by Nina Wright
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.
Chapter Five
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.”
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.
Chapter Six
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 rep
eat 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?