The reason I didn’t see blood was that the bullet shattered the left side of Mitchell Slater’s head. The side not facing me.
I found that out from the cops. Later.
When Slater laughed at my question about him and Susan being friends, he pivoted toward the road. And in that instant, the shooter found his mark.
It was the closest I’d ever been to a murder victim as he was murdered.
Naturally, I passed out.
When I awoke, a woman was holding something smelly much too close to my face. In my haze, I briefly thought it was the unpleasant desk clerk trying to stuff my stinky key up my nose. Then I realized that the desk clerk was standing a few feet away, holding her baby and a cell phone, and chattering in the language of that unseen TV game show. The woman next to my face was wearing a uniform.
“Welcome back,” she said, capping the smelling salts.
Some welcome. I had graduated to a sitting position, but I felt woozy. And then I saw the blood: a wide red spray arced across the gravel where Mitchell and I had sagged together, one of us already history. Blood also stained my shirt and my pants.
I instantly tasted Chester’s waffles again. How was that possible after so many hours?
“Breathe,” the uniformed woman ordered.
Although she looked young, she sounded professional. So I complied. I also closed my eyes, which was my own idea. I heard voices murmuring, gravel crunching, car doors slamming. A dog howling. My dog.
“Can you open your eyes?” the uniformed woman said.
I knew I could, but did I want to? As if blood and death weren’t awful enough, I’d also have to handle Abra. I was a big girl, though, so I took an extra-deep breath and prepared to face the world.
The officer was leaning in so close that she was the only part of the world I could see.
“We’re going to help you stand up,” she said.
Immediately, two beefy men hoisted me to my feet, facing away from the nasty spray on the gravel and directly toward my car. Abra bounced between the front seat and the back seat in a mad, howling dance. Proof that even Jeb’s mellifluous voice had its limitations.
The Elkhart County sheriff’s department had a few questions for me. Quite a few. They suggested that I take my dog out first, correctly guessing she needed to relieve herself but incorrectly guessing she also needed to see that I was all right. Abra didn’t give a shit about me. She was, however, fascinated by movement, noise, and odors. As usual, she longed to be in the thick of things and resented my restraining her with a leash.
Like getting to my feet, shoving Abra back into my car required police assistance. She was adrenalized with excitement. Crime has that effect on my canine.
Once Abra was safely stowed away again, the female officer summarized what had happened after Mitchell Slater was shot: The desk clerk heard me scream and looked outside. When she saw us sprawled on the gravel surrounded by blood, she assumed we were both dying and dialed 9-1-1. I came to, responded to police questions, submitted to a brief examination, and passed out again. Slater was removed by ambulance. I couldn’t remember any of it.
Now I sat in the front seat of a police cruiser answering more questions… to the tune of Abra howling in the background again. The officer handed me a standard report form on a clipboard and told me to write out the sequence of events. My head throbbed. I was straining to focus on the report and tune out Abra’s wails when Susan Davies rapped on the patrol car window. I opened the door.
“Mitchell Slater is dead,” I said numbly. “Somebody shot him.”
“I know. Two officers came to the exhibit hall. That’s why I’m here. What can I do for you?”
Susan seemed completely composed. There was no sign in those clear blue eyes that she’d just received jolting news.
Abra issued a fresh howl, this one louder, higher, and more sustained than any that had come before. The look I gave Susan must have said it all.
“I’ll take care of her,” she offered. “You need to lie down.”
“Actually, I need food.” I knew that low blood sugar could give me a throbbing headache, and it had been a long time since I’d eaten.
“What room are you in? I’ll bring you a sandwich and a Coke.”
“Seventeen. But don’t bring the dog.”
I handed over Abra’s leash, eager to watch Perfect Trainer confront the Hound from Hell. This just might be the most entertaining event of the whole weekend: watching Susan extract my canine from my car. First of all, Abra was not generally receptive to strangers. Second, she had a two-response repertoire to any open door: flying leap or complete inertia. I hoped the pretty lady had above-average upper-body strength.
Susan approached the vehicle slowly, showing the leash. Abra stopped bouncing and stared. Susan’s back was to me, so I couldn’t see her face, but as she neared the window, she must have said something to Abra. I watched in shock as the dog sat demurely in the front passenger seat and waited for Susan to open the door. Then Abra not only allowed the leash to be attached, but she actually heeled as the two strutted off toward the exhibit hall.
Defeated, I located the nearest cop and turned in my report.
“Are you, by any chance, one of the officers who broke the bad news to the Afghan hound crowd?” I said.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“How did they take it?”
“Real hard,” he said. “Mr. Slater must have had a lot of friends. I had to insist they stay in the hall while we processed the murder scene.”
And yet Susan had come on over. Why? Did she consider herself above the laws that applied to others? Or was she overcome with curiosity about the murder? She certainly hadn’t seemed overcome with sadness. Or shock. Maybe, as she had said, she wanted to make sure I was all right. I was here at her invitation, and I’d been mighty close to that lethal bullet.
I had one other question the cop might be able to answer. “Where are all the cars? Except for official vehicles, there’s hardly anybody in this lot, and there’s a dog show going on.”
“The dog show folks are parked around back, closer to the exhibit hall,” he explained.
After fetching my bag from my car, I started in the direction Susan and Abra had gone, counting motel room doors. The highest number on this side of the building was fifteen, so I figured my room was around the corner.
Actually, it was around the back. Next to the RV park.
That’s right. A portion of the rear parking lot was reserved for vehicles large enough to transport a rock band plus entourage. Only these RVs were adorned with Afghan hound logos and kennel names: Windrush Ridge, Zahar’s Legend, Royal Sands, and so forth. I hadn’t had an inkling how serious some breeders were. Or how deeply invested.
Set up on the nearby grassy area were screened crates and miniature dome-tents containing dogs that looked like mine. Who knew they came in so many colors? I had always thought of Abra as a blonde, but here were several shades of blonde: cream, gold, platinum. Afghans also came in red, black, black and tan, and blue-gray-solid, striped, or streaked. Some dogs even had masks. I was gazing at a veritable kaleidoscope of Afghan hounds.
They were surprisingly quiet, considering how many of them there were. I knew this was a breed less inclined to bark than say, terriers. But I was still impressed. Afghans are sight hounds, I mused. Maybe they just like to look at each other.
Their quiet nature was a good thing given that my room was right next door to Doggie World. I inserted my key and turned the knob. The metal door clicked open. I inhaled a potent cocktail of Lysol, Pinesol, and Mr. Clean.
I imagined the motel slogan:
“Welcome to the Barnyard Inn, home of creatures great, small, and smelly. We do our best to disinfect.”
Blood thumped through the veins in my head, making me wince with pain at each pulsation. I had seen a man die. I needed to lie down. But first I needed to shed my stained clothes. No. I needed to pitch them.
Since the room was likely to look as dismal as it smelled, I kept the draperies closed and switched on one light only for the express purpose of locating a wastebasket. I stripped to my skin and stuffed everything, underwear included, into the not-quite knee-high bin. Then I stepped into the shower and let the hot water do its magic on my tense muscles. I dried myself with the only scratchy towel I could find, pulled a cotton nightshirt from my suitcase, popped three aspirins, and headed for the lone bed. Even in the shadowy light from the single 40-watt bulb, I could see that the bed sagged and the bedspread was frayed. I yanked off the coverlet, clicked off the light, and literally fell into bed. The springs screeched in protest. I willed myself to sleep; before that could happen, however, someone rapped briskly on my door. I assumed it was Susan with my sandwich.
“Come in,” I murmured, much too tired to get up.
“Door’s locked,” a man responded.
The deep voice sent me into an upright position.
“Who’s there?”
“Perry Stiles, Mrs. Mattimoe. I’m chairman of the Midwest Afghan Hound Specialty. Just checking on you. I trust you’re doing fine?”
“Well, I’m not fine, but I’m… doing better than I was an hour ago.”
“Wonderful!” he enthused. “Susan will be along in a few minutes with something for you to eat. I speak for everyone here when I say that we look forward to meeting you tomorrow. Take care now!”
“Thank you,” I said uncertainly and slid back down between the sheets, my eyes shut. Before I could draw a complete breath there was another knock.
“It’s me-Susan.”
“I know, and the door is locked,” I mumbled, flinging off the covers. I found the light switch. My head still hurt.
Holding a white paper take-out bag and a tall paper cup, Susan was framed in the fading light of day. It lent a golden glow to her whole person. I, on the other hand, felt like a shadow in search of a dark hole.
“May I come in?” Susan asked.
I was dismayed. Why must she always invite herself to my place?
“I’m really not up to entertaining.”
She laughed politely. “I just need a moment with you in private.”
“I’m not feeling well,” I said.
“Oh? Perry Stiles said you were fine.”
I groaned and stepped back to let her enter. Her room must have been identical to mine. She didn’t bother to look around for a place to sit down. There wasn’t one, other than the bed. Susan went straight to it and sat on the edge, holding her goodies out for me to take. I did so and placed them on top of that “free TV” I hadn’t yet taken advantage of. Then I returned to the bed and got into it. If she was determined to impose on me, then dammit, I wanted her to see how big her imposition was.
“Perry canceled tonight’s Meet-and-Greet,” Susan began. “Out of respect for Mitchell.”
I said nothing.
“But there’s a Breeder Breakfast tomorrow at seven. We’re serving a hot buffet at the hall. You’re invited.”
“I’m not a breeder.” Not in any sense of the word.
“We’re making an exception in your case. After all, you’re here as the guest of our Breeder Education Committee.”
“Speaking of which, where’s my dog?”
“Don’t worry. I’m taking care of Abra tonight.” Susan smiled that maddeningly lovely smile of hers. “Get all the rest you need. I imagine that girl is quite a challenge for you.”
“You can’t begin to imagine,” I replied.
“The good news is that you’re going to learn some things this weekend,” Susan said.
“Will Abra learn something? That would be good news.”
“She’s learning all the time, Whiskey. You just don’t know it.”
“Well, here’s something I do know: Mitchell Slater considered you his friend. Unfortunately we only had a minute to chat about it.”
The sudden turn in conversation silenced Susan. In the low light of my tawdry room, she sat very still.
I waited a moment, then added, “He said he left his wife for you.”
“Mitchell left his wife for his own reasons.” Susan’s voice had taken on a steely tone.
“He considered you a friend,” I repeated.
“No. He considered me a trophy.” Susan rose abruptly. “See you in the morning.”
She closed the door a little harder than necessary.
Ah. I’d managed to make a hairline crack in her fine porcelain façade.
Why had Susan felt the need to speak to me in private? Surely she could have invited me to breakfast without coming in. Apparently I had short-circuited our conversation by bringing up Mitchell Slater. What was their relationship?
Why had the shooter missed the women but killed the man? Was MacArthur right that the earlier shots were a “message”? If so, was the message a warning for Slater? What a shame that he hadn’t paid attention.
Suddenly I realized something: Mitchell Slater was killed while flirting with me.
Did that make me a femme fatale?