Nina Wright - Whiskey with a Twist

“Yes, I’m worried,” I said. “I don’t think you should drive.”

“You don’t think I should drive? Oh, that’s a good one! Miss Whiskey thinks I can’t handle a couple shots of Tanqueray. Well, let me ask you this: who the hell is left to drive me? In case you missed the finale, Matt is dead! My beautiful, beautiful man is dead!”

She froze as if hearing the news in her own voice finally made it real. Brenda wailed piteously, cupped her hands over her face, and folded like a bleacher seat, falling backwards into her car. She landed hard against the steering wheel and then slid sideways onto the seat. If she’d been sober, that would have hurt.

When MacArthur cleared his throat, I remembered my cue. It was a relief to step aside. I don’t do drama well even though I do it often.

Brenda’s sobs abated quickly. Either MacArthur had a miraculous effect on her, or her whole meltdown had been a charade. After he helped her stand up, the two chatted amiably, MacArthur leaning on the hood of the car, Brenda draped coquettishly against her open door. I for one wanted to applaud the Afghan hound in the backseat. Abra never would have sat still like that. She wouldn’t have even stayed in the vehicle.

MacArthur gave Brenda his business card. Which one, I wondered. Cleaner? Bodyguard? Realtor? Whatever it said, she read it with interest. Then she offered him her hand to shake. After he helped her into the car and gently closed the driver’s door, she put it in gear, gave him a flirtatious little wave, and peeled out of the lot, weaving all the way.

“That woman is unfit to drive,” I declared. “You should have stopped her.”

MacArthur was dialing his cell phone. “We’ll let the highway patrol do that.” Tersely he told the dispatcher that a black Mercedes, Illinois license plate 4EVRAF, was swerving on Route 20 just west of the Barnyard Inn.

“You’re really good at getting those plates,” I remarked.

“‘Forever Af,’” he said. “That one was easy. Anyway, it’s part of the job.”

We both knew it had nothing to do with being a Realtor.

I asked MacArthur if in the course of his interviews he’d heard about any trouble between Matt and Brenda.

“Sandy Slater told me that Matt had ‘issues’ with Mrs. Spenser,” he replied.

“She was keeping him, but he was having an affair with Susan,” I said. “After Matt got shot, Sandy accused Brenda of wanting him dead because he was blackmailing her. You should have seen what happened next.”

“Catfight?” guessed MacArthur. “Well, somebody was driving Brenda’s car not long before we got here. The hood was hot.”

“Could Brenda’s car be the one I saw from the air? If it is, what happened to the dogs?”

Before MacArthur could offer a theory, a familiar male voice called out to us.

“Hewwo again! Did you heah about Jeb? He’s going to sing and sell CDs in Chicago!”

Twenty feet away Dr. David and Deely were loading protest signs into the back of the Animal Ambulance. They looked sunburned and satisfied with their day. I paused for a major mental adjustment. There was no point letting the subject of my ex-husband and his current companion make me insane.

“Yeah, I heard.”

I tried to say it like it was a good thing. Like my heart hadn’t been kicked to shreds.

Although he didn’t say it the way it’s spelled, Dr. David enthused, “Jeb is going to sell a whole lot of Animal Lullabies!”

“We’re proud of him, ma’am,” Deely added. “Five percent of the profits from every sale go to Fleggers.”

I pasted a fake smile on my face. It hurt to do that, but letting my real emotions show would have hurt more.

“Jeb is a real go-getter,” I agreed. “He goes where the opportunities are. With whoever is there to drive him… “

I probably spoke through gritted teeth. Something belied my smile because the next thing I knew, Deely was coming toward me, her head cocked in sympathy.

“You’re not jealous of Mrs. Davies, are you, ma’am?”

“Jealous? Why on earth would I be jealous? Just because she’s rich, cool, and beautiful-and I’m a Bad Example?” My laughter sounded manic even to my ears. “If she wants to spend time with my boyfriend, she’s welcome to him! I divorced him once already, and I can bounce him out of my life again. Like that!”

I snapped my fingers. Then I belched. And then I started crying. Full-out messy bawling. Which I never do, even when situations are truly sad. And this situation was simply ridiculous. Between my chronic indigestion and my spiky emotions, I hardly recognized myself. I certainly didn’t like what I saw.

Ever the Damage Control Specialist, Deely produced a handful of tissues. I wanted to cover my face with them. Fortunately, MacArthur and Dr. David did what men do best at a moment like that: they pretended to be busy with something else.

“Abra’s gone, too,” I sobbed. “She ran off with a herd of goats and ended up with Silverado… in a big black Cadillac! What if I never see her again?”

Now everyone was staring, and I knew why. They had all been around me long enough to know that I complained nonstop about Abra. Even though I dutifully looked for her whenever she ran away, I also made it perfectly clear that it would be fine if she didn’t come home. Now faced with the prospect that she might be gone for good, I was a basket case. Deely handed me another giant stack of tissues.

“Don’t worry. We’ll put out a Fleggers All-Points Bulletin for her, ma’am.”

“I thought Fleggers believed that dogs should be free,” I sniffled.

“We believe that dogs are entitled to a full life,” Deely said. “That doesn’t necessarily mean they should leave their human families. Not if the humans are enlightened.”

“You think I’m enlightened?” I asked hopefully.

Deely deferred to Dr. David on that one.

He said, “We think you’re moving very nicely along the learning curve.”

I couldn’t stop weeping. To think I’d imagined that life without Abra would be carefree. Yet here I stood, in a parking lot outside a crummy motel in Indiana Amish Country, crying about my missing dog. Okay, my missing boyfriend was also a factor. But I knew where he was. And I knew he was having fun. Abra and Silverado, on the other hand, could be in serious trouble. Even if they were riding in a Cadillac.

MacArthur platonically patted me on the back. “Abra has a knack for landing on all four furry feet. Let’s not give up on the old girl yet.”

Dr. David concurred. “Now that our fellow protesters have gone home, Deely and I are free to be friends first and Fleggers second. On our way back to Magnet Springs, we’ll watch for signs of Abra.”

“And we’ll ask about black Cadillacs everywhere we go,” Deely promised.

I pulled myself together enough to thank them. After they drove off, waving, in the Animal Ambulance, MacArthur coughed and said-rather timidly, I thought-“Ready to go fetch Chester?”

Living with Avery had no doubt taught him respect for, if not fear of, female histrionics. He produced a neatly folded linen handkerchief from his hip pocket. I accepted it, dabbed at my eyes, and stifled another burp.

“MacArthur,” I said firmly. “We will never speak of this again.”

The volunteer bodyguard drove my car, which suited me just fine. Although my tears had washed the remains of bug irritation from my eye, I was rattled by recent events. Having survived two murders, two canine disappearances, and desertion by Jeb, I faced a daunting new challenge: recognizing at ground level the turnoff from Route 20 to the Amish goat farm that Brad had found from the sky.

“I remember that!” I shouted, pointing to a tire store coming up on our left.