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 facade.
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?
Chapter Thirteen
As soon as Susan left, I crawled to the end of my lumpy bed and reached for the food parked on top of the TV. Hoping to distract myself while I ate, I searched for the remote control. There was none. Apparently the TV was free, but the remote was extra. So was cable. I was able to bring in a total of four channels, none of them worth watching. But that had never stopped me before. I did my best to turn my two skinny pillows into a bolster, and I unwrapped my sandwich.
It was a lukewarm overcooked burger with everything on it except cheese, bacon, and mushrooms. Unfortunately, cheese, bacon, and mushrooms are the only things I like on my burger. So I picked off the wilted lettuce, tomato, onion, and pickles; used a napkin to wipe the condiments from the bun; and scarfed the whole thing down while watching five minutes of a sleep-inducing PBS documentary. At least my Coke tasted good. With the TV still on, I dozed off.
I awoke barely in time to make it to the toilet before I heaved. And kept heaving for what seemed like an hour. This was one meal I couldn’t blame on Chester.
Either my insides were seriously on the blink, or Susan had brought me a bad burger. I did my best to convince myself that she hadn’t made me sick on purpose. Provided I was well enough to get to the dog show in the morning, I would inquire as to whether anyone else who’d eaten food from the concession stand got sick.
Shakily I dragged myself back to bed, grateful I had a little Coke and ice left to sip. I jumped when my cell phone rang. What time was it? Barely midnight. Still early for most folks on a Friday night. Folks having fun, that is.
Jenx said, “No need to let your chief of police know you were nearly killed. MacArthur gave me a call.”
In the pandemonium following Slater’s murder, I’d completely forgotten about Jenx. And MacArthur; I hadn’t seen him anywhere.
“He must be keeping a low profile,” I said. “More like a spy than a bodyguard.”
“Whatever,” Jenx said. “He knows what’s going on.”
“Yeah, but is he trying to keep me alive?”
“You’re still ticking, aren’t you?”
Jenx wanted to hear from me what had happened. After I’d told her everything, including the fact that Susan’s meal had made me sick, she said, “You’ve had a pretty shitty day.”
“Can I go home now?” I asked, hoping an authority figure would give me permission.
“You made a commitment to show your dog,” Jenx said. “After you do that, you can go home.”
“Abra is no show dog,” I muttered.
“No shit,” Jenx said. “Unless you mean ‘Worst in Show.’”
She pointed out that I had additional reasons to be there, like schmoozing Susan.
