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 missed 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:
