Nina Wright: Whiskey with a Twist

“Jenx isn’t happy that you left Chester with the Amish.”

“He wanted to stay! He’s probably milking a cow right now and tipping the Amish for the privilege.”

“No matter. Jenx wants us to fetch him.”

“How are we supposed to do that? In the first place, I haven’t got a clue how to get there by road! And in the second place, Brad the pilot said he’d pick up Chester! Just as soon as he returns Nathaniel from the Cadillac dealership.”

“We won’t be waiting for Brad and Nathaniel. Jenx says Brad was busted in Elkhart for buying Nathaniel a beer.”

Either Brad was less virtuous than he had seemed, or Nathaniel was a real conniver. I voted for Nathaniel. An Amish teen who aspired to sell used cars was made of something stronger than cheese.

I’d meant what I said about having no idea how to find Chester. In the highly unlikely event that I could remember the general vicinity of our turn-off from Route 20, I had no idea which road Rachel and Jacob’s house was on. Or what it looked like… other than that it was white with a big white barn and a long white fence. Like fifty other farms.

“I don’t even know their last name!” I told MacArthur.

“That wouldn’t help us much, anyway,” he said. “Almost everybody here is a Yoder or a Miller.”

Our unproductive discussion was interrupted by the arrival of Susan Davies in her Audi. After spraying me with gravel, she powered down her window and spoke directly to MacArthur.

“I’m driving Jeb to Chicago on business. Thanks for keeping me alive. No thanks for losing my winning dog. And my best handler.”

What a bitch. I couldn’t believe her nerve in nabbing my ex-husband, who had come to help me. The comment about MacArthur losing her dog and her handler wasn’t very nice, either.

Jeb leaned across Susan to speak to me.

“Wish I could help, Whiskey, but you’ve got MacArthur, so you’ll be fine. Susan lined up a last-minute gig for me at her country club. I’m playing the brunch tomorrow. It’s an Afghan hound rescue fundraiser.”

I could have shouted any one of a dozen retorts that satisfied my bruised ego now but made me cringe later. In a rare moment of maturity I simply said, “Good luck.”

And I almost let it go at that. Then I considered what Jenx had said and decided I had nothing to lose but loss. I strode to the car window and leaned in above Susan’s firm breasts. My face and Jeb’s were inches apart.

“Did you come here to help me or to love me?” I asked him.

“I came to do both,” he replied. “But you didn’t want either.”

“I want both! I want you.”

Susan’s perfume was everywhere-light and floral with a hint of ginger. Too expensive and girly for me. I was the blunt one, the clumsy one, the one who stank of goat shit. Also the one who loved Jeb.

I couldn’t recall another time when I’d been so public in my display of affection. Or desperation. In the backseat Susan’s two blonde show dogs panted eagerly.

“We’ll talk about this later,” Jeb said, his voice soft.

“Get your head out of my car, please!”

Susan revved her engine. Let me tell you, German engineering can sound ominous. I withdrew just in time; Susan peeled out of the lot, spraying me with gravel. Again.

MacArthur laid a steadying hand on my shoulder and said one word only: “Chester.”

“You’re right,” I sighed, wrestling control of my emotions. “Screw dogs and lovers. We have a child to save.”

Considering that Chester was with the Amish, I doubted he needed saving. Then I thought about Nathaniel. There were no guarantees.

“First things first,” MacArthur said, helpfully distracting me with those deliciously rolled Rs. “Let’s call Chester and tell him we’re on our way. Maybe he can provide directions to the farm.”

I nodded, speed-dialing my diminutive neighbor.

“Uh-oh. He has a new outgoing message.”

I switched my phone to speaker mode.

“Greetings from Amish Country! Wish you were here. In honor of my host family’s religious beliefs, I’m turning off my cell for the duration of my visit. But feel free to leave a message. I’ll return your call as soon as I resume my regular hedonistic lifestyle.”

“Next suggestion?”

“We’re going to follow your memory and my instincts,” MacArthur said. “In your car.”

He and I were already walking toward the back of the Barnyard Inn, where I had parked. MacArthur was again studying the printout from the front desk.

“Interesting,” he murmured. “Besides Kori, three folks here drive big black cars.”

“Not Susan,” I quipped. “Susan drives white, like one of the good guys.”

And then I did something I’d never done before. I spat in the dirt. It was satisfying… in a vicarious kind of way.

“Not Susan,” MacArthur agreed. “But guess who?”

I shrugged, working up enough resentment and saliva for one more good shot.

“Perry Stiles, Ramona Bowden, and Mitchell Slater.”

I gagged on my spit. “Mitchell’s dead.”

“Yes, but he drove a Cadillac DTS, exactly like your Amish kid identified. Maybe somebody borrowed it. Mitchell Slater won’t need it anymore…”

“What does Ramona drive?” I said.

“A Caddy. Not a DTS, though. She has an older model. A Seville. One of her husbands left it to her.”

“You got that off the printout?”

“I got that from my interview. I quizzed her, remember, while you were in the sky?”

“How about our own Mr. Stiles?” I asked. “What kind of black car does he drive?”

I hadn’t pictured Perry as a fan of the Big Three automakers. He seemed like a Saab or Volkswagen kind of guy.

“He registered as driving a Chrysler 300,” MacArthur replied. “A rental. I interviewed him, too. He said he was in Cincinnati on business last week and rented a car to drive here. A big enough car for the two dogs he traveled with.”

“He lives in Chicago and paints houses in Cinci?” I asked.

“He was there to investigate the possibility of opening a faux-painting franchise. Or so he said.”

MacArthur paused to survey the collection of cars and RVs still on site. Many were now gone. After all, the main show had concluded with a bang. And a whimper. I imagined that some folks planning to show dogs tomorrow had decided the risks were too high.

“Perry’s Chrysler is still here,” MacArthur said.

As he spoke, Brenda Spenser emerged from her room, staggering slightly. She carried a shoulder bag and led a gorgeous black Af on a leash. We watched as she struggled to load her dog and her bag through the passenger door. Her coordination was definitely impaired.

“Brenda’s drunk,” I whispered. “Check her out on your printout. She’s got a big black car!”

“A Mercedes,” MacArthur confirmed. “But she’s not registered, and I couldn’t find her when I did the interviews.”

“How could she not be registered?” I said.

“Room 19 was Matt Koniger’s room,” MacArthur said, checking his sheet. “He listed no car at all.”

“Impossible. Everybody knows Matt didn’t pay for anything, and that car has got to be Brenda’s!”

MacArthur grabbed my elbow and steered me toward her.

“Tell her you’re concerned for her loss, Whiskey. Then let me do the talking.”

For the first time since I’d arrived at the show, Brenda didn’t look pleased to see me. Although her haircut was still fabulous, she didn’t smile, and her eyes seemed unfocused.

“Brenda, I’m worried about you. Are you doing all right?”

“You? Worried about me?”

Her voice had the shrill brittleness of someone angry and far from sober. Drawing close, I distinctly smelled gin on her breath. Brenda moved to the driver’s side. With difficulty, she opened the door.