Nina Wright: Whiskey with a Twist

“Whassup, Whiskey?”

I could hardly understand her.

“Are you eating?” I said.

“Yup. Dinner. It’s that time of day. Somebody better be in serious trouble.”

I assured her that somebody was and reported the gunshot incidents. Both of them. Jenx chewed thoughtfully.

“Nobody’s hurt, right?”

“Right. Although there are bullet holes in a very nice white Audi. And a large, dramatic woman is lying in my driveway. She’s attached herself to Jeb.”

“Jeb can defend himself,” Jenx said. “But we should probably do an incident report on the shootings. You think the shooter’s on your property-or across the road?”

I hadn’t thought about it. The question raised hairs on the back of my neck.

“Tell ya what I’m gonna do,” Jenx said and burped. “Brady’s out on rounds with Officer Roscoe. They checked in ten minutes ago from your side of the township. I’m gonna send ‘em over to Vestige, siren off. Just in case the shooter’s still around. Maybe we can catch him off guard. You know what you need to do, right?”

“Hire private security?”

“We’ll talk about that later. For now, stay inside and keep away from the windows.”

I took a giant step back from the large glass pane facing my driveway. Susan and Chester did the same. We were safer that way, but I hated to lose the view of Jeb and Ramona. Apparently either she or the car she had come in was the target of someone with a long-range rifle. And she desperately craved attention. My ex had never been fond of heavy women, or of females who required a lot of pampering. Hence his attraction to lean, mean, independent me. But for now he was stuck catering to zaftig, needy Ramona.

“Is Chester there?” Jenx inquired.

“As a matter of fact, he is.”

“Let me talk to him.”

“If it’s about keeping him safe, I got it covered.”

“This is police business, Whiskey. Chester is on active duty as a volunteer deputy. I want to update his instructions.”

Since I was also a sworn-to-serve volunteer deputy, I asked for my instructions.

“You’re on hiatus,” Jenx said.

Like a professional, Chester excused himself to take the call in the next room. That left me alone with Susan, who seemed completely at ease with silence. I, on the other hand, had a lifelong compulsion to supply meaningless chatter. As Susan moved about my library, studying recumbent Abra from every angle, I considered several conversation starters. Unfortunately they all involved Jeb. Since I wasn’t yet sure he was worth fighting for, I stifled my natural tendency to talk.

Susan stared at my still-snoozing canine. “How can she sleep through gunshots?”

“Practice,” Chester offered, reentering the room. “We’ve all toughened up.”

“Are you saying that you’ve been exposed to danger?”

Chester shrugged. “I’ve been kidnapped. I’ve fallen through the ice. I’ve worked undercover. If you hang around Whiskey, you take your chances.”

“That’s a fact,” Jeb said from the library doorway. He looked none the worse for gunshots.

“Where the hell’s Ramona?” I said. “Don’t tell me you left her lying on her big fat-“

And then there was Ramona, leaning on Jeb.

“Whiskey,” she whispered hoarsely.

“I am so sorry!” I said. “We haven’t been properly introduced-“

“She means she wants whiskey,” Jeb translated. “Did you forget her drink order?”

“Johnny Walker Black,” Chester reminded me. To Ramona, he said, “Straight up or with a little water? Sorry, but Whiskey’s fresh out of ice and mixes.”

For the first time since her arrival, Ramona focused on someone other than my ex-husband. “Aren’t you rather young to serve cocktails? Or are you one of those-oh, what’s the accepted term?-‘little people’?”

“I’m eight,” Chester said. “But I have a lot of experience.”

“He’s in charge of Whiskey’s dog whenever Whiskey neglects her,” Susan piped up.

“I don’t neglect Abra,” I said. “I just… forget about her.”

“Nurturing doesn’t come naturally for Whiskey,” Chester explained.

“That’s not true,” I protested. Although of course it was. “I took in my former stepdaughter and her twins, didn’t I?”

Chester nodded. “But you hired Deely to take care of them. And you’ve hired Deely and me to take care of Abra.”

Before I could object-and, really, how could I object?-Jeb said, “You do all right taking care of me. Most of the time.”

He winked. I buried my face inside the liquor cabinet, where I searched high and low for Ramona’s scotch. Most of what was in there I had inherited from Leo. Only when tempted by a man did I drink anything stronger than wine.

“It’s the third bottle on the left, top shelf,” Chester said helpfully.

So it was. He handed me a rock glass, and I poured a finger of the amber liquid into it.

“Better give her more than that,” Chester whispered.

I doubled the dose. Ramona didn’t respond when I asked if she’d like water, so I served the drink neat. She failed to thank me. Or even look at me.

That was when I recognized the behavior pattern: Ramona was determined to ignore me. Despite being at my house, leaning on my ex-husband, drinking my scotch, and evaluating my bad dog, she didn’t think I mattered. I’m six feet tall, so ignoring me takes effort.

A series of strident yaps pierced the air. Before any of us could cover our ears, Velcro streaked into the room followed by Prince Harry the Pee Master. Abra opened one eye, then closed it and pretended to go back to sleep. I wished I could do the same.

“What on earth?” asked Ramona. Her subtly highlighted blonde head followed the canine action as it circled the library.

“Are those your dogs, too, Whiskey?” Susan sounded so hopeful that I hated to disappoint her.

“Well, they were, for a while. But now they’re Chester’s.”

“Designer dogs!” Ramona hissed the term as if it were the equivalent of “rabid.”

“Well, one was by design,” I said, referring to Velcro. “The other was a complete accident.”

“A shih-poo and a Golden-Af, am I right?” asked Susan.

I nodded. “Although I call them the shitzapoo and the bastard.”

“Appalling,” Ramona said. “The trend toward designer crossbreeds dilutes the value of our purebreds and diminishes our breeding program.”

“But here it’s a good thing,” Jeb said.

Everyone stared at him.

“It builds your ‘how not to’ case against Whiskey. For the dog show.”

“So true!” Susan exclaimed. “She doesn’t properly groom, train, or feed the dog. And she breeds indiscriminately.”

In fact, Leo had tried to breed Abra with an Afghan hound champion in Chicago. But Abra didn’t like him. Before Leo could find another stud for her, my dear husband died, and Abra eloped with Norman, the first good-looking Golden she saw. Prince Harry was the result.

Too tired to explain all that, I merely said, “I never intended to breed.”

“And yet you did,” said Susan.

“Abra’s spayed. Now,” I said.

“The woman is irresponsible!” Ramona declared as she sipped my top-shelf whiskey. Susan nodded her agreement.

I said, “I thought this was about ‘Bad Abra.’”

“There’s no such thing as a bad dog,” Susan said. “Only a bad owner.”

“As I’ve always said,” Ramona intoned, “this is not a breed for those with low self-esteem. See what happens when an Afghan hound lives with a loser.”

“Hey!” I cried.

Jeb stopped me before I could demonstrate what remained of the speed and strength I’d honed playing high school volleyball.

This gal still knows how to spike.