercover.”

I wanted to know where one sleeps if one travels by Harley and doesn’t rent a room, but he wasn’t talking. Had MacArthur shared Kori’s room, the one right next to mine? He opened the lobby door with exaggerated gallantry.

The scene was exactly as it had been twenty-four hours earlier. Since then, however, two guests had died, one had been shot at twice, and a couple dogs were missing.

The lobby smelled of curry, dog urine, and disinfectant. Although no one was at the desk, a television blared through the slightly open fake-wood door behind it. This time the foreign-language program sounded like a soap opera.

I expected MacArthur to demand service. Instead, he reached over the counter, adjusted the computer keyboard and screen, and started typing.

“You can’t do that,” I hissed.

But of course he could. And did. My amazement was incomplete, however, 'til he activated the noisy printer, which ground out four full pages, testing the limits of my frayed nerves. I was absolutely sure that the clatter would draw somebody to the desk. As the fourth page ever so slowly made its way through the machine, the phone on the desk jangled. I jumped. The TV volume dropped, and footsteps rapidly approached the door.

“MacArthur!” I cried, but he kept his eyes on the printout.

Suddenly a baby wailed, and the footsteps receded.

MacArthur ripped the last page from the printer, readjusted the monitor and keyboard, and pushed me gently toward the door. We were out of there by the end of the second ring.

“Just as I thought,” he said, scanning the printout. “Nobody registered a Ford pickup.”

“What does that mean?”

“Either somebody lied when they checked in, or somebody arrived here expressly to steal that dog. Or to kill Slater and Koniger.”

“That’s a lot of or’s,” I said.

“They’re all connected. We just need to find the link.”

“You can look for the link! And Abra, too. I need to collect my neighbor and go home. I should probably look for Jeb, but I don’t think I’ll like what I find.”

My cell phone rang. Apparently it was my turn to hear from Magnet Springs’ finest.

“Yo, Whiskey,” Jenx said. “Still no luck finding the dogs?”

“We really only want one back,” I said.

“You should talk to your ex. He’s a little worried and a lot P-O’ed. Why ya giving the guy a hard time? He’s only trying to help.”

“He’s only trying to help Susan,” I said.

“Save your insecurities for the bedroom! We got bigger things going on. The dog show murders are on Yahoo! News already. And there’s a youtube video of Silverado and Kori, posted forty minutes ago by somebody with the handle luvssdogss. You should see all the text comments. Everybody’s worried about Silverado. This could be as big as Vivi the whippet!”

“Oh, come on,” I said. “Vivi disappeared after winning the Westminster! Silverado’s lost in Amish Country.”

“Where tourists flock to eat smorgasbords and ogle buggies,” Jenx said. “I tell you, Amish Country is what makes this story hot!”

When she asked to speak to MacArthur, I passed him the phone. He listened for a minute, grunted once, and closed the call.

“What now?” I said.