Nina Wright: Whiskey with a Twist

I fought the urge to fly across the room and clap both hands over Chester’s ears. Fortunately Jeb handled the crisis.

“Hey, Chester, how about coming with me to the kitchen?” he said. “We’ll put on a pot of something.”

“Sure,” Chester said. “But this is Whiskey’s house, so it’ll have to be something instant.”

“She can’t cook, either?” Susan sounded happy again.

“Whiskey doesn’t even go to the grocery store,” Chester said. “Unless I remind her.”

Ramona clicked her tongue in clear disapproval.

Susan and Ramona didn’t hang around long enough for me to demonstrate any additional infirmities. Ramona snapped photos of Abra while Susan wrote out directions to the exhibit hall in Nappanee. They departed in the bullet-marred Audi after Ramona had said good-bye to everyone but me. Brady planned to follow them to the scene of the first shooting as soon as he checked with his boss.

“Is Jenx going to involve the sheriff’s department?” I asked him.

Everyone in Magnet Springs knew that Jenx resented the way county and state law enforcement sniggered at her department. Still, she called them in whenever a case required more police power than she could muster locally.

“Both shootings occurred within our jurisdiction,” Brady said. “We’ll reserve the right to call for back-up ‘til after I survey the first scene.”

“Maybe this time Roscoe will pick up a scent,” I said.

“I doubt it. Looks to me like we got a shooter with a careful plan. Or a baffling body odor.”

He whistled for Officer Roscoe to accompany him. I thought I saw a flash of regret in Roscoe’s brown eyes as he stepped stiffly away from Abra’s illicit touch.

“Your dog gets to his dog the same way you get to me,” Jeb whispered in my ear.

We were in the foyer, Jeb’s lean body pressed against my back, his arms locked around my waist. I hushed him and scanned for Chester.

“He’s in the kitchen with the dogs,” Jeb whispered. “I don’t know how he did it, but he found the ingredients to make mac ‘n’ cheese.”

“Incredible,” I murmured, more in response to Jeb’s ear-nuzzling than to Chester’s cooking although how anyone could create a meal in my under-stocked kitchen was a miracle.

“Sorry to interrupt.” Chester’s high-pitched voice stopped us en route to the boudoir.

“You’re not interrupting us, buddy,” Jeb said, stepping back from my body as if sprung.

“I was just wondering how many there will be for dinner this evening. Not counting the dogs.”

Jeb said he was hungry, and I admitted I was, too. As usual, I couldn’t remember eating much of anything for lunch, and I always skipped breakfast. Moments later, we were treated to a version of mac ‘n’ cheese worthy of the term “delicacy.” Chester had opened a drawer in my fridge that I’d forgotten existed; in it he’d found a couple gift packages of brie and gouda from some Christmas past. A search of my pantry had yielded evaporated milk and whole-grain pasta, surely purchased by Deely. Chester knew just what to do to make culinary magic.

“You should be a chef someday,” I remarked, giving in to the urge to lick the last smears of rich cheese from the serving spoon.

“I’d rather cook for friends and pursue a different profession,” Chester said.

“Such as what?” asked Jeb.

“I’m considering a career in canine legal defense.”

I nearly choked. “Is there such a field?”

Chester nodded vigorously, the glow from my overhead light fixture bouncing off his wire-framed glasses.

“Lucky for you, there is. You might need it if Abra gets in trouble again.”

“Don’t you mean when Abra gets in trouble again?” Jeb said.

“Abra’s a repeat offender,” Chester agreed. “The nearest canine defense attorney is in Chicago. Fortunately, he’s licensed in four states. Including Michigan.”

If Abra’s past antics predicted her future, one of these days her luck with the courts would run out. So far, every judgment had come down mostly in the dog’s favor-and hence my own. But if she ever got into deep legal doo-doo, I intended to take the Fleggers position that my dog was her own person, and she needed her own attorney. Although I’d probably have to foot the damned bill, at least I could separate myself and my business from her canine crimes.

“There are feline defense attorneys, too,” Chester said.

Jeb grinned. “I can’t picture a cat needing a lawyer.”

“That’s because you’ve never met a Devon rex,” Chester said.

I agreed, recalling the demon feline named Yoda who had terrorized Vestige six months earlier while Jeb was on tour. That cat had been caught in Fleggers’ wide-scale neutering net and then sent-through a bureaucratic snafu-to a holding center at my house. The big-eared, curly-haired creature had seemed to fly.

“Whatever happened to Yoda?” I asked Chester.

“Faye Raffle adopted him.”

Chester was referring to my former office intern, the most promising future sales agent I’d ever met. Faye had decided to go off to college now and pursue a real estate career later. With the economy the way it was, who could blame her?

“It’s good to know Yoda’s gone from Magnet Springs,” I sighed.

“I doubt Faye took him with her when she went away to school,” Chester said. “Yoda’s probably here with her parents.”

I reminded him that Faye’s parents were newspaper correspondents who traveled at least half the time. They were hardly the type to adopt a cat, let alone one as demanding as Yoda.

Chester said, “I’ll send out a few inquiries.”

“Please don’t,” I said. “If that cat is still in town, I’d rather not know about it.”

After dinner, Jeb and I offered to load the dishwasher. Chester had already done more than his share of domestic duties, especially since he was the guest. Then he reminded me why he was here: he had lost his key and nobody answered the door at his house. That sounded like a fair excuse for him to spend the night. And for Jeb to go home. As excited as I had been by Jeb’s ear nibbles an hour earlier, I knew I should sleep alone. I desperately needed some perspective on our relationship. If we never spent time apart, how could I tell whether we were good together?

At around 7:30 Brady phoned to report that he’d found nothing in the vicinity of the first shooting. Not even shell casings.

“I couldn’t tell where the shooter was standing,” he admitted. “The target was a moving car, and I don’t know how to calculate that stuff.”

“I thought Jenx sent you to a seminar on bullet trajectory,” I said.

“That was the plan,” Brady said, “then my son got the mumps, and I had to stay home.”

“Can’t Jenx figure bullet trajectories?”

“Nope. She got a D in trig. She said you did, too.”

“True. But I became a Realtor. To do my job, all I need is a pocket calculator.”

I suggested that it was time to call in the county sheriff, whether Jenx wanted to or not. Brady disagreed.

“All Susan needs for her insurance claim is a police report, and I provided that. Unless something else happens, we’re putting this one to bed.”

Speaking of bed, Jeb reluctantly went home around nine, promising to dream about me all night long. And to drive me to work in the morning.

Chester would sleep in the guest room with Prince Harry and Velcro. Knowing their “issues,” I insisted that he take the dogs out twice before bedtime. Then he fetched a step-stool from my garage to place next to the bed. Prince Harry needed no assistance; however, the stool solved Velcro’s separation anxiety and protected his fragile joints from the necessity to jump.