Whiskey with a Twist

by Nina Wright

Her reply: silence as deep as the snow on Mount Everest and as long as a bored yawn from Odette.

  “Peg? Did you hear me?”

  More silence. And then, just as I was about to check our connection, she wailed.

  “But I love my cat! Yoda is my family-the only thing in my life that gives me joy! You don’t think I love slinging coffee and cookies, do you? Let alone selling tattoos! And as for being mayor of this little town, what’s to love? It’s high risk, low income. I don’t have to tell you what happened to the last guy in that job!”

  She was referring to the fact that I had discovered the previous mayor’s dead body. Before I could think of a soothing reply, or any reply at all for that matter, Odette grabbed my phone.

  “Peg, this is Odette. What Whiskey’s trying to say is that the cat’s got to go. Back to its owner. ASAP. But there’s an upside: the owner’s got cash, so he’ll make it worth your while. You can bank on it!”

  She closed the connection and returned my phone.

  “You can’t promise her cash!” I sputtered.

  “Of course, I can.”

  She nodded toward Perry Stiles, who had paused on his way to the show ring to chat with a handler.

  “Any guy who’d rent a cabin on the beach with another guy is not only gay but rich. He will pay a reward for the return of the cat.”

  “But the cat is Yoda,” I protested.

  “There’s no accounting for taste,” Odette said. “But there is accounting.”

  “I’ll go talk to him,” I said.

  “No. I’ll go talk to him. We want to get as much money as possible for Peg.”

  I nodded humbly. Nobody did deals as well as Odette.

  “But first I’ve got to ask you a question,” she said.

  “Shoot.”

  “From what I hear, there’s been more than enough of that. Is there always this much drama at a dog show?”

  “Well, this is my first. But I’m pretty sure most dog shows don’t involve gunfire.”

  “Aside from gunfire,” Odette said, “why the petty personal squabbles? I hear one every time I turn my head. Who cares who handles whose dog?”

  “Are you talking about Susan’s dog, for example? The one Matt brought over to the Davies’ table?”

  “Matt the young hottie,” Odette confirmed.

  I didn’t add that he was Susan’s young hottie. It wasn’t the right moment to tell Odette that Liam’s wife was as notorious for cheating as… well, as Liam was. I didn’t know how much Odette knew. Or how much she wanted to let me know she knew.

  “Silverado is headed for the finals,” Odette remarked without interest. “Susan wants Matt to handle him. But Liam and his niece think the niece should handle him. Frankly, who the hell cares? And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go get Peg’s money.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  “I’m sorry to hear about your bitch.”

  Sandy Slater had entered the concession area, apparently on break from selling snoods.

  “You mean Abra?” I asked, just to be sure we weren’t talking about someone else.

  She nodded sympathetically. “I heard that she ran away with some goats. I’ll pray for you both. If she comes back this weekend, stop by my booth for a complimentary snood of your choosing. The rose sateen snoods are especially popular today.”

  When she pulled one out of a pocket to show me, a breeder eating nachos nearby said, “I want that one, Sandy! Save it for me.”

  The woman was a snood-selling machine. I thanked her and turned to go. Then I realized that Sandy should have answers to my remaining questions about Mitchell Slater. The only real question was whether she’d cooperate.

  “I’ll buy you anything but a burger,” I offered and explained that the burgers were bad. Or had been yesterday.

  Sandy hesitated. “It’s not the food,” she said. “I shouldn’t fraternize with Bad Examples. I don’t mind selling you snoods, of course, but hanging out with you could hurt my business. In case you haven’t noticed, this crowd is snooty.”

  “Snooty about snoods?” I couldn’t resist.

  “Snooty about you. They don’t like you. Or your bitch.”

  “I’ve noticed. At least Perry Stiles is nice.”

  When Sandy frowned, I realized that, unlike her late first husband, she looked her age. Whereas Mitchell Slater had been tanned, teeth-bleached, and Botoxed, Sandy was the absolute absence of vanity. She wore no make-up, had coffee-stained teeth, and sported every single wrinkle she’d earned. Lots of gray hairs, too.

  “Perry Stiles is a snake,” she hissed.

  “He said nice things about you,” I lied.

  “I doubt it. He didn’t like Mitchell, either. And I’m sure he gossips about my son Matthew.”

  “With regard to what?” I tried to sound naïve.

  “You’re not as dumb as you look,” Sandy snapped.

  “How kind of you.”

  “All I’m saying is you can’t trust Perry to tell you the truth. About anybody. He especially disliked Mitchell.”

  “Why?”

  “Why do you think?”

  “Maybe I am as dumb as I look.”

  Sandy glanced around and then stepped closer. “Mitchell was gay.”

  “What?!!”

  Nothing she could have said would have stunned me more. Or been less believable.

  “He was married four times!” I said.

  “Gay men marry women.”

  “Four times,” I repeated.

  “Why do you think all those marriages failed?” she asked.

  “Because he was a ladies’ man. Anyway, why would Perry Stiles dislike Mitchell because he was gay? Perry is obviously gay.”

  “Obviously,” Sandy agreed. “Two reasons: First, Mitchell never came out. Perry doesn’t like men who live in the closet. Second, Mitchell wasn’t attracted to Perry. And Perry never forgave him for that.”

  I couldn’t buy Sandy’s story. Mitchell Slater had struck me as one hundred percent straight, granted that I hadn’t known him for long. Could my Gaydar have been that far out of whack? Why would Sandy, who had been married to Mitchell, lie about his sexual preference? There was only one likely answer: revenge.

  Mitchell had repeatedly spurned her, after all. And then there was the reality of Matt Koniger, whom Mitchell had never publicly acknowledged as his son. The gay rumor was probably Sandy’s way of punishing Mitchell. But why include Perry in that plan? Unless Sandy had an axe to grind with Perry, too…

  I didn’t know Sandy well enough to politely inquire about the legitimacy of her son. So I stated what I’d heard and waited for her response.

  “Rumor has it that Mitchell was Matt’s father.”

  Her reply was a predictably icy stare. After a long silence, during which I vainly tried to think of ways to change the subject, Sandy said, “Let me guess. Perry told you that.”

  “I can’t remember exactly, but, uh, yes, it might have been Perry,” I mumbled. “I haven’t had time to talk to a lot of other people…”

  “Other people wouldn’t have told you that,” she said archly.

  I assumed she meant because other people had discretion.

  “It’s just one more example of Perry’s viciousness,” she said.

  “You mean, Matt isn’t Mitchell’s son?”

  “For God’s sake, no! His father was my second husband. Everybody knows that!”

  I didn’t take the time to censor my next remark. Always a bad idea.

  “Then how do you explain the fact that Matt looks just like Mitchell?”

  Sandy’s thin, lined face flushed the rosy color of her best-selling snood.

  “Can I help it if I have consistent taste in men? I like them tall, blonde, handsome, and straight. My second husband had a lot in common with my first.”

  I apologized, but she stalked off before I could finish. I assumed the complimentary snood offer was now null and void.

  A voice announced that the judging of Best in Show
would begin momentarily. I was confused. When Susan invited Abra and me, she had said that the event ran all weekend long. Yet here we were, mid-afternoon on Saturday, ready to give out the Grand Prize? What was left to compete for tomorrow?

  I spotted Brenda Spenser, also on her way to the ring, and asked.

  Ms. Perfect Haircut seemed surprised to see me. Or maybe her Botox treatment blunted what was really a look of alarm. She probably feared I might tromp on her Manolo Blahnik again. To reassure her, I took a giant step back.

  “The Midwest Afghan Hound Specialty concludes with this round,” she explained pleasantly. “But shows go on all weekend. Tomorrow several area clubs will hold their specialties here-groups from Indianapolis, Toledo, Fort Wayne. Many of our handlers will work those events, too. And some of the dogs you saw today will compete again tomorrow. It depends on which clubs the breeders belong to.”

  Brenda excused herself, smiling so sweetly that I felt quite at home. Maybe I’d been wrong-and Sandy had been just plain mean-in assuming that the breeders didn’t like me. True, I didn’t have a clue how dog shows worked. And my Bad Example bitch had run off with a herd of goats. But that didn’t necessarily make me an outcast.

  Odette headed toward me, hips wagging. She waved her latest designer bag in the universal sign for “I got money!”

  “Peg will be feeling no pain,” she announced.

  “Peg’s losing her cat,” I said. “And she’s stuck with that awful tattoo.”

  “Peg’s gaining a thousand bucks! Perry’s friend misses that little monster. I’ve already phoned Liam’s second pilot, the one who’s bringing Jeb. He’ll take a slight detour to pick up Yoda, too.”

  Odette glanced at her Rolex, a diamond-encrusted model, which I happened to know she had purchased with her latest commission check.

  “Liam and I are off to meet with his Chicago people. The next time we speak, Whiskey, I want to hear that you’ve finished looking for Abra, whether you’ve found her or not!”

  Odette was the only employee I made a habit of taking orders from. Doing so generally proved profitable.

  Now I surveyed the scene around the show ring. Sandy had timed her lunch break well. No one would be buying snoods during the final round of judging. Other vendors had left their booths, too, including the red-haired author of Afghan hound mysteries. Still smiling, the novelist stood with the rest of the crowd. When her eyes briefly met mine, I wondered if she could tell from a distance that I wasn’t a reader.

  Spectators had flocked to the ring; at some points they stood two and three people deep. The tall, distinguished judge was in place, like an elder statesman about to preside over matters of national import. I guessed that we were waiting for him to summon the hounds and their handlers. Searching the sidelines for a glimpse of Silverado, I wondered who would be on the other end of his leash.

  “I don’t have a hound in this round, but I do have a handler.”

  Brenda Spenser had joined me ringside. She winked as if sharing a private joke, which I didn’t get… until the hounds arrived. Stepping lively, Silverado was the third dog to enter the ring, with Matt holding his lead.

  I should have known. From our first phone conversation-the one that landed me here-Susan had struck me as a woman who got what she wanted when she wanted it. And she wanted Matt to handle her dog.

  As the judge reviewed the finalists, Brenda kept up a chatty commentary about who owned whom, who bred whom, and who won what when. I wanted to pretend to care. Really I did. But the best I could manage was a few vague grunts while my mind wandered as waywardly as my dog.

  What had been Liam’s real reason for detouring here en route to Chicago? Was he trying to prove that he loved his wife, or that he had a sexy new business partner? Or did he just enjoy impressing the hoi poloi with the fact that he was rich enough to travel by helicopter?

  How much did Liam know about Susan’s kissy-face relationship with Matt? According to Perry, everybody knew about both spouses’ infidelities. The real question was did anybody, Liam and Susan included, care?

  I now suspected that the Davies duo were simply exhibitionists. Tiresome ones at that. Everybody they invited into their lives was there for one purpose only: to give them attention.

  Like Liam, Kori must have moved on. I couldn’t see Susan, either. But she had to be there somewhere, applauding her dog and her handler, if not also her tidy triumph over Liam and his niece. Frankly, I doubted that Liam cared all that much who handled which dog. He had made it amply clear that he didn’t like dog shows.

  Studying Matt standing next to Silverado, I had to agree with Brenda that they looked like winners. In his dark gray suit with his perfect posture and athletic sprint, Matt served only to enhance the sleek dog’s graceful performance.

  Brenda was blathering on, no doubt for my enlightenment, about the relationship between handler and hound.

  “The handler is there but not there,” she explained. “Like strings on a marionette. The audience can see the strings, but we try not to because they’re not part of the show.”

  I was impressed that anyone as handsome as Matt could blend into the background. And yet he ensured that every moment was all about the dog.

  Kori had proven she could get Silverado to do what he needed to do in order to win. Still, there was no denying that her hot pink suit, spiky streaked hair, and sparkly jewelry had demanded attention, too. I’d overheard the Two L’s say that Kori turned the show ring into a “circus.” That was hard to deny. Even I, a complete dog show novice, could see and respect the difference between a professional handler like Matt and a rebel like Kori. She stole the show; he kept the focus on the dog. At this level of competition, it mattered.

  I made a comment to Brenda about Matt’s skill, but my words drowned in a sea of applause. As the finalists trotted around the ring, each one had a strong and enthusiastic fan base.

  Naturally, Brenda wanted Matt’s canine client to win. I wondered again if she had a clue about him and Susan. Of course I cheered for Silverado, and not just because I was standing next to Brenda. Silverado was the only dog I knew personally. Plus, he had it bad for my bitch, so the poor guy deserved my support.

  But I couldn’t begin to guess who deserved to be Best in Show. They were all perfectly behaved and flawlessly groomed. In other words, the opposite of Abra. Besides Silverado, who was a blue, the finalists were a solid black, a black and tan, a self-masked gold, and a cream brindle domino.

  When I caught myself describing them that way in my head, I gasped. I must have actually been listening to Brenda.

  Coming to this show had changed me. I had accidentally learned something about Afghan hounds. I had also lost my Afghan hound, but that happened frequently.

  The judge gave each finalist one more hard look. The canine contenders posed patiently. The crowd watched, transfixed.

  I was sure of one thing only, that no dog was the clear crowd favorite. If we’d relied upon an applause meter for the results, we would have had a five-way tie. Not to mention a specialty show that failed to comply with AKC regulations.

  Suddenly the judge made a series of rapid-fire signals I couldn’t read; dogs and handlers looped the ring on their last circuit as the crowd hooted. When Brenda shrieked with joy, I assumed that Matt and Silverado had done well. But before I could ask, and before the dogs reached their ranked positions, the entire exhibit hall was plunged into blackness.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  I heard Brenda gasp and say, “Oh, my!”

  A male voice shouted, “Nobody move! Stay exactly where you are. I repeat: Nobody move! The back-up generators should kick on momentarily.”

  “I hope so,” Brenda said. “Matt and Silverado deserve their moment of glory!”

  “They won?” I whispered into the darkness.

  “Best in show!” Brenda confirmed.

  The arena, which a moment earlier had echoed with applause, was now a pitch-black den of whispers. Since the building lacked wind
ows, no light at all filtered into the space. If someone could just open that infamous side door, I thought, it might admit a little illumination. Scuffling sounds-scrapes and grunts-emanated from the ring. I assumed that the dogs were restless.

  “I said, nobody move!” the male voice repeated, sounding annoyed enough to be almost menacing.

  A chorus of alarmed and alarming barks filled the air, followed by a human cry. Suddenly, that side door opened just wide enough and long enough to reveal the silhouette of a large man. Then the door closed, and the arena sank back into darkness.

  Something had changed. The barking intensified; the human cry became a hysterical sob.

  “What on earth-“ Brenda began.

  And then the generators kicked on, igniting low-level perimeter lighting. Although the show ring remained in deep shadow, a distressing tableau emerged: Handlers struggled to control their leaping, lunging dogs, and a man appeared slumped near the edge of the circle. At first I thought it was the judge and wondered if he’d had a heart attack. Then I identified his tall, lean dog-less figure among the vertical shadows. So who was down? And if it was a handler, where was the unattached hound? A man inside the circle shouted, “Somebody dial 9-1-1!”

  The regular lights banged back up. Brenda screamed.

  The very still body in the ring belonged to Matt Koniger. Perry crouched next to him just as, an hour earlier, he had crouched next to Ramona. This time, though, I feared that the victim had suffered more than a rump wound. Matt wasn’t an actor-unless you counted gigolo in that category. He had struck me as a virile young man not inclined to exaggerate an injury. From where I stood, he appeared unconscious.

  “Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god,” Brenda chanted, shaking her finely manicured hands as if to restore circulation.

  Suddenly she bolted toward the ring, if in fact “bolting” is possible in Manolo Blahniks. Without thinking, I followed her. Neither of us reached our destination.

  Wild-eyed and livid, Sandy Slater inserted herself between us and the show ring. Fixing her mad rage on Brenda, she screamed, “You wanted my son dead! Everybody here knows that!”