Nina Wright - Whiskey Mattimoe 07 - Whiskey, Large

by Nina Wright

  I used to scoff at the concept of pet-psychic counseling, or psychic anything for that matter, until I saw what it could do to promote a harmonious household. Before counseling, Sandra and Abra couldn’t share a space without trying to tear each other apart. Specifically, Sandra would charge at Abra, or vice versa, and Abra would eat Sandra’s accessories. Not that anyone would blame her for that.

  “Who would want to shoot you, I wonder,” Mom mused aloud as she, Jeb, and I ushered Anouk into the house ahead of our other guests. “Do you think you offended somebody with one of your twerps?”

  “Tweets,” I corrected her.

  “Non,” Anouk said firmly. “I tweet only the truth, and my tweeps respect me for that.”

  “Are you sure?” Mom asked. “I’ve never had tweets or tweeps, but I do know that people can misinterpret things. I would think that could happen even with hash tags.”

  “Not my tweets. Mine are a model of clarity and concision.”

  “What she said,” Avery confirmed.

  My ex-step appeared to be tweeting at that very moment, or maybe she was texting. My head hurt.

  “I agree with Irene and Whiskey,” MacArthur offered. “I’ve found that folks often get the wrong idea, which is where my work begins.”

  “You mean your work as a cleaner?” I asked. It didn’t seem likely he was talking about selling real estate although there’s ample room for error in that biz.

  The Scot nodded. “Fixing other people’s mistakes is big business.”

  Everyone assembled made some sign of agreement. We all understood that Cassina kept MacArthur busy. The celebrity, her partner, and her entourage were widely known to abuse substances as well as opportunities.

  “And you’re a good chauffeur!” Chester piped up.

  When MacArthur leaned down to ruffle the nine-and-a-half-year-old’s blonde hair, the smile that lit Chester’s face almost broke my heart. I hadn’t realized how much he’d missed the big guy. Although Chester deeply loved his dogs, he needed a human hero.

  “Today’s shooting was probably just a drive-by,” Mom said by way of closing that topic.

  Watching her serve what remained of Chester’s birthday cake, I couldn’t help but admire her skills. Between Abra’s larceny and the arrival of three unexpected guests, our available dessert had been reduced to paper-thin slices. However, Mom made them all symmetrical, and the cake tasted divine. Jeb opened the bar to every guest, not just Anouk, and most chose to partake. The strains of the afternoon, compounded by the paucity of cake, certainly called for cocktails. Like good moms-to-be, Deely and I made do with lemonade.

  “Of course, we’re always happy to see you and Napoleon,” I lied to Anouk, “but may I ask why you dropped by?”

  “We were out running errands when I picked up a strong vibe that someone at your house needed me.”

  “That’s exactly what happened,” Noonan confirmed. “Chester said he needed a pet-oriented person to run his animal rescue center, then I got a vibe that someone was responding, and then you rang the bell.”

  And then you got shot, I thought, but there was no way I was bringing that up again, just in case she was thinking about suing me. Or tweeting more trash about me.

  Anouk regarded the birthday boy. “I would very much like to discuss the animal rescue center with you, but not today.”

  “No worries,” Chester said brightly. I was happy to see that Mom had cut him a full slice of cake.

  “Let’s talk about Whiskey’s issues,” Avery said. “Whose house exploded?”

  “I’m not at liberty to say,” I replied, “pending notification of next-of-kin.”

  Avery checked her phone. “UberSpringer says it’s the Mullen family.”

  “Todd and Lisa,” Noonan added, reading from her device.

  Anouk set down her wine and resumed tweeting.

  “For crying out loud,” I fumed. “This is Chester’s birthday party! Can we focus on him for a minute instead of Twitter?”

  “I was checking UberSpringer’s blog,” Avery said.

  “He has a blog, too?”

  “We all have blogs,” Noonan said.

  “Mine’s called ‘Boy Loves Dogs,’” Chester said.

  Just then my old-fashioned landline jangled. Fortunately, the phone was within arm’s reach, so I snatched it without assistance. As I’d suspected, Jenx was calling.

  “Whiskey, you need to get your ass over here,” our police chief said.

  “I think you mean my big ass, and I can’t do that. I’m about to pop out my first and only kid, and my husband won’t let me play deputy.”

  “Here’s the thing,” Jenx said. “We got a body here with no I.D.”

  “How is that my problem?”

  “Odds are it’s your dead client, and we need you to identify him.”

  “Why can’t his wife identify him?”

  As soon as I asked, I knew the answer, but I let Jenx tell me anyhow.

  “Because she’s dead, too, assuming the other body’s hers. Maybe you can identify that one while you’re at it, but it’ll be harder. She’s burned bad.”

  When I tried to swallow, my throat wasn’t working. Neither was my voice.

  “Put Jeb on the phone,” the chief ordered. “Let me tell him what’s up and why we need you.”

  Before I could do that, my husband removed the receiver from my hand. I expected him to either hang up or remind Jenx that I was on maternity leave. Neither happened. Jeb listened to Jenx for what seemed like a long time.

  Finally, he told her, “Let me get back to you.”

  He replaced the receiver and dropped to his knees next to me.

  “Hey,” he whispered.

  “Hey back,” I said.

  We both chose to pretend we were home alone instead of surrounded by eavesdropping friends. And Avery.

  “Do you want to help Jenx?” Jeb asked softly.

  “How much does she need me?”

  “A lot. They can’t locate next-of-kin for the Mullens, and no neighbors or colleagues are available. They could wait for the dental records, but it would speed the investigation if they knew who was dead.”

  I nodded.

  Jeb lowered his voice, “It’s going to be gross. I’m not sure you should do this in your condition.”

  “Whiskey pukes and faints even when she’s not pregnant,” Avery remarked.

  Everybody nodded.

  Jeb leaned in close. “I love you, babe, and I love our baby. I don’t want to expose either of you to shock or stress.”

  “Too late for that,” I said, recalling the misadventures of my pregnancy so far, which included discovering a dead body and getting shot in the gut with an arrow.

  Jeb kissed my forehead and my very round tummy.

  “You’re the two toughest folks I know, and one of you hasn’t even been born.”

  I kissed him back. “Let’s go help Jenx.”

  6

  When I asked Chester to excuse us early from his party, he wanted to do deputy duty, too. However, this was no assignment for a minor, so we passed along Chief Jenkins’ message ordering him to spend more time with his guests. He could assist the Magnet Springs police force after school tomorrow when he stopped by the station to retrieve his gift.

  “We’re leaving just in time,” I told Jeb as we slipped out the back door. “Mom is about to start the party games, and Pin-the-Tail-on-the-Donkey is the first event.”

  I saw my large self naturally attracting blindfolded Avery as she wielded a thumbtack and a bad attitude. Jeb was backing my SUV out of the garage when something smacked the moon roof. I shrieked. He slammed the brake.

  “Sorry to startle you,” said a Sean Connery-type voice.

  MacArthur stood stock still on the driver’s side of the vehicle. He must have slapped the glass.

  Jeb lowered his window. “What’s up?”

  The Cleaner peered past Jeb to focus on me.

  “I was wondering if Whiskey wants some back-up.
”

  “What kind of back-up?” Jeb said.

  “As a licensed real estate agent with additional skill sets, I might be of assistance.”

  Jeb turned an expressionless face to me. I knew he didn’t like this offer one bit, but I believed MacArthur might prove helpful, so I appealed to my husband.

  “You know, I might need him to evaluate the condition of the property while I talk with Jenx.”

  “What do you think I’ll be doing?” Jeb said.

  “You’ll be keeping my hair out of my face as I puke.”

  “Your hair’s too short to be a problem.”

  “My hair’s nothing but a problem.”

  That much was true. My dark mass of ringlets had broken many a comb.

  “Get in,” Jeb told MacArthur.

  After our passenger was settled, I expressed surprise that Avery didn’t object to his joining us.

  “She’s playing one of your mother’s party games,” MacArthur said.

  I peered at him over my shoulder. “Avery didn’t see you leave because she’s blindfolded, right?”

  “Right.”

  With that he turned off his phone.

  Nobody spoke during the drive to my incinerated listing. I closed my eyes and practiced Lamaze breathing. Who knew it could be so relaxing?

  Tapping the steering wheel, Jeb marked the beat of a song only he could hear. Even with MacArthur in the car, I realized that my musician husband was macho enough for me. Lots of folks turned to Jeb in times of trouble. He was a calm oasis in any storm and a strong, kind man. Now he was no doubt thinking about me and our unborn child. Or was he wishing we’d brought Sandra?

  We were a mile from our destination, the sun fading fast behind trees going April green, when a sulfuric odor assaulted us. Checking the car windows, we found them sealed. Soon the air turned sooty, and the stink intensified.

  “Propane,” MacArthur commented.

  “I thought propane was odorless,” I said.

  “They add a rotten-egg smell to it for safety reasons,” Jeb said.

  Jenx phoned to check our progress. Via my car’s wireless technology, we all heard the chief tersely offer one piece of good news. Nobody besides the Mullens had been hurt.

  Swan Lane was in the Misty Ponds subdivision, southeast of Magnet Springs. It comprised a private eighteen-hole golf course and twenty McMansions built circa 1998 for almost a million bucks each. Then along came a financial bust, foreclosures and inevitable short sales. Fast-forward to 2014 when a few lucky folks could find financing again, but the asking prices in Misty Ponds remained closer to half a million than a whole.

  The Mullens, Todd and Lisa, were in the car business. Todd owned a Ford dealership, and Lisa spent his money. In their late 40s, they glowed with good health and privilege. When we’d met two days earlier, Todd discussed the rebounding American auto industry with the optimism of Henry Ford. He’d had sales training. Although Todd’s brown hair was thin, he boasted a body so firm it could have belonged to a twenty-something. Lisa, a delicate brunette, wore an auburn-streaked geometric ’do cut to showcase amazing cheekbones. She flashed eyes so green that the color had to come from tinted lenses. Unlike her husband, Lisa wasn’t inclined to smile or speak. When she did open her mouth, I spotted flawless teeth as bright as new snow. Todd’s were similarly white and straight. Deep dimples bookended his grin.

  I couldn’t imagine them dead, and I didn’t know how I would force myself to view their burned corpses.

  The charred ruin at 318 Swan Lane looked nothing like the home I’d listed for sale yesterday. Correction: It looked nothing like a home. Though a section of it still stood, the shattered windows and blackened bricks were attached to a steaming hulk that resembled a pile of burnt bones, chewed by flames and soaked from fire hoses. The curving faux brick driveway held two twisted car skeletons buried under soot and chunky debris.

  Surrounding homes had some visible damage, remarkably less than I had dared to hope. A couple cars were toast, as was one garage, and I spotted roofing, doors and siding that would require replacement. I gave silent thanks that my clients’ home backed up against a field, significantly limiting the scope of destruction. Still there would be sizable insurance claims throughout the subdivision. Smoke damage alone was costly and extremely inconvenient.

  Onlookers stood on the sidewalks and clogged the street. The sheriff’s department was managing crowd control, and the gawkers appeared compliant. Although vehicles belonging to two local fire departments remained in place, the brave men and women who operated them were in the process of packing up. I counted five police patrol cars—one from Magnet Springs, three from Lanagan County, and one belonging to the state of Michigan. When Jeb opened my car door, I pointed to the only hopeful sign in sight.

  “Two ambulances! Maybe the Mullens aren’t dead.”

  “They’re dead, babe. Nobody’s going anywhere in a hurry.”

  He grasped my hands in both of his, prepared to hoist me out.

  “I don’t think I can do this,” I whispered.

  “You can, but you don’t have to. I won’t make you do it, and neither will Jenx.”

  “Tally-ho, Whiskey!” MacArthur prompted. He stood behind Jeb, beckoning to me over my husband’s shoulder. Jeb’s grip tightened on my fingers.

  “I got this, Mac,” he said. “Go take some real-estate notes.”

  “Right,” the Scot said and ambled away.

  To me Jeb said, “Just say the word, and I’ll tell Jenx you’re too sick from the fumes.”

  In truth, I was growing used to the fumes. I had expected to gag when the car door opened, but the smell seemed less nauseating now than it had moments earlier. Oh, it was still awful, but I no longer believed I would barf from odor alone.

  “Yo, Whiskey!”

  Jenx’s familiar greeting wafted across the foul air. She left a clump of officers and approached me.

  “Damn State boys,” she cursed. “They wanna take charge of everything, only I’m not ready to let ’em. Last I checked, this is still my jurisdiction.”

  “What about County?” Jeb said.

  “They’re here for crowd control. I could handle that, but nobody wants it done my way.”

  Jenx was referring to her legendary geomagnetic mojo, channeled in moments of rage or other heated emotions. She had been known to arc power lines and drop grown men in their tracks. Most people emerged unscathed, but they had a hard time talking about it.

  “Whiskey’s not doing well,” Jeb explained on my behalf. “The stench alone is turning her inside out.”

  “I don’t see any puke,” the chief observed.

  “No puke yet,” Jeb said, “but this can’t be good for her or the baby.”

  “Vitamins and naps are good for ’em,” Jenx said. “That doesn’t mean this is bad for ’em.”

  “Define ‘bad,’” I said.

  “How about we cut the crap and give this a shot?” Jenx said. “Either you’ll be able to I.D. Todd Mullen, or you won’t.”

  “What about his wife? Don’t you need me to I.D. her, too?”

  “One thing at a time. Life’s easier that way.”

  Jenx turned out to be right. After Jeb hauled me out of the car, I didn’t worry where the chief was leading us. I simply put one swollen foot in front of the other and kept my head down. Concentrating on my steps proved helpful. As I scuffed along, thick black ash stained my pregnancy slippers. That was a good thing. Now I had an excuse to pitch those ugly shoes.

  Suddenly Jenx stopped walking, and I cast her a sideways glance. An EMT rolled a gurney toward us. Uh-oh. Body bag time.

  “Just so you know,” Jenx said, “neither body has a wallet. Maybe they got burned in the house. Maybe they’re in the toasted vehicles. Maybe they’re someplace else.”

  I swayed.

  “Keep breathing,” she said. “You don’t have to stare, but you do need to get a good look. Ready?”

  Jeb’s arm tightened around the place where I
used to have a waist. I inhaled, and the EMT unzipped the black rubber shroud to reveal a man’s face, smudged and reddened but not badly burned. A shock wave of recognition rocked me hard, and Jeb steadied me.

  Todd Mullen wasn’t dead. Another man was. A man I knew far better.

  7

  “Hamp Glancy,” I said.

  “What?” Jeb and Jenx asked.

  “That…that’s Hamp Glancy. Hampton Glancy. He’s a real estate broker in Sugar Grove. I mean, he used to be.”

  “You sure that’s him?” Jenx said. “People can look different dead.”

  “That’s Hamp. I’ve known him my whole career. He and Leo were pals.”

  “When did you last see him?”

  “A few weeks ago. We sat across from each other at the quarterly West Michigan Realtors luncheon.”

  Jenx motioned for the EMT to zip up the body bag and roll it away. Jeb handed me a bottle of water and urged me to drink.

  Opening her pocket-sized spiral notebook, the chief told me to spell Hamp’s full name.

  “Any idea what he’d be doing here?” Jenx said.

  “None. Unless he was showing the property, but in that case I should have been told.”

  “You’re on maternity leave,” my husband reminded me. “Your receptionist handles that.”

  I nodded even though I wasn’t quite tracking the conversation.

  “Hamp was a nice guy. A terrific real estate agent, one of the best. He and Odette competed with each other all the time. She usually won, but it was always close.”

  My best agent, Odette Mutombo, was a steely sales wiz with a Tongo accent and the best fashion sense in the county. I could picture Hamp laughing with her, challenging her to beat his awesome sales.

  “Would Odette know if Glancy was showing this house?” Jenx said.

  She had to repeat the question because I was lost in memories of my last moments with Hamp. At the recent luncheon, he had voiced a theory about the future of waterfront properties. He thought that recent droughts would create new ones.