by Nina Wright
I sincerely hoped he hadn’t posted any of me drooling in my sleep with poultices on my arm.
“Chester, who knows about my getting shot?”
“Well, MacArthur called Jeb right away. Jenx, too. She’s on her way.”
I took the plunge. “Is Jeb coming, too?”
“He would if he could,” Chester said gently, “only he has that gig in Chicago tomorrow. He said he was sorry, but he’s sure you understand.”
“I understand, all right. His music-and other women-will always come first.”
“The show must go on,“ Chester reminded me. No doubt his mother used the same excuse. “Don’t feel sad, Whiskey-I mean, Whitney. MacArthur, Jenx, and I will never let you down.”
I squeezed his hand and closed my eyes, willing away the tears.
Across the room, Mrs. Yoder coughed softly. I heard the fabric of her dress rustle as she stood up.
“I’ll go see if the elders have finished,” she said. “You need to rest, Mrs. Mattimoe.”
The next voice I heard was the cleaner’s. Somewhere down the hall, MacArthur thanked Mrs. Yoder for her poultices. A moment later, he was at my side.
“How does if feel to be the luckiest English in Amish Country?” he said.
“You call getting shot twice ‘lucky’?”
“Getting grazed is lucky indeed. Getting killed would have been unfortunate.”
“Why didn’t you take me to a hospital?” I said.
“If I’d done that, I would have had to report the shootings,” MacArthur said. “I fired my gun, too, you know…”
I remembered hearing his weapon fire twice. “What did you hit-besides the windshield?”
“Nothing. The glass shattered, but I’m sure the driver was fine. He-or she-never lost control of the truck.”
Gingerly I touched the cloth compresses on my arm. Minor wounds. My heartache over Jeb hurt more.
MacArthur went on, “I carried you to the house and asked Mrs. Yoder to make you a poultice. When I told her it would be the fastest way to get rid of you, she agreed. The elders want you out of here ASAP. We’re just waiting for Jenx.”
“Why is she coming?”
“First, she’s been tracking this case since shots were fired at Susan’s car. Second, she’s your friend. Strange as it seems, she really cares about you.”
Maybe it was a delayed reaction to everything that had happened. Or maybe I was simply exhausted. At any rate, I burst into tears. For the second time that day. Chester handed me a big old white cotton handkerchief.
“The Amish use these instead of tissues.” The way he said it, you would have thought that cotton was a new invention. “They’re economical and very absorbent. I’ve got another one in my pocket in case you need it.”
“Clear the room, folks. It’s my turn to talk to her!”
We hadn’t heard Jenx coming. The compactly built Magnet Springs police chief leaned against the door frame. Although she wore her blue uniform, she’d removed her service revolver, presumably out of courtesy for our hosts.
“This is a first,” she said. “A visiting Realtor gets shot down in Amish Country. Can’t wait to hear your side.”
She shooed MacArthur and Chester from the room and closed the solid oak door. I resumed sobbing.
“You puke and you faint, but you never cry,” Jenx said.
“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” I bawled into Chester’s borrowed handkerchief. “I just feel so sad!”
Jenx said. “Good thing Jeb’s not here to see you like this.”
That activated a new chain of sobs.
“What’s going on with you two, anyhow?” the chief said.
Jenx had drawn up the wooden chair Mrs. Yoder used and was now leaning back in it, arms crossed, head cocked.
“Why don’t you ask Jeb?” I said. “He was supposed to help me find Abra, but he took off with Susan Davies. I think they’re having an affair! She does that, you know, with lots of people!”
“Jeb’s just being Jeb,” Jenx said calmly. “And you’re just being you.”
“Being a volunteer deputy for you!”
“That’s not a license to get stupid,” she said.
“Can I help it if my dog’s gone, my boyfriend’s gone, and I got shot?”
“Your dog runs away every chance she gets. And your luck sucks, especially with men. Face it, Whiskey, you attract trouble like Odette attracts clients.”
“You should investigate that bitch Susan,” I told the chief. “I’ll bet she killed Mitchell and Matt!”
“You think Susan shot at Ramona, her co-breeder, twice?” Jenx asked. “And then shot at you, just for fun?”
“She hates me,” I said.
“Well, sure, but I don’t see Susan driving that pickup. And she couldn’t have shot at her own car when she was in it.”
“She hired somebody! You don’t know Susan. She has a way of getting people to do her bidding. I came to the damn dog show, didn’t I?”
“Yeah, but you did that for mercenary reasons.”
Jenx removed a notebook from her pocket and flipped through it.
“Here’s what we got so far, based on MacArthur’s info and my background checks.”
The chief recapped events in order, starting with Susan’s report that she and Ramona were fired at as they drove to Vestige on Thursday night. Then someone shot at either Ramona, who was outside with Jeb, or at Susan’s car, which was parked in my driveway. When Officer Brady Swancott asked Susan to produce a list of enemies, Ramona brought up a certain breeder.
“Susan didn’t want to talk about Slater,” I recalled. “According to Ramona, his dog had a stroke while having sex with Susan’s dog, so Susan never got her stud fee refunded, and Slater never forgave her for killing his dog. But that’s not right.
Jenx checked her notes. “How so?”
“Perry said that Susan was the only woman who ever dumped Mitchell. And Susan did get her stud fee back, FYI-plus a puppy: Silverado. She also got Mitchell’s hottie son, Matt.”
Jenx raised a finger to stop me.
“You’re saying Susan used Mitchell to get the stud fee, the stud dog, and the human stud? Then why would she kill him?”
“Beats the hell out of me,” I said. “But since Mitchell’s dead, is there any reason Peg can’t keep Yoda?”
“Perry says Mitchell wanted him to take care of Yoda,” Jenx said. “So Perry is being responsible. He’s paying Peg a thousand bucks. You know she needs the cash.”
“She needs Yoda, too! He was all the family she had.”
“Not anymore. Deely and Dr. David got a lead on another gray cat looking for a good home. Fleggers like Peg. They think she’s enlightened. Brady can alter her tattoo.”
Referring to her notebook, Jenx ticked through a long list of observations, most of them relayed by either me or MacArthur. They included the power outage at the exhibit hall, Matt’s death and Silverado’s disappearance, the cat fight between Brenda Spenser and Sandy Slater, and Kori’s sudden absence. I told her my theory that Kori had used the distraction of the first helicopter’s departure to cover her exit in the pickup. Or the Lincoln. Jenx didn’t seem impressed.
“I ran the plates on the silver pickup,” the chief said. “It’s not registered to Kori or her uncle. It’s not even registered in Illinois.”
After a long silence, I realized that Jenx was staring at me.
“What?” I said.
“What the hell kind of volunteer deputy are you? Don’t you want to know who the silver pickup belongs to?”
I propped myself up as best I could. “Sure. Is it somebody I’ve heard of?”
“It’s somebody in Magnet Springs,” Jenx said.
Chapter Forty-One
Immediately I thought of every Magnet Springer I knew who owned a truck. Most were fellow Main Street merchants. None seemed potentially violent or even conniving. Sure, we were all hard pressed to make a living these days, but nobody struck me as desperate eno
ugh to kill. Or crazy enough to kidnap an Afghan hound. Especially not if my dog was along for the ride.
At my bedside, Jenx produced a folded sling. Then she carefully removed Mrs. Yoder’s poultices and slipped my right arm into its new cradle.
“You always carry medical supplies in your hip pocket?” I asked.
“Only when I come to rescue you.”
As she eased me out of bed, I remarked that I’d never seen this nurturing side of her.
“And if you tell anybody,” she said. “I’ll kill you. I know how to do it and leave no trace.”
Moving through the Yoder’s home, I suddenly found myself thinking like a Realtor for the first time in days. Based on its interior details, the farmhouse appeared to have been built in the nineteen-teens. I admired the four-inch oak molding, the brass door hardware, the old plank floors, and the high ceilings.
MacArthur and Chester were waiting for us in the kitchen. Chester had dressed again in his school blazer and chinos, but his hair was still flat from its time under a straw hat. Jacob and Rachel were there, too; the little girl clung to Mrs. Yoder’s skirt, apparently for protection. Next to the freestanding kitchen sink, which was powered, I noticed, by an old fashioned hand pump, stood a severe-looking bearded man I took to be Mr. Yoder.
“Your home is beautiful,” I said, beaming at him and his wife. They did not beam back. In fact, they averted their eyes. “Of course, I haven’t seen the outside because I was unconscious, but the inside is very well maintained.”
Nobody replied. That was my cue to do what I always do when I get nervous: I babbled.
“Even though I’m not licensed to sell real estate in Indiana, I would venture to say that, should you decide to put your farm on the market, you could probably get close to your asking price from the right buyer, even in this economy. That’s often the case with unique properties. I don’t know how many acres or out-buildings you have here, but let’s focus on the house itself. Assuming you’re not in a floodplain, your foundation is solid, your roof is recent, and your chimney flues can be brought up to code with heat-resistant tiles, you’ve got yourselves a winner! Sure, these old farmhouses typically lack closet space and have small rooms by today’s standards, but your kitchen is plenty large. In fact, it feels downright spacious.”
Suddenly I understood why. There were no major appliances taking up space. But did that stop me from enumerating sales features? Hell no.
“I know from drinking your delicious water that you have either a fine spring or an excellent well. Are your wiring and plumbing up to code?”
Chester cleared his throat. Right. There was no wiring in this house because there was no electricity. And how much indoor plumbing could an Amish home have? I didn’t recall passing a bathroom, although they must have a chamber pot and tub stashed somewhere. Did they heat the water in the kitchen and haul it?
“Anyway, lovely room!” I gushed. “Although I recommend upgrading to granite countertops. You’ll be glad you did.”
Chester and Jenx dragged me toward the door.
“Thank you for your hospitality! And the poultices!” I called out.
“She’s in shock from her wounds,” MacArthur told the Yoders as he closed the door behind us.
* * *
Back at the Barnyard Inn, Chester helped me pack up the items I’d strewn about my room. Then he loaded my bag in the back of my car and waited while I neurotically returned to Number 17 for one last overview. The stained carpet, tattered drapes, and ragged bedspread were beyond depressing. Abra, now gone-who was my whole reason for coming-hadn’t spent a single night there with me.
I emerged to find my eight-year-old neighbor chatting up the red-haired mystery author as she loaded unsold books into her minivan. Leaning against my car, I watched Chester charm her as only Chester could. There’s something delightful about a boy who looks six and talks like a forty-year-old guidance counselor.
Suddenly he pointed at me, and the author smiled. Then she waved. I waved back without enthusiasm. All I wanted to do was hit the highway. The author handed a box of books to Chester. So many books that he staggered under the load. She climbed into her minivan, tooted her horn, and drove off as Chester trundled the box over to me.
“Please don’t tell me you got her to give you those. You can afford to buy books, Chester.”
“I did buy them,” he huffed, signaling for me to open my hatchback. “I’m going to donate them to the Magnet Springs library.”
“No wonder the author looked happy.”
“Oh, that’s not why she’s happy,” he said. “I told her you used a copy of her latest book to fend off a goat attack. She liked that idea so much she’s going to put it in her next novel!”
Because of my injuries, Jenx had recommended that MacArthur drive me and Chester home in my car. So I climbed into the passenger seat and waited for the cleaner. Chester busied himself with his Blackberry in the backseat.
When MacArthur arrived, I asked how he planned to get his Harley back to Michigan. He said he had friends who would handle it. MacArthur didn’t seem the type to have friends, only clients with sticky issues. I knew very little about his personal life.
Although he had kept me, Susan, and Ramona alive, I wasn’t terribly impressed with his performance as bodyguard. Both Ramona and I had been shot, after all. Still, he was working for free, and I appreciated the relaxing drive home. But who was this guy, and what was his relationship with Kori? Did he simply like stealing kisses from bad girls? Or was he actively protecting a convicted felon who had run afoul of the law yet again?
Nobody said much on the ride back to Magnet Springs. The evening was classic Midwest autumn: a sky sliding from azure to slate blue as the day’s vibrant colors relaxed into gray, the air chilled down, and the night breeze turned still. Through my slightly open window, I caught the scent of distant wood smoke and the tang of apples rotting on the ground. We were traveling through Indiana, but it smelled like home.
That night, back at Vestige, I dreamed of the dog show. Abra-handled by Kori-burst into the ring while the judge was making his “Best of Show” decision. The crowd went wild, giving Kori and Abra a standing ovation, complete with whistles and hoots. The judge stopped what he was doing and signaled the spectators to settle down. Then he requested a microphone and made an announcement: “I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t award the unique achievements of this hound and her handler. Therefore, it gives me great pleasure to recognize both Abra the Afghan hound and Kori Davies as Worst in Show!”
The judge presented them with an oversized gold trophy. Kori performed an erotic dance accompanied by Abra’s piercing howls and leaps. I wept with pride.
I awoke confused in the early darkness of Sunday morning. The dream seemed almost plausible. Shaking my head, I giggled a little. Suddenly I felt a stab of sadness. Abra was still missing.
Then I rushed to the bathroom and threw up.
What the hell was wrong with me? I wanted to blame my nausea on the stress and bad diet of recent days. A vague fear gnawed at my consciousness. As usual I repressed it, took a long shower, and got on with business. I was relieved to discover that my arm hardly hurt at all.
Traditionally, Sunday is a work day for Realtors. A mighty important work day if you have Open Houses. Or if you’re an agent in a popular tourist location like Magnet Springs. Alas, the current down market had turned Sunday into a Realtor’s day of rest.
I needed a challenge. Something to occupy my mind and stretch my body. I wasn’t about to let little things like a gunshot wound, stomach trouble, or an economic depression slow me down. So, dressed in my most comfortable and ugly sweats, I headed straight to the office to catch up on whatever I had missed while in Indiana. And to wait for Jenx to give me my next assignment as volunteer deputy. She had promised to drop by later.
By eight AM, I was at my desk, shuffling every piece of paper I could find in search of phone messages, mail, or any evidence whatsoever that I had miss
ed something while out of town on Friday and Saturday.
There was absolutely nothing new.
Bored, I made myself a pot of coffee. Bad coffee. So bad that it reminded me why I kept Tina Breen on staff. Though prone to distraction, disorganization, and extreme whining, Tina made consistently great java. I rarely drank her brew because we were located right across the street from the Goh Cup, where I liked to take my breaks and catch up on local gossip. Still, it was comforting to know I could get yummy coffee on demand from my own office manager if I ever wanted any.
By now it was almost nine o’clock; I was way too restless to do anything constructive like reorganize my files. Crossing the street to visit Peg and sip her coffee wasn’t an option. On Sundays she opened late. So did most other Main Street merchants.
What’s a semi-nauseated under-employed dog-less single woman to do? I started messing with the computer. To be specific, Tina’s computer. I’m not sure why I chose to play with hers instead of mine. I told myself it was because hers was located in the foyer, which gave me a view of the street. That way I’d have something else to look at if the internet proved boring.
But the internet didn’t prove boring. Far from it.
Chapter Forty-Two
Technically, it was Tina’s email that interested me, not the whole internet. I never got past her email.
When I’d glimpsed it on Friday, I was stunned by her assortment of saved spam, all of which bore subject lines related to, shall we say, “male enhancement.” Most of us don’t look at that stuff, let alone save it. I couldn’t imagine uptight, goody-two-shoes Tina reading emails from Shane Maverick, Constantine Braver, and Kong. Unless her boredom at work had turned her into a sexual voyeur. Not Tina. Not likely.
Then I got really nosy and discovered something else. Call me unethical, but the computer did, after all, belong to me. So I opened her spam emails and read them all. The subject lines had little or nothing to do with the actual messages.
Maybe that’s common spam practice, I thought: catch readers’ attention with a sleazy come-on and then sell ‘em what you’re really selling. Except these senders weren’t selling anything that I could see. Even if the messages sounded vaguely sexual, they contained no hyperlinks to other websites and mentioned no products or services for sale. Examples: