every judgment had come down mostly in the dog’s favor-and hence my own. But if she ever got into deep legal doo-doo, I intended to take the Fleggers position that my dog was her own person, and she needed her own attorney. Although I’d probably have to foot the damned bill, at least I could separate myself and my business from her canine crimes.
“There are feline defense attorneys, too,” Chester said.
Jeb grinned. “I can’t picture a cat needing a lawyer.”
“That’s because you’ve never met a Devon rex,” Chester said.
I agreed, recalling the demon feline named Yoda who had terrorized Vestige six months earlier while Jeb was on tour. That cat had been caught in Fleggers’ wide-scale neutering net and then sent-through a bureaucratic snafu-to a holding center at my house. The big-eared, curly-haired creature had seemed to fly.
“Whatever happened to Yoda?” I asked Chester.
“Faye Raffle adopted him.”
Chester was referring to my former office intern, the most promising future sales agent I’d ever met. Faye had decided to go off to college now and pursue a real estate career later. With the economy the way it was, who could blame her?
“It’s good to know Yoda’s gone from Magnet Springs,” I sighed.
“I doubt Faye took him with her when she went away to school,” Chester said. “Yoda’s probably here with her parents.”
I reminded him that Faye’s parents were newspaper correspondents who traveled at least half the time. They were hardly the type to adopt a cat, let alone one as demanding as Yoda.
Chester said, “I’ll send out a few inquiries.”
“Please don’t,” I said. “If that cat is still in town, I’d rather not know about it.”
After dinner, Jeb and I offered to load the dishwasher. Chester had already done more than his share of domestic duties, especially since he was the guest. Then he reminded me why he was here: he had lost his key and nobody answered the door at his house. That sounded like a fair excuse for him to spend the night. And for Jeb to go home. As excited as I had been by Jeb’s ear nibbles an hour earlier, I knew I should sleep alone. I desperately needed some perspective on our relationship. If we never spent time apart, how could I tell whether we were good together?
At around 7:30 Brady phoned to report that he’d found nothing in the vicinity of the first shooting. Not even shell casings.
“I couldn’t tell where the shooter was standing,” he admitted. “The target was a moving car, and I don’t know how to calculate that stuff.”
“I thought Jenx sent you to a seminar on bullet trajectory,” I said.
“That was the plan,” Brady said, “then my son got the mumps, and I had to stay home.”
“Can’t Jenx figure bullet trajectories?”
“Nope. She got a D in trig. She said you did, too.”
“True. But I became a Realtor. To do my job, all I need is a pocket calculator.”
I suggested that it was time to call in the county sheriff, whether Jenx wanted to or not. Brady disagreed.
“All Susan needs for her insurance claim is a police report, and I provided that. Unless something else happens, we’re putting this one to bed.”
Speaking of bed, Jeb reluctantly went home around nine, promising to dream about me all night long. And to drive me to work in the morning.
Chester would sleep in the guest room with Prince Harry and Velcro. Knowing their “issues,” I insisted that he take the dogs out twice before bedtime. Then he fetched a step-stool from my garage to place next to the bed. Prince Harry needed no assistance; however, the stool solved Velcro’s separation anxiety and protected his fragile joints from the necessity to jump.
Abra may have been a recidivist felon, but she was far easier on the nerves than that teacup dog. I didn’t even mind giving her a bedroom all her own. If I wasn’t going to sleep with a man, I certainly didn’t want to share my sheets with a big shaggy dog.
The dark house was profoundly silent, save the squeaks from my mattress as I tossed and turned. For the first time in months, I found myself battling insomnia. And losing. The more I rearranged myself in my king-sized bed, the more I realized that I missed having Jeb in it. Was this proof that I needed him in my life? Should we live together full-time?
I finally surrendered my determination not to check my bedside clock and gazed in horror at the blue digits screaming 3:44. Had I slept at all? Maybe warm milk would help. If I had any. In a few hours I was due at work, where nothing much would be happening. Then Abra the Bad Example and I were off for a full weekend of Afghans and Amish.
While nuking a mug of the evaporated milk leftover from Chester’s gourmet mac ‘n’ cheese, I felt a presence behind me. Whirling around-which is easy in cotton socks on a tile floor-I confronted Chester, wrapped in the hugely oversized white bathrobe I kept in the guest room.
“Why aren’t you in bed?” I demanded. And then I remembered what really mattered. “Where’s Velcro?”
I simultaneously scanned the floor for stray poop and steeled my nerves for a strident chorus of yips.
Chester silenced me with a finger to his lips. “Velcro’s sound asleep, which isn’t easy when you’re up banging around.”
“You’re up, too,” I whispered back.
“Yes, but I know how to move with stealth.” He flourished a sheaf of computer printouts. “I had a dream about the dog show you’re going to. So I checked it out online.”
“A dream? Please don’t tell me you’re psychic,” I said. “This town doesn’t need one more person with telepathy.”
“Not a psychic dream. A regular dream. Then I woke up and Googled Mitchell Slater.”
“Who?”
By now I was sitting at the kitchen table, slurping my hot evaporated milk. It tasted smooth enough to knock me right out.
Chester said, “The breeder whose stud had a stroke while mounting Susan’s bitch!”
That snapped me wide awake. “What about him?”
“He might be the shooter, and he’s coming to Amish Country.”
Chester pulled out a chair, sat down across from me, and spread his pages on the table so that I could read them. They outlined the schedule of events at the Midwest Afghan Hound Specialty. Using a highlighter, Chester had marked Mitchell Slater’s name wherever it appeared. Apparently the man headed several committees.
“He’ll be in Nappanee, Whiskey.”
“So?”
To make his point without shouting, Chester stood on his chair. “Slater might be the shooter! If he is, Susan could wind up dead!”
“His stud died four years ago,” I said. “If he’d wanted to kill Susan, I think he would have done it by now. We have no proof he’s the one who fired those shots!”
“If he’s not the shooter, then Susan has a bigger problem,” Chester said darkly. “An enemy she doesn’t know.”
“Or won’t admit she knows,” I said.
“She needs a bodyguard,” Chester declared, “and so do you if you plan to be near her.”
“I’ll be with Abra. She scares the crap out of people.”
“Only people who don’t know Afghan hounds,” Chester said.
I understood his point. People who didn’t know the breed didn’t know how to handle Abra’s speed and springiness. She had disarmed more than one would-be assailant. But we were headed for an event where people knew all about Afghan hounds.
“If Susan doesn’t hire MacArthur this weekend, then you should,” Chester said.
“He’s your driver,” I said. “Isn’t he supposed to drive you places?”
“This weekend I can ride my bike. Besides, Velcro and Prince Harry need a workout.”
