failed to thank me. Or even look at me.
That was when I recognized the behavior pattern: Ramona was determined to ignore me. Despite being at my house, leaning on my ex-husband, drinking my scotch, and evaluating my bad dog, she didn’t think I mattered. I’m six feet tall, so ignoring me takes effort.
A series of strident yaps pierced the air. Before any of us could cover our ears, Velcro streaked into the room followed by Prince Harry the Pee Master. Abra opened one eye, then closed it and pretended to go back to sleep. I wished I could do the same.
“What on earth?” asked Ramona. Her subtly highlighted blonde head followed the canine action as it circled the library.
“Are those your dogs, too, Whiskey?” Susan sounded so hopeful that I hated to disappoint her.
“Well, they were, for a while. But now they’re Chester’s.”
“Designer dogs!” Ramona hissed the term as if it were the equivalent of “rabid.”
“Well, one was by design,” I said, referring to Velcro. “The other was a complete accident.”
“A shih-poo and a Golden-Af, am I right?” asked Susan.
I nodded. “Although I call them the shitzapoo and the bastard.”
“Appalling,” Ramona said. “The trend toward designer crossbreeds dilutes the value of our purebreds and diminishes our breeding program.”
“But here it’s a good thing,” Jeb said.
Everyone stared at him.
“It builds your ‘how not to’ case against Whiskey. For the dog show.”
“So true!” Susan exclaimed. “She doesn’t properly groom, train, or feed the dog. And she breeds indiscriminately.”
In fact, Leo had tried to breed Abra with an Afghan hound champion in Chicago. But Abra didn’t like him. Before Leo could find another stud for her, my dear husband died, and Abra eloped with Norman, the first good-looking Golden she saw. Prince Harry was the result.
Too tired to explain all that, I merely said, “I never intended to breed.”
“And yet you did,” said Susan.
“Abra’s spayed. Now,” I said.
“The woman is irresponsible!” Ramona declared as she sipped my top-shelf whiskey. Susan nodded her agreement.
I said, “I thought this was about ‘Bad Abra.’”
“There’s no such thing as a bad dog,” Susan said. “Only a bad owner.”
“As I’ve always said,” Ramona intoned, “this is not a breed for those with low self-esteem. See what happens when an Afghan hound lives with a loser.”
“Hey!” I cried.
Jeb stopped me before I could demonstrate what remained of the speed and strength I’d honed playing high school volleyball.
This gal still knows how to spike.
Chapter Five
It’s not that Jeb was reluctant to defend my honor. It’s just that I had a quick temper and generally took the shortest route to defending it myself. This time, though, the doorbell rang before either Jeb or I could respond to snooty Ramona.
The Magnet Springs police had arrived. Canine officer Roscoe, as dignified a German shepherd as you’ll ever see, stood at attention next to human officer Brady Swancott. The human held a notebook.
“Come on in,” I said. “Susan Davies can answer your questions. And her co-breeder can tell you about my low self-esteem.”
“I don’t need anyone to tell me about that,” Brady said.
“Another dog!” Susan beamed when the cops entered the library. “This one appears to be in excellent condition.”
“Beautifully bred,” Ramona purred.
“Roscoe comes from a long line of police dogs,” Brady said. “He was bred for athleticism, intelligence, and obedience.”
Abra leapt down from the couch. In front of Roscoe she moaned and stretched provocatively. He kept his eyes fixed on the far wall. Undeterred, she salaciously sniffed his butt.
“She’s trying to seduce him!” Ramona remarked, her voice dripping with distaste.
“She does that to most males,” Chester piped up. He was seated in my leather club chair, cuddling both Velcro and Prince Harry. “Norman is her mate, but when he’s not around-“
“Brady,” I cut in, “why don’t the rest of us leave so that you can interview Susan and Ramona? In private?”
“Stay, Whiskey,” he said. “You need to know what’s going on. The shooter fired those last three shots from your property.” Brady pointed out the window toward the woods near my driveway. “I found shell casings along the treeline.”
When Ramona gasped, I told him, “Get ready. She likes to faint.”
“So do you.”
“I don’t do it on purpose.”
Jeb asked Brady, “Did you find any other evidence?”
Brady frowned, making himself look older than his twenty-six years. “Roscoe couldn’t follow a scent.”
“What do you mean?” Jeb said.
“Roscoe did what he does when he gets confused. He ran around in circles like there was no trail at all.”
“How can that be?” Susan interjected. “Every human leaves a scent.”
“That’s usually true,” Brady said.
“When is it not true?” demanded Ramona.
“Well, I heard about a case once where a killer confused police dogs by spraying himself and the whole area with deer urine. Wait. Or was it rabbit blood? Or maybe dog saliva?”
“You don’t know?” Ramona asked.
“I don’t pay much attention. I only work here part-time.”
“Brady studies art history online,” I explained. “And takes care of two kids at home. His wife just had a baby.”
On cue, Brady whipped out a wallet-sized photo. After we admired the human blob that was his newborn daughter, he said, “I also freelance for Peg Goh at Generation Tattoo. I do about half the tats in Magnet Springs.”
A reduced demand for gourmet coffee and fancy sandwiches had motivated our mayor to open a tattoo parlor behind her restaurant. The gimmick? Designer tats for out-of-towners although so far all of Peg’s clients had been local.
Susan cleared her throat, reminding us why Brady was in my living room.
“Somebody shot at Ramona and me,” she said. “First, when we were a few miles up the road, and then again when we got here. Do you think it’s the same person?”
“Let’s hope so,” Brady says. “Or else you have a lot of enemies.”
“What I mean is, do you think it’s possible for one person to move that fast?”
“You did. Presumably the shooter was traveling in a car, like you were.”
Brady proceeded to interview Susan and Ramona while the rest of us listened. Susan offered prompt responses until Brady broached the topic of personal enemies. That one seemed to stump her.
“Come on,” I said impatiently. “We can always tell when people don’t like us.”
“A lot of people don’t like Whiskey,” Chester said. “But she means well.”
“Everyone loves Susan,” Ramona gushed. “How could they not?”
