Dr. David and Deely had something going on that Jeb and I didn’t: a damned good time. Although they officially opposed almost everything happening at the Barnyard Inn, they did so with joy and affection. I saw them exchange cutely covert kisses before rejoining their Flegger ranks. Jeb and I hadn’t touched since he’d landed.
Just in case the chill between us was even remotely my fault, I decided to melt it. I reached for Jeb’s hand as we approached the exhibit hall main entrance. Unfortunately, at the very second I would have made skin-on-skin contact, the double glass doors flew open and out dashed a red-faced Chester, swinging the plastic cat carrier. I couldn’t help but notice that its grated gate was flapping wide open. And Chester was flanked by two bounding hounds.
“Whoa, buddy!” Jeb said, positioning himself to catch my small neighbor.
There’s no way to catch flying Afghan hounds. But I did track which way they went. Straight into the cornfield.
“What’s going on?” I said.
“Yoda-I mean Boomgarden!” Chester panted. “When Perry Stiles took him out of the carrier to verify his identity, Boomgarden got startled by a hound! He clawed Perry, who dropped him on the dog’s head. The dog reared up and bolted around the arena like a wild horse. Every Afghan hound that wasn’t secured joined in. There are at least five dogs running loose inside. And two more outside!”
He’d no sooner spoken than the Two L’s burst out of the arena dangling dog-less leashes and looking angrier than any bluebloods I’d ever seen.
“They went that-away!” I said, pointing helpfully toward the cornfield.
They bounded off without bothering to say thanks. I wondered how the hell they thought they could catch hounds inside those tall walls.
“The place has gone crazy,” Chester said, glancing back at the arena.
“Courtesy of Yoda,” I said. “Before that cat arrived, every dog here was the perfect anti-Abra!”
“That is correct,” Susan Davies announced.
She had followed the Two L’s out the front door and now stood glowering at me. She was also towering over me-a feat made possible only because I was crouching next to Chester.
“Whiskey, the time has come for me, as Chair of the Breeder Education Committee, to invite you to leave.”
When I straightened to my full height, I saw that Susan had brought reinforcements. Behind her, melodramatically leaning on what appeared to be an ivory cane but was probably a plastic theatrical prop, stood Ramona.
“You’ve been more than accommodating in providing us with bad examples,” Ramona said. “In fact, you’ve managed to inspire utter chaos. Please leave immediately. And take your trouble-making little friend with you.”
Melodramatically, she pointed her cane at Chester.
“Thank you so much,” I said, “for finally acknowledging my existence! Because now- Chester, please cover your ears-you’ve made it possible for me to say what I’ve wanted to say since the moment we met: Fuck off!”
Before Ramona or Susan could respond, MacArthur emerged from the arena with four wild-eyed Afghan hounds on leashes.
“I’m pleased to return your dogs,” he thundered. “Ramona, kindly take Laughing Moon’s Son of Flavio and Ego Narcissus. Susan, here are your bitches, Debbani’s Whiter Shade of Pale and Taji Crystal Chandelier. They sorely lack training with felines. May I suggest that next year your own hounds should be your Bad Examples.“
MacArthur loomed ominously large. The only reason I didn’t tremble was that he was on my side. Ramona and Susan flinched as they accepted their AWOL Afghans. We watched them retreat stiffly toward the Barnyard Inn.
Then Chester leapt up and high-fived the cleaner. I joined in.
“Good news,” MacArthur announced. “Perry Stiles convinced Boomgarden to come down from the display curtain. They’re making nice with each other now.”
To Jeb he said, “We can review our strategy options over a cuppa. You can eat if you want. Stay away from the burgers, though.”
I cleared my throat. “Um, what about my strategy? After all, Abra is my Bad Example.”
Annoyance flickered in the cleaner’s eyes, but he recovered quickly.
“Of course, Whiskey! We’ll come up with something you can handle while Jeb and I track the killer.”
“I thought Jeb was here to help me pretend to be looking for Abra.”
Because that sounded awful, and Chester was listening, I added, “During those rare moments when I’m not looking for her by myself. High and low.”
“Indeed,” MacArthur agreed amiably. “We’ll begin by reviewing our strategies, starting with my own wee list.”
From the hip pocket of his jeans, MacArthur withdrew a piece of yellow paper folded to the size of a postage stamp. He opened it deliberately, coughed softly, and read, “Power.”
After a beat I said, “What?”
Chester frantically waved his right hand, an “A” student competing for the teacher’s attention. When MacArthur called on him, he said, “When we know who caused the power outage, we’ll be close to knowing who killed Matt the handler and took Silverado the dog!”
“Excellent!” MacArthur declared.
“That’s not fair,” I said. “Chester wasn’t even here when it happened. He got that answer from somebody inside!”
The eight-year-old adjusted his deputy badge and stood as tall as possible. “Whoever perpetrated this double crime is somebody close to the victims. Somebody participating in the show.”
“You always hurt the ones you love,” Jeb chimed in, gazing at me.
“Or hate,” I said.
We were about to adjourn to the concession area for the remainder of our strategy session when we heard what sounded like cries of frustration and calls for help. Female voices were coming from the cornfield. MacArthur, followed by Jeb and Chester, sprinted toward the wall of stalks.
“It’s only the Two L’s!” I reminded them, implying that the lost souls weren’t worthy of rescue.
“Keep shouting! We’ll talk you in!” MacArthur informed the stranded handlers.
“I’m over here!” Lauren or Lindsey cried out.
“And I’m here! Right here!” the other L shouted.
A dog or two barked, also. The women had found their hounds but lost each other, as well as their way back. MacArthur, Jeb and Chester enthusiastically called them in as I leaned against the building and observed. It made for a fascinating study in male ego-fluffing. Even one as young as Chester swelled with importance and pride at the prospect of rescuing damsels in distress.
I reflected on my own brushes with danger and wanted to call out to the Two L’s that I’d stared down the barrel of a gun. They were scared of corn rows! Proof that upper-class chicks are wimps.
When the Two L’s emerged from the field, their ash blonde hair and dark suits were dusted with yellow-brown flakes and tendrils. So were their hounds.
“It’s a jungle in there!” Lauren said.
Ever the job-conscious handler, she whipped out a pin brush and immediately set to work on her bitch. Lindsey did likewise. The guys waited for acknowledgment of their manly achievement. As if being loud and obnoxious wasn’t something boys enjoyed, anyway. But the Two L’s were too refined to thank the little people, and I’m not referring only to Chester.
Seeing the handlers expertly wield those brushes brought a question to mind.
“Excuse me,” I said, approaching Lindsey. “I’m wondering if you can tell me which is more common: for one of those pin bristles to stick in a hound’s coat after grooming or to the groomer’s own clothes?”
“No professional would leave debris in her hound’s coat. Nor would she fail to brush off her own clothing before entering the ring.”
“Of course,” I said, backpedaling. “But how about someone who wasn’t a professional. Could they make a mistake like that?”
“Kori Davies does it all the time,” Lauren sniped. “She’s a loser.”
“She won her round this morning,” I pointed out.
“Even a broken clock is right twice a day,” said Lindsey.
Both handlers turned their attention back to their hounds. I could tell that the guys and I had blinked out of their consciousness like stars in the dawn sky. But MacArthur’s somber face told me he got the point: If the pin brush bristle he’d found by the side door was a clue at all, it wouldn’t lead us to a canine professional. More like a hired gun. Or Kori.