At that very convenient moment, Odette called back. Since I didn’t want Tina to hear my concerns about Liam Davies, I raced to my office and closed the door.
“I may have found a buyer for our listing in Pasco Point,” Odette began.
“Someone with solid financing?” I asked.
“Someone with cash! The rich are still rich, Whiskey. You just have to know how to find them. Fortunately, I do.”
“And I’m overwhelmed with gratitude,” I said. Then I told her what Jenx had told me about Liam Davies.
Odette made her dismissive raspberry sound.
“I take it you know something Jenx doesn’t?” I asked.
“Can crows fly?! What did I just say about the rich? They stay that way, even when they blow their money. That’s the difference between us and them: they can always get more. Don’t worry about Davies’ development, Whiskey. It’s going to happen. Ask me how I know.”
“Okay… How do you know?”
“I’m the agent of record, am I not? I sell real estate, I don’t just list it!”
“Of course you do! And your broker appreciates that.”
My office door creaked. Tina hovered in the hallway, peering inside. Apparently the door hadn’t latched. Either that or she had opened it partway. I had no idea how much she’d overheard, but I knew I didn’t want to explain any of it. Thinking fast, I called out, “Tina, I’m glad you’re there! Come in, please.”
She did.
“When MacArthur called earlier, you didn’t give me his name. You just put the call through. May I ask why?”
Tina clutched her back as if mere mention of the handsome Scot gave her a spasm. And not the good kind.
“You didn’t ask who it was,” she whined.
“You always tell me,” I countered.
Perspiration glistened on Tina’s frowning forehead.
“I never know what to say when he calls. I mean, I know he works here part-time, but… is he a good guy, or is he a… cleaner?” She lowered her voice. “You don’t know this about me, Whiskey, but before I was married, I used to read true-crime novels. I know what a cleaner does!”
“MacArthur is a bodyguard. And a driver,” I said.
Tina shook her head and limped back to the lobby. My stomach was killing me. Although Chester’s waffles may have started my indigestion, I blamed my office manager for most of the discomfort I felt now. Her melodrama had kicked my gastric juices into overdrive. I slipped out the back way.
Crossing the street to the Goh Cup, I dialed Jeb.
“Do you have indigestion, too?”
“I feel great,” he said.
“How many waffles did you eat?” I said.
“Three. Same as you.”
“I had two,” I informed him. “Then I had a Tina Breen chaser.”
I hung up before I belched. Arriving at the Goh Cup, I felt no better. My plan was to sip a soda while I listened to whatever it was MacArthur wanted to discuss. For one delicious moment I let myself imagine him begging me to get Avery out of his life. Maybe he’d even go down on his knees, as Tina had, to implore my assistance. I would resist the urge to tell him I had known from the start that Avery would only bring him trouble.
Then reality set in. What if MacArthur really was about to dump Avery? While I would welcome the twins back at Vestige, provided I could convince Deely to be their nanny again, I sure as hell wouldn’t want Avery as my roommate. She and I got along about as well as… well, we didn’t get along at all. In fact, we’d once tried to scratch each other’s eyes out. So handsome MacArthur dumping bitchy Avery could only complicate my life. And my tummy felt awful enough already.
I couldn’t have predicted what was about to happen at the Goh Cup counter. MacArthur greeted me with a view of his brand new tattoo. Yessir. His meaty upper arm featured a full-color close-up image of none other than my sour stepdaughter. The picture must have been lifted from a photo; Avery was scowling, as usual. If she wasn’t, no one would recognize her.
“How life-like,” I said. “Did Brady do that?”
“Yes. And Peg gave me a discount because I’m getting two,” MacArthur said.
“Two tattoos?” I strained to imagine Avery with any other expression.
“I’m getting a tat of the twins on my other arm,” MacArthur said.
That was big-hearted of him since Avery had never named the twins’ father, and MacArthur hadn’t known them very long. To me she had admitted having sex with a fellow student who was a “real loser” and with her professor, another loser, in the space of one drunken week. The professor had ruled out his paternity with a blood test; Avery claimed not to have known the other dude’s name. MacArthur seemed like a huge improvement over any likely sperm donor. Even if he was a cleaner.
MacArthur’s “cleaning”-as far as I knew-involved making Cassina and Rupert look like better people than they actually were. He accomplished that by doing whatever was necessary to clean up the messes they left behind.
“I’d like to volunteer my services this weekend,” he announced.
“As a Realtor? Or a driver? Nobody but Odette is doing any real estate. And Abra’s going with me to Nappanee, so you might not want to drive.”
His blue eyes twinkled, accentuating his thick black hair. What on earth was wrong with this man that he’d permanently inked Avery’s ugly mug on his flesh?
“Did Chester tell you his parents went to Brazil?” MacArthur said.
“Yes. I can’t believe they went without you. Was that wise?”
MacArthur shrugged. “What happens in Rio stays in Rio. Anyway, Avery is gone, too, this weekend. I need to feel needed, Whiskey. To keep myself sharp. So I’m volunteering to be your bodyguard.”
“But I’m not the one who got shot at.”
“Chester thinks you’re at risk by association. He asked me to protect you and the woman with the Welsh name.”
“Susan Davies? Yeah, well she comes with a co-breeder who’ll be the biggest bitch at the show.”
“I know about her, too,” said MacArthur. “What time are you and Abra leaving?”
I was about to tell him when a familiar speech impediment stopped me.
“Pweez don’t pahticipate in dog expwoitation!”
Chapter Nine
David Newquist was the best and only veterinarian in town, as well as the dogcatcher of last resort. Because I so often needed his help, I tried to be patient when he preached Fleggers philosophy. Alas, his grim manner, combined with problems pronouncing Rs and Ls, made every lecture tedious. This time I cut him short.
“How does a dog show exploit dogs?” I demanded. “Those are the most pampered pooches on the planet!”
“Exackwee,” he sighed and went on with his lesson. According to the good vet, Nature never intended the kind of breeding, grooming, and show-boating required of canine competitions.
“Then you should be proud of Abra and me,” I said. “She’s been invited to participate as a Bad Example. I think I deserve some credit for that.”
Dr. David shook his balding head as people often did when I tried to explain myself. Here’s what he said, translated into normal spelling:
“Animal-breeding systems imposed by humans make a mockery of the Natural World. Hence, any participation in sanctioned breeding programs is a crime against Nature.”
I considered that as I stifled a fresh belch, tasting Chester’s waffles yet again. Apparently my neighbor had
