by Nina Wright
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Acknowledgment
Dedication
Other Novels
Praise for this Author
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
Epilogue
Author Bio
Whiskey, Large
by
Nina Wright
Copyright
Whiskey, Large © Nina Wright 2014
All rights reserved. Except for brief passages quoted in newspapers, magazines, radio, or television reviews, no part of this book in any form by any means, electronic or mechanical including photocopying and recording or by any information retrieval system, may be copied without written permission from the publisher.
This novel in its entirety is a work of fiction. Though it may contain references to places, products or people living or dead, these references are merely to add realism to the product of the author’s imagination. Any references within this work to people living or dead is entirely coincidental.
Cover Art © 2014 Sharene Martin-Brown
Published in the United States of America by
Martin Brown Publishers, LLC
1138 South Webster Street
Kokomo, Indiana 46902
ISBN 13: 978-1-937070-54-0
Acknowledgment
Despite the solitary work required of a writer, nobody truly toils alone. I owe deep, heartfelt thanks to the following folks who helped me in vital ways.
Richard Pahl and Nancy Potter once again served as my alpha readers. By now Richard has critiqued dozens of my writings—scripts as well as novels; he has also advocated for my work and directed several of my plays. Nancy is not only a savvy reader, but also my real-estate guru.
Linda Jo Bugbee led me to the Afghan hound community and lifted me into their glorious, generous light. Happy retirement, Ljo.
B.P. Winzeler gives me sunshine and good times in my favorite state. We speak canine.
Diana Rhodes took excellent care of my four-leggers when I couldn’t.
Holly Gardner offered indispensable assistance, including emergency humor. Our phrase of the year is “Veggie drama.”
And now for my long list of beloved creatures: Holly Gardner’s Watson, Jack, and Blue; Diana Rhodes’ Beau; Bernie Paul’s Dolly and Teddie; Kate Argow’s Sir; Bonnie Brandburg’s Sophia; Diana West’s Brody and Brady; Danita Hiley’s Mackenzie and Sweeney; and my own Redford and Clooney.
I fondly recall the four-leggers who inspired me and left too soon: Scruffy, Cleo, Oreo, Endo, Talley, Lola, Flannery, Schoodic, Scotta, Spike, Lucy, Guthrie, Molly, and Harrison Ford (Hungarian Vizsla). Cheers, also, to memories of Emma and Mini-Sparky, both recently gone. I couldn’t have written this book without loving you all.
Finally, I write in honor of my late great father, Kenneth Wright. He taught me everything I ever really needed to know. Rest easy, Dad.
Dedication
For Bernie Paul, who opened her home, shared her hounds, and helped me heal.
Other Novels
in Nina Wright’s Whiskey Mattimoe and Homefree series can be found at Amazon, Barnes and Noble, and Kobo bookstores world-wide:
Whiskey on the Rocks
Whiskey Straight Up
Whiskey and Tonic
Whiskey and Water
Whiskey with a Twist
Whiskey and Soda
Homefree
Sensitive
Praise for this Author
Bonnie Brandburg
I LOVE these characters. I am not sure that I would want to have a dog like Abra, but on paper, she is the best.
Emcn916
Being an animal lover, I like the mix of a mystery along with the antics of the dogs. I look forward to the next one.
Barbara C. Mccain “mcmolly” (USA)
Unlike so many of the other female lead novels, this one doesn’t have the police boyfriend to bail her out of trouble. She is a great character and bright without all the bumbling.
1
“Happy belated birthday, dear Chester! Happy belated birthday to you…”
Voices soared in song around my dining room table as my diminutive neighbor grinned broadly, the nine-and-a-half glowing candles on his oversized cake reflected in his round glasses.
“And many more!” crooned my mother, sustaining a tremulous off-key high note at the end.
Chester took a huge gulp of air and blew out the candles to raucous applause from his audience of seven. Seven humans, that is. There were also four dogs in attendance, and two of them whined loudly. I figured that was because my mother’s singing hurt their ears.
“Did you make a wish?” Mom asked Chester.
Nodding vigorously, Chester said, “Yes, I did, but tradition prevents me from telling you what it is or it might not come true.”
“That’s right, buddy. Keep your cards close to your chest,” my husband advised.
My husband. Three-and-a-half months after our surprise Christmas wedding, I still thrilled to think of Jeb Halloran that way. For almost ten years, he’d been my ex-husband and then, for about six months, he’d qualified as my boyfriend. When we remarried in December, we’d promised each other that this time we would get it right. Forever. We had a compelling reason, and my arms rested on that reason right now.
My big belly was temporary home to our baby, due to be born in five days if my doc’s calculations were correct. Aware that first babies often arrive late, I understood that our little gal or guy might not show up on schedule. And, no, I didn’t know Baby’s gender. By choice.
I was more than ready to deliver. I wanted to see my feet again and feel like a woman again, as opposed to a hippopotamus with a perpetual backache and an endless need to pee.
“Would you like to cut the cake, Whitney?”
My mother proffered a sterling silver cake knife. I recognized it as the one and only wedding present I had been absolutely sure Jeb and I would never use. A wedding present from my mother, who had baked the cake she now invited me to slice.
I said, “Would I have to stand up to do that?”
Mom proceeded to cut the cake.
“Even if Whiskey could stand up without help, she wouldn’t want to serve cake,” Chester explained to the assembled humans. “She hasn’t yet achieved a comfort level in the domestic arena.”
“I have no comfort level anywhere,” I pointed out.
Chester’s remark was a polite though unnecessary comment on my lack of homemaking skills. Everyone present knew and fully accepted my wide range of domestic failings, which included a complete inability to handle dogs. Never mind that two of the four canines gathered under the dining room table lived here, and the other two were former residents who visited often.
Peg Goh, mayor of our fair town and proprietor of the local café and tattoo parlor, chose that moment to clear her throat.
“While Irene cuts the cake, I’d like to read a birthday message.”
Peg unfolded a paper that looked like it might
contain a campaign speech. That seemed unlikely since her sure-to-be-unopposed re-election was still six months away.
“Chester,” she read, “as you know, Jenx, Brady and Officer Roscoe are on duty today. Although they couldn’t join us, they send birthday felicitations to their best-ever volunteer deputy.”
I winced since I was their only other volunteer deputy, but I already knew they preferred Chester. He performed better at crime scenes, and he never failed to bring his own latex gloves.
Still reading from her paper, Peg added, “The Magnet Springs police have a birthday surprise waiting for you at the station, so stop by after school tomorrow.”
Chester beamed. “Maybe I’m getting a new volunteer deputy badge!”
That could only be an improvement. The cheap tin version we’d both been issued looked like a prize you’d find in a box of cereal.
Deely Smarr, a.k.a. Mrs. Dr. David Newquist, brand-new wife of our local veterinarian, raised her glass of lemonade.
“It’s time for a toast. To Chester, the boy who speaks canine and also a little feline: May all your dreams come true!”
We clinked glasses, and the four dogs barked as if on cue. No doubt they did bark on cue. In addition to her considerable talents as a former Coast Guard officer, a nanny and an animal-rights activist, Deely Smarr was an experienced dog trainer. She got exceptional results with most dogs and sometimes even with my dog, Abra, the Afghan hound. Abra’s main issue was retention. Whatever positive behavior she learned, she was likely to unlearn as soon as misbehavior suited her purposes. It wasn’t that Abra couldn’t learn. It was that she preferred not to learn long term.
As if to illustrate that point, Abra leapt up from under the dining room table and snagged the unsliced portion of Chester’s birthday cake off the platter. Mom shrieked but not as loudly as she might have last year. By now, she was more or less inured to Abra’s thievish antics.
“Release!” Chester and Deely commanded in unison.
I sighed. Even if Abra did comply, nobody would eat caramel-vanilla cake recovered from the slobbery jaws of a dog.
Abra didn’t comply. She probably knew that nobody wanted the cake now, so she might as well keep it. Her stately blonde head held high, her long silky ears swinging, she trotted toward the kitchen to savor her treat in peace. Unfortunately, her bastard son Prince Harry the Pee Master wanted a taste, and so did his tiny sidekick Velcro. The Golden-Af and the shitzapoo sprinted after Abra like the eager, ever-hungry teen-age boys they were. She responded with ominous snarls.
“I sense a surge of negative energy,” Noonan Starr, local massage therapist and New Age guru, observed. “Let’s take a moment to gather our positivity and repel the bad vibes.”
“Or we could just let the dogs out,” I suggested.
Too late. The fourth canine, a cream-colored French bulldog named Sandra Bullock, shot from under the dining room table as if fired from a canon. Her squarely compact body blasted into the kitchen, landing smack in the middle of the doggie huddle. Abra extricated herself from the madness by leaping onto my granite counter as gracefully as only an Afghan hound can, most of the stolen cake still in her chops. What crumbs she’d left behind for lesser dogs were now the object of a noisy scramble. Sandra snorted, Velcro whined and Prince Harry woofed. They all growled, too, but I figured that was pure bluster.
“I’ll handle it,” my husband said, rising from the table.
“I’ll help,” Dr. David volunteered. Although his speech impediment obscured his words, the good vet could be counted on to soothe savage beasts.
“I’ll talk them down,” Chester declared, dropping to all fours. He clearly intended to speak a little canine.
“Just talk Abra down off my counter,” I said. It annoyed me to see four paws, however gorgeous, where no paws belonged.
Let me say here and now that my mother deserves full credit for Chester’s belated-birthday party. If she hadn’t taken a break from enjoying retirement with her fiancé in Fort Myers, Florida, to come help me with the baby, I’d still believe that my next-door neighbor was no older than he used to be. I tend to live in denial.
Mom arrived at the Grand Rapids airport last night. Jeb would have picked her up, but he had a gig singing at a fundraiser in Kalamazoo. Given my advanced pregnancy, he absolutely insisted that I not drive alone, so Chester and Abra rode along. I didn’t mind the latter as long as I also had the former. Chester has a calming effect on Abra. Plus, Mom thinks he’s downright adorable.
En route home from the airport, Abra rested her head on Chester’s lap in the backseat. Riding shotgun, Mom kept up a lively exchange, interviewing my neighbor about everything from his pricey private school to his celebrity mother. Their happy chatter fading into the background, I let my mind veer toward real estate.
I’m a landlord, an agent and a broker, and I own my own real estate agency thanks to Leo Mattimoe, the man I married after my divorce from Jeb. Leo taught me everything he knew about real estate. Then he died much too young, leaving me wrecked by grief and unable to imagine a future. Until Jeb returned.
With a lot of help from friends and coworkers, I managed to keep Mattimoe Realty afloat through an economic depression as severe as my own. It turns out I’m better at buying, selling and managing properties than I am at anything else. Just that morning I had listed a half-million-dollar property in a highly desirable neighborhood. I was mentally reviewing my coup when Mom interrupted me.
“Did you know that, Whitney?” she demanded.
“Did I know what?”
“That Chester turned nine almost six months ago?”
“Huh?” I had lost track of Chester’s age. As far as I knew, he was either eight or nine, which seemed almost the same to me. I guess I assumed he’d stay whatever age he was until somebody notified me otherwise. In my own defense, Chester’s age was irrelevant because he acted decades older than he looked.
“This little boy turned nine, and nobody even noticed,” Mom fumed.
I started to say, “I’m sure somebody noticed,” but then I remembered who Chester’s parents were and canceled the remark. Chester’s mother was Cassina, a singer-harpist pop star who was rarely home and usually stoned. Her accompanist-manager was the sperm donor of record. Chester lived in the Castle, a twenty-thousand-square-foot mansion just up the coast from me. His domestic life was managed by assorted personal assistants and dogs, none of whom cared about birthdays.
“That’s it,” Mom declared, finality in her voice. “We’re giving Chester a belated birthday party tomorrow.”
She peered over the seat at him.
“What kind of cake do you want, dear, and who do you want us to invite?”
“Surprise me with the cake,” he replied eagerly, “but please invite Abra, Sandra, Velcro and Prince Harry.”
I wasn’t surprised that Chester’s guest list began and ended with dogs. Even after visiting him at his private school, I couldn’t say that Chester had a single pal among his contemporaries. He was way too good for those kids.
Which brings us to the occasion at hand—or paw: four dogs and a stolen birthday cake. Well, only one dog had stolen the cake, but all four dogs were sharing the bounty. Sitting back, fat, in my chair while the other humans gathered in the kitchen to sort things out, I reflected that Chester was having exactly the birthday he wanted. His friends were here, and he was able to practice his canine, an impressive combination of dog language and dog body language.
Barking and whining like a natural, Chester skillfully inserted himself in the midst of the three snarling pooches on my kitchen floor. Sandra, Velcro and Prince Harry stopped in mid-yap. They sniffed Chester’s butt, wagged their tails and returned to their places under the dining room table.
“Amazing,” Mom said, and we all nodded.
Chester directed his next woofs at Abra, who was licking the last cake crumbs from my counter. She had knocked a few cups and saucers to the floor while getting comfortable. Even if Chester pointed t
hat out to her, Abra wouldn’t care about collateral damage. It was the stuff of her daily life.
From his doggie position, Chester glanced back at me.
“I’m trying to talk her down, Whiskey, but she insists on finishing the cake first.”
I nodded, but now Mom had an issue—with me.
“Whitney, I’ll never understand why you failed to take control of that dog. You are the master of her pack.”
I said, “Abra doesn’t have a pack. She has an ego and an entourage.”
In case you’re confused about my name—and why wouldn’t you be?—allow me to explain. I was christened Whitney. While she was pregnant, my mother read the name in a romance novel and hoped it would fit her daughter. It never did, especially since our family name was Houston. Most folks have called me Whiskey ever since middle school. The nickname has nothing to do with alcohol consumption and everything to do with Jeb Halloran’s humor. Way back in seventh grade he announced to our classmates that I had the husky voice of someone who drank a lot. In truth, I don’t like hard liquor although I do dream about quaffing a bottle of Pinot Noir as soon as this baby exits my belly. I’m not going to breastfeed, so don’t judge me.
Chester whined piteously, no doubt begging the Alpha Princess to rejoin us sooner rather than later. She proceeded to lick her paws. This looked as if it might take a while. Suddenly, the doorbell rang, and Chester’s work was done. Abra sailed over his head and bounded toward the foyer, followed by the three dogs from under the table. Every canine barked as loudly as possible because that’s what dogs do when the doorbell rings.
Out of habit, I tried to get up in order to answer the door. When I pushed and grunted instead of actually rising, my husband said, “Stay put, babe. I got it.”
You wouldn’t know it to look at me now, but I used to be athletic. I could jump and run with the fittest of females, and some men, not limited to Jeb, found me attractive. For the last five weeks, that phase of my life had seemed more like a dream than a memory. I found myself groaning each time I tried to stand, sit, bend, or do much of anything. Never mind that I’m almost six-foot-one, and everyone predicted I would carry my baby “well.” What the hell does that mean, anyhow? By my thirty-third week, pregnancy had turned me into a blimp on stilts. Now, in my thirty-ninth week, I was almost immobile, always miserable, and frequently inclined to pee.