Nina Wright: Whiskey with a Twist

It’s not that Jeb was reluctant to defend my honor. It’s just that I had a quick temper and generally took the shortest route to defending it myself. This time, though, the doorbell rang before either Jeb or I could respond to snooty Ramona.

The Magnet Springs police had arrived. Canine officer Roscoe, as dignified a German shepherd as you’ll ever see, stood at attention next to human officer Brady Swancott. The human held a notebook.

“Come on in,” I said. “Susan Davies can answer your questions. And her co-breeder can tell you about my low self-esteem.”

“I don’t need anyone to tell me about that,” Brady said.

“Another dog!” Susan beamed when the cops entered the library. “This one appears to be in excellent condition.”

“Beautifully bred,” Ramona purred.

“Roscoe comes from a long line of police dogs,” Brady said. “He was bred for athleticism, intelligence, and obedience.”

Abra leapt down from the couch. In front of Roscoe she moaned and stretched provocatively. He kept his eyes fixed on the far wall. Undeterred, she salaciously sniffed his butt.

“She’s trying to seduce him!” Ramona remarked, her voice dripping with distaste.

“She does that to most males,” Chester piped up. He was seated in my leather club chair, cuddling both Velcro and Prince Harry. “Norman is her mate, but when he’s not around-“

“Brady,” I cut in, “why don’t the rest of us leave so that you can interview Susan and Ramona? In private?”

“Stay, Whiskey,” he said. “You need to know what’s going on. The shooter fired those last three shots from your property.” Brady pointed out the window toward the woods near my driveway. “I found shell casings along the treeline.”

When Ramona gasped, I told him, “Get ready. She likes to faint.”

“So do you.”

“I don’t do it on purpose.”

Jeb asked Brady, “Did you find any other evidence?”

Brady frowned, making himself look older than his twenty-six years. “Roscoe couldn’t follow a scent.”

“What do you mean?” Jeb said.

“Roscoe did what he does when he gets confused. He ran around in circles like there was no trail at all.”

“How can that be?” Susan interjected. “Every human leaves a scent.”

“That’s usually true,” Brady said.

“When is it not true?” demanded Ramona.

“Well, I heard about a case once where a killer confused police dogs by spraying himself and the whole area with deer urine. Wait. Or was it rabbit blood? Or maybe dog saliva?”

“You don’t know?” Ramona asked.

“I don’t pay much attention. I only work here part-time.”

“Brady studies art history online,” I explained. “And takes care of two kids at home. His wife just had a baby.”

On cue, Brady whipped out a wallet-sized photo. After we admired the human blob that was his newborn daughter, he said, “I also freelance for Peg Goh at Generation Tattoo. I do about half the tats in Magnet Springs.”

A reduced demand for gourmet coffee and fancy sandwiches had motivated our mayor to open a tattoo parlor behind her restaurant. The gimmick? Designer tats for out-of-towners although so far all of Peg’s clients had been local.

Susan cleared her throat, reminding us why Brady was in my living room.

“Somebody shot at Ramona and me,” she said. “First, when we were a few miles up the road, and then again when we got here. Do you think it’s the same person?”

“Let’s hope so,” Brady says. “Or else you have a lot of enemies.”

“What I mean is, do you think it’s possible for one person to move that fast?”

“You did. Presumably the shooter was traveling in a car, like you were.”

Brady proceeded to interview Susan and Ramona while the rest of us listened. Susan offered prompt responses until Brady broached the topic of personal enemies. That one seemed to stump her.

“Come on,” I said impatiently. “We can always tell when people don’t like us.”

“A lot of people don’t like Whiskey,” Chester said. “But she means well.”

“Everyone loves Susan,” Ramona gushed. “How could they not?”

I believed that every man could love Susan, or at least lust after her. The pretty Junior Leaguer looked like a marriage-buster to me.

If so, her enemy would be female. Yet I couldn’t imagine a wronged wife using a long-range rifle. Poisoning Susan’s coffee at the country club? Stabbing her to death in a moment of madness? Oh sure. But stalking her along a country road through a rifle’s telescopic sight? Uh-uh.

Then there was Brady’s theory about sprinkling animal fluids to cover one’s tracks. No woman would do that. At least no woman whose husband I’d contemplate stealing.

“I hate to speak ill of a fellow breeder,” said Ramona. “But I will if Susan won’t. There’s a certain member of the Afghan hound community who’s very hostile toward her.”

“About what?” Brady prompted, pencil poised above his pocket-sized spiral notebook.

Susan sighed. “We had a disagreement concerning stud service.”

“Stud service?”

“For my bitch. The breeder required a stud fee up front as opposed to the pick of the litter later,” Susan explained. “His terms guaranteed a pregnancy, or the next semen would be free.”

“Something went wrong?”

“My bitch never got pregnant. And the breeder never made it right.”

“You mean… there was no further semen?” Brady said.

“Yes. And I never got my money back.”

Brady used the eraser end of his pencil to scratch his forehead. “Then you were the wronged party. Right? Why should the guy with the stud be hostile toward you?”

Susan and Ramona exchanged knowing glances.

Thoughtfully Susan moistened her lips. “While mounting my bitch, his stud had a stroke. Poor Maximus died two days later.”

“Your dog killed another dog with sex?” I blurted. “That sounds like something Abra would do!”

My canine roommate had cuddled up to Officer Roscoe, her tousled blonde head resting coquettishly on his left front paw as her right front paw stroked his inner thigh. Roscoe quivered slightly but remained focused on the investigation-and the far wall.

“Let me get this straight,” Brady said to Susan. “Are you saying the other breeder held you responsible for killing his dog?”

“Not legally, no. But ethically and emotionally, yes, I’m afraid so. That was four years ago. Mitchell Slater still hates me.”

“And she didn’t get her money back,” Ramona reminded Brady. “Although pregnancy was guaranteed. Or the next semen was free .”

Brady frowned. “But the dog died. How could there be more semen?”

“Mitchell had a freezerful!” Ramona said. “I think he’s still selling it. Susan should have pursued legal action, or at least a National Afghan Hound Association sanction, but she’s too kind.”

I tried not to imagine how one ended up with a freezer full of dog semen.

Writing in his notebook, Brady said, “How do you know Slater hates you, Mrs. Davies?”

“Why, by the way he behaves at events,” Ramona replied. Apparently, she had appointed herself Susan’s official spokesperson. “He gossips about her dogs and shuns her when they meet in public. The man is cruel. And very petty.”

She added, “Susan is too modest and forgiving to tell you this, so I will: She paid a five-thousand-dollar stud fee up front. You see, Maximus was an international champion. His puppies would have been worth every penny. The outcome was worse than you know. Not only did Susan fail to get puppies from the deal, but her beloved Saloma was permanently traumatized! After Maximus convulsed, the poor bitch went into shock. She has never been mounted since.”