I believed that every man could love Susan, or at least lust after her. The pretty Junior Leaguer looked like a marriage-buster to me.
If so, her enemy would be female. Yet I couldn’t imagine a wronged wife using a long-range rifle. Poisoning Susan’s coffee at the country club? Stabbing her to death in a moment of madness? Oh sure. But stalking her along a country road through a rifle’s telescopic sight? Uh-uh.
Then there was Brady’s theory about sprinkling animal fluids to cover one’s tracks. No woman would do that. At least no woman whose husband I’d contemplate stealing.
“I hate to speak ill of a fellow breeder,” said Ramona. “But I will if Susan won’t. There’s a certain member of the Afghan hound community who’s very hostile toward her.”
“About what?” Brady prompted, pencil poised above his pocket-sized spiral notebook.
Susan sighed. “We had a disagreement concerning stud service.”
“Stud service?”
“For my bitch. The breeder required a stud fee up front as opposed to the pick of the litter later,” Susan explained. “His terms guaranteed a pregnancy, or the next semen would be free.”
“Something went wrong?”
“My bitch never got pregnant. And the breeder never made it right.”
“You mean… there was no further semen?” Brady said.
“Yes. And I never got my money back.”
Brady used the eraser end of his pencil to scratch his forehead. “Then you were the wronged party. Right? Why should the guy with the stud be hostile toward you?”
Susan and Ramona exchanged knowing glances.
Thoughtfully Susan moistened her lips. “While mounting my bitch, his stud had a stroke. Poor Maximus died two days later.”
“Your dog killed another dog with sex?” I blurted. “That sounds like something Abra would do!”
My canine roommate had cuddled up to Officer Roscoe, her tousled blonde head resting coquettishly on his left front paw as her right front paw stroked his inner thigh. Roscoe quivered slightly but remained focused on the investigation-and the far wall.
“Let me get this straight,” Brady said to Susan. “Are you saying the other breeder held you responsible for killing his dog?”
“Not legally, no. But ethically and emotionally, yes, I’m afraid so. That was four years ago. Mitchell Slater still hates me.”
“And she didn’t get her money back,” Ramona reminded Brady. “Although pregnancy was guaranteed. Or the next semen was
Brady frowned. “But the dog died. How could there be more semen?”
“Mitchell had a freezerful!” Ramona said. “I think he’s still selling it. Susan should have pursued legal action, or at least a National Afghan Hound Association sanction, but she’s too kind.”
I tried not to imagine how one ended up with a freezer full of dog semen.
Writing in his notebook, Brady said, “How do you know Slater hates you, Mrs. Davies?”
“Why, by the way he behaves at events,” Ramona replied. Apparently, she had appointed herself Susan’s official spokesperson. “He gossips about her dogs and shuns her when they meet in public. The man is cruel. And very petty.”
She added, “Susan is too modest and forgiving to tell you this, so I will: She paid a five-thousand-dollar stud fee up front. You see, Maximus was an international champion. His puppies would have been worth every penny. The outcome was worse than you know. Not only did Susan fail to get puppies from the deal, but her beloved Saloma was permanently traumatized! After Maximus convulsed, the poor bitch went into shock. She has never been mounted since.”
I fought the urge to fly across the room and clap both hands over Chester’s ears. Fortunately Jeb handled the crisis.
“Hey, Chester, how about coming with me to the kitchen?” he said. “We’ll put on a pot of something.”
“Sure,” Chester said. “But this is Whiskey’s house, so it’ll have to be something instant.”
“She can’t cook, either?” Susan sounded happy again.
“Whiskey doesn’t even go to the grocery store,” Chester said. “Unless I remind her.”
Ramona clicked her tongue in clear disapproval.
Chapter Six
Susan and Ramona didn’t hang around long enough for me to demonstrate any additional infirmities. Ramona snapped photos of Abra while Susan wrote out directions to the exhibit hall in Nappanee. They departed in the bullet-marred Audi after Ramona had said good-bye to everyone but me. Brady planned to follow them to the scene of the first shooting as soon as he checked with his boss.
“Is Jenx going to involve the sheriff’s department?” I asked him.
Everyone in Magnet Springs knew that Jenx resented the way county and state law enforcement sniggered at her department. Still, she called them in whenever a case required more police power than she could muster locally.
“Both shootings occurred within our jurisdiction,” Brady said. “We’ll reserve the right to call for back-up ‘til after I survey the first scene.”
“Maybe this time Roscoe will pick up a scent,” I said.
“I doubt it. Looks to me like we got a shooter with a careful plan. Or a baffling body odor.”
He whistled for Officer Roscoe to accompany him. I thought I saw a flash of regret in Roscoe’s brown eyes as he stepped stiffly away from Abra’s illicit touch.
“Your dog gets to his dog the same way you get to me,” Jeb whispered in my ear.
We were in the foyer, Jeb’s lean body pressed against my back, his arms locked around my waist. I hushed him and scanned for Chester.
“He’s in the kitchen with the dogs,” Jeb whispered. “I don’t know how he did it, but he found the ingredients to make mac ‘n’ cheese.”
“Incredible,” I murmured, more in response to Jeb’s ear-nuzzling than to Chester’s cooking although how anyone could create a meal in my under-stocked kitchen was a miracle.
“Sorry to interrupt.” Chester’s high-pitched voice stopped us en route to the boudoir.
“You’re not interrupting us, buddy,” Jeb said, stepping back from my body as if sprung.
“I was just wondering how many there will be for dinner this evening. Not counting the dogs.”
Jeb said he was hungry, and I admitted I was, too. As usual, I couldn’t remember eating much of anything for lunch, and I always skipped breakfast. Moments later, we were treated to a version of mac ‘n’ cheese worthy of the term “delicacy.” Chester had opened a drawer in my fridge that I’d forgotten existed; in it he’d found a couple gift packages of brie and gouda from some Christmas past. A search of my pantry had yielded evaporated milk and whole-grain pasta, surely purchased by Deely. Chester knew just what to do to make culinary magic.
“You should be a chef someday,” I remarked, giving in to the urge to lick the last smears of rich cheese from the serving spoon.
“I’d rather cook for friends and pursue a different profession,” Chester said.
“Such as what?” asked Jeb.
“I’m considering a career in canine legal defense.”
I nearly choked. “Is there such a field?”
Chester nodded vigorously, the glow from my overhead light fixture bouncing off his wire-framed glasses.
“Lucky for you, there is. You might need it if Abra gets in trouble again.”
“Don’t you mean when Abra gets in trouble again?” Jeb said.
“Abra’s a repeat offender,” Chester agreed. “The nearest canine defense attorney is in Chicago. Fortunately, he’s licensed in four states. Including Michigan.”
If Abra’s past antics predicted her future, one of these days her luck with the courts would run out. So far,
