Nina Wright - Whiskey Mattimoe 07 - Whiskey, Large

by Nina Wright

  Honestly, I couldn’t imagine a single reason Dani Glancy, on behalf of Hamp, would want to sue Mattimoe Realty. There had been only harmonious relations between my firm and his, but logic rarely stopped vengeance if that’s what this was. Is that what this was? Maybe Jenx had misunderstood Dani, or maybe Dani was lashing out in grief. I didn’t know the woman at all, couldn’t even recall meeting her. What I did know, though, was that I had gone briefly crazy when my own husband Leo died. However, I’d never threatened to sue anyone. Lanagan County, like most other places, had too many attorneys, and a few were always eager to take flimsy lawsuits to court.

  Before I could make myself more anxious than I already was, I picked up my phone to dial Odette, but Odette beat me to it.

  “Houston, we have a problem,” she cooed, using not only a famous film line but also my maiden name.

  “Don’t tell me. Dani Glancy?”

  “You’re good. She’s in our office right now, and she won’t leave until you come talk to her.”

  “Are lawyers involved?”

  “Not yet, or not that I know about.”

  “What does she want?”

  “Besides you? I have no clue.”

  “Well, if she won’t tell you, I can’t help her. I’m on maternity leave.”

  “Hello?” I could almost hear the air crackle on Odette’s end. “Listen closely. Dani is powerfully pissed off about Hamp’s death. You need to consult your attorney.”

  “Why would I need to do that? You just said I have no legal problems.”

  “That we know of. May I speak frankly?”

  “Don’t you always?”

  “Except when I ignore you entirely, yes. How can I say this?” Odette’s syncopated accent rang in my ears. “Advanced pregnancy has addled your brain. Do not attempt to think for yourself.”

  “Say what?”

  “Dani insists on seeing you. She’s extremely upset. Most likely, she wants to spew accusations and make demands. Call your attorney. Then follow his advice.”

  “Can you stall Dani?”

  “Probably. Everyone knows you’re obscenely huge and slow moving. I’ll tell her you require a team of personal assistants to get you dressed and launched. That will buy some time.”

  That wasn’t far from the truth.

  “Meanwhile, I’ll order in lunch,” Odette added, “and try to keep her from tweeting.”

  My ears pricked up. “Tweeting? You mean on Twitter?”

  “I don’t mean like a bird. Dani has been tweeting the news of Hamp’s tragic death to everyone in cyberspace.”

  I thought of UberSpringer and wondered if it could be Dani Glancy. Whoever trash-tweeted my company yesterday found out about the explosion before I did, perhaps via police scanner. They also knew 318 Swan Lane was my listing. Dani might have known that. I recalled Jenx speculating that Dani and Odette might be friends.

  “How well do you know the new widow?” I asked my sales star.

  “Well enough to respect her claws. The lady is a tiger.”

  I gulped. “Do you think this is a Board of Realtors issue?”

  “Possibly.”

  The Board of Realtors resolves professional conflicts and issues sanctions that can sink a biz. Although Dani was not licensed to sell real estate, she could try to make her husband’s voice heard in that official forum. But with regard to what? I couldn’t think of a single grievance Hamp Glancy might have had against me or my firm.

  Odette continued, “Dani is saving her story for you, in person. Call your lawyer now.”

  I did. Bill Noury was the kind of guy you want for a lawyer but would never choose for a friend, let alone a boyfriend. It’s not like he was an asshole exactly. It was more like he’d had a rod surgically inserted into his rear end, and the procedure had removed his humanity.

  Bill was completely humorless and professional all the time. No small talk, ever. He listened closely when I told him what I knew, then he asked me to tell him what I’d told the police about the fire.

  “I didn’t tell the police anything about the fire. They told me. The news came as a complete shock.”

  “Think, Whitney. When the police spoke with you, did you say anything that in any way implicated you or your firm?”

  “No. Wait. Are you saying that I could be a suspect? An arson suspect? Why the hell would I blow up my own listing?”

  “You wouldn’t. Listen, I’m not a criminal defense attorney. I’m simply obtaining facts so that I can best advise you. If you remember anything you might have said that could be used against you in a court of law, call me back.”

  “I didn’t—”

  “In the meantime, in the matter of Mrs. Hampton Glancy, this may be an opportunity, if handled appropriately, to defuse a civil suit. I recommend meeting very briefly with the woman today. Can you do that?”

  “Yes, but I—”

  “Optimally, as your attorney, I would accompany you to a meeting of this potential magnitude. However, I’ll be tied up in mediation all afternoon, so here’s my advice. Write this down. Are you ready?”

  He held the line, meter running. I had wandered into my first floor office and now scoured my desktop for a pen and scrap of paper.

  “Ready,” I said, poised for action.

  “Admit nothing. Offer nothing. Say almost nothing. Do not act defensive.”

  Bill Noury made me read that back. Twice.

  “Commit it to memory.”

  “Then eat the evidence?” I asked, joking.

  “Heavens no. Carry that piece of paper with you wherever you go in case you forget what it says. My considered opinion is that you will need to live by that credo.”

  “When I’m with Dani Glancy, you mean?”

  “When you’re with anyone, including and especially Chief Judy Jenkins.”

  “Jenx and I are old friends. I’m her volunteer deputy when I’m not on maternity leave.”

  “Why do you think I told you to write it down?”

  I shrugged and then remembered he couldn’t see me through the phone.

  “Why?”

  “The question was rhetorical, but since you asked, I’ll explain. Despite your business acumen, Whitney, you have a reputation in your personal life for being impulsive, obstinate and, shall we say, insufficiently discriminating.”

  “Insufficiently discriminating?”

  “In denial. Moreover, your current physical condition, though propitious, naturally predisposes you to behave more emotionally than rationally, thus making you vulnerable to accusation and inclined toward unwise action.”

  I was glad I didn’t have to write that down.

  After thanking Bill for his services, which he billed in six-minute increments, I slipped the paper containing my new credo into my bra. That way I would always know where it was. My pregnancy-enhanced, and frankly gorgeous, breasts didn’t go anywhere without support. They weren’t leaking, so my bra was still a nifty storage space. Now off to the bathroom before it was too late.

  Since my new driver wouldn’t report for duty until one o’clock, I took the time to enjoy lunch with Jeb and Mom. She served leftover sloppy joes, macaroni salad, dill pickles and pretzels—basically, yesterday’s leftover party menu, minus the cake. While we ate, I texted Helen to drive Chester’s loaner car. No way I wanted Dani Glancy, or even Odette, to see my driver use the goat prod.

  Jeb reminded me that he was about to leave for that day’s recording session in Grand Rapids.

  His current project? A 70’s-inspired soft-rock acoustic CD produced by Fleggers to soothe restless dogs and cats. Its true target market was their affluent humans, specifically aging Baby Boomers with empty nests and lots of bucks to spend on pampered pets. Jeb’s previous CD, a collection of critter-lullabies, had gone mainstream overnight, earning modest fame and fortune for my man and fattened coffers for those wacky animal-rights advocates.

  Personally, I doubted lightning could strike twice, but who was I to estimate the tastes of people ut
terly committed to pleasing their pets?

  I was pleased for Jeb that Fleggers trusted him to choose and arrange his own tunes. Given his druthers, he would have holed up in the studio all week with his back-up band. Given my precarious condition, though, he chose to drive back and forth from home every day.

  “Doing it this way keeps us fresh, babe,” he assured me, but I knew it wasn’t his preference.

  Welcome to impending parenthood. One of us lost her figure. The other had to compromise his music. My sweet man didn’t seem to mind either accommodation.

  During lunch Jeb surprised Mom with a brand new, already activated, smart phone to replace the antique flip model she’d been using since ’07. Even as Mom protested that her old phone “worked just fine,” I could see she was pleased to be part of our smart-phone family plan. No way she would ever discover, let alone learn to use, most of the phone’s features, but that was all right.

  Jeb had to head out. I waited with irritation while he bade Sandra Bullock a ridiculously long and affectionate good-bye. Sporting black yoga pants and a red sequined shirt, she looked even more absurd than usual.

  “Sandra’s not the one who might give birth while you’re gone,” I pointed out.

  “True,” he said, “but I didn’t get to talk to her during lunch.”

  That was a thinly veiled complaint about my new mealtime policy. Jeb used to enjoy Sandra’s company while we ate. I now forbade it. Disgusting at mealtime in the best of circumstances, her redolent farts had started triggering my gag reflex during my thirty-fourth week. Jeb sympathized with his wife and apologized to his dog when I insisted he remove her from the dining area. These days Sandra was confined to her room during human meals, except yesterday when Chester had included her on his party guest list.

  I believed that Jeb would not only accept but eventually enjoy eating without Sandra at his side. After Baby arrived, mealtime for humans would become a happy dog-free habit in our home.

  Abra might visit occasionally while we ate, but only if on a leash, and only if managed by Chester. Sandra could rejoin us for meals on the day she stopped farting. In other words, never.

  I stepped forward to kiss my husband good-bye and tripped over frantic Sandra, wriggling her ass in ecstasy because she had Jeb’s attention.

  “I can’t see my feet or anything near them,” I whined. “That dog is a hazard.”

  Then I had a brainstorm. “Take her with you!”

  “Wish I could, babe.”

  “Why can’t you? She loves to ride in the car, and she’d go to the moon with you.”

  Jeb reminded me that the recording studio had a resident cat, and he didn’t know how Sandra reacted to cats.

  “I know how you can find out.”

  He shook his head, gave me a warm kiss, and was gone.

  Sandra moaned balefully. Mom padded upstairs to continue playing with her phone. I trudged into the bathroom and locked the door, just to make sure Sandra couldn’t follow me.

  No sooner had I lowered myself to the toilet seat than the doorbell rang. Although there was no gunshot, Sandra barked hysterically.

  “Can you handle it for a change, Whitney?” Mom called down the stairs. “Nobody’s hurt, and I’m busy learning to text.”

  I did my business as fast as I could. Even if Helen were chronically early—and I suspected she was—I doubted she’d be this early. My watch said 12:17. The doorbell rang two more times before I could get there.

  “I’m coming as fast as I can!” I shouted en route.

  I wasn’t prepared for what I saw through the peephole. It was almost a replay of yesterday, except that today Anouk was vertical, and she was holding a leash attached to my freshly groomed dog instead of Napoleon. Like yesterday, though, Anouk was tweeting. I hoped she wasn’t informing the world that I still wouldn’t answer my door.

  “You found Abra,” I said, trying to sound as if that were a good thing.

  “Non,” Anouk said. “The dogs returned early of their own volition. Something frightened them, I think.”

  “That’s a twist. Usually Abra does the terrorizing.”

  My Affie, with her wanton ways, was infamous. Running loose through the countryside, she routinely stunned farm animals to the point that they couldn’t produce whatever they were born and bred to produce. Never mind her effect on innocent children and religious adults.

  When Anouk handed me Abra’s leash, my dog stared back at Anouk as if this were a misunderstanding. Abra didn’t care for either confinement or celibacy. She lived to chase shiny objects and studly dogs.

  “Go inside,” Anouk commanded.

  Her tone was so firm that I moved to obey, but I was inside already.

  Abra sighed and delicately crossed the threshold. By now she probably considered coming home a hobby. If she got too bored, she could always vie for power with her past-life sister, which was exactly the calamity that unfolded next. On this occasion, however, Sandra was the aggressor. I had barely accepted Abra’s leash when Sandra rushed straight at her, bow-wowing like a doggie cartoon. Really, she looked ridiculous in those yoga pants.

  Abra bared her teeth and raised her hackles, coiling her muscles for fight launch. My whole body tensed.

  “Olivia. Joan.”

  Anouk spoke so softly I barely heard her, but dog hearing is keen, and both canines froze as if paralyzed. In unison they lay down, closed their eyes and appeared to fall asleep. I nearly fainted.

  Crouching, so as to be closer to their ears, Anouk whispered, “Mother loves you both the same. Mother is proud of you. Mother loves you both the same.”

  Silence.

  Anouk cleared her throat meaningfully. Oops. That was my cue. I swallowed, and much of what I swallowed was my pride.

  “Um … Olivia and Joan,” I began.

  Anouk nodded for me to continue.

  “I am … proud … of both my … daughters. I—I love you … both…”

  When I faltered, Anouk shot me a stern look.

  “… exactly the same. You are equally talented. You are equally … beautiful.”

  “Say it like you mean it,” Anouk hissed.

  I pasted a big fake smile on my face. “Olivia and Joan, you are equally beautiful. I love you both exactly the same. Really. I meant it. Yes, I do.”

  With that, Anouk snapped her fingers, and the dogs awoke. They yawned, stretched and proceeded to sniff each other’s asses, tails wagging.

  “Amazing,” I said. “It’s like they were hypnotized.”

  “They were hypnotized. I’ve told you, that’s what happens when we talk to them like that. You can do it without my help, but you must say your part with conviction.”

  “Yeah. Well.”

  Therein lay the rub. Although I could see the positive results of Anouk’s voodoo, I couldn’t imagine creating the spell by myself. Anouk was the pet psychic. I was the skeptic who signed the checks.

  Still, the turnaround from last winter was nothing short of a canine miracle. When Jeb rescued Sandra and brought her home to Vestige, the two alpha dogs seemed destined to kill each other. I took Abra’s side, possibly for the first time ever. The Affie wasn’t an easy dog to live with, but the Frenchie was impossible. Yet Jeb was smitten by the little gargoyle, cooing over her as if she were the cutest creature on God’s green earth.

  Abra and I each had our reasons for resenting Sandra. I was carrying Jeb’s baby and thus needed his full attention. Abra had fashion sense and doggie sex appeal, so of course she disdained the dumpy little intruder who preferred bling and big hats to an understated rhinestone collar. The wardrobe issues were mainly Jeb’s fault.

  The bottom line was that Sandra had an eagerness to please that was just plain revolting. If my attorney thought I was “insufficiently discriminating,” he needed to meet a French bulldog. Sandra wagged her stub of a tail nonstop and seemed utterly unaware that some people found her repellent. Well, this person did.

  To resolve the hostilities between Abra and Sa
ndra, Anouk had “regressed” them to earlier incarnations. She concluded that their spirits had once inhabited the bodies of those quarreling Hollywood sisters, Olivia de Havilland and Joan Fontaine. Spirits come and spirits go, according to Anouk. You never know whose bones your soul might visit, or whose soul might drop in on you. Once we discerned the Olivia-Joan connection, my job was to not make the same mistakes their mother had. Why, oh, why is it always Mama’s fault? Apparently, Mrs. de Havilland played favorites, going so far as to forbid daughter Joan from using the family surname when she became an actress like her big sister.

  My main challenge was accepting that any of this made sense, yet I couldn’t deny Anouk’s success. Abra and Sandra only rarely came to blows anymore, and when they did, we could halt the altercation with a dose of Anouk’s hypnosis.

  I offered her a glass of French wine, modest payment for grooming and returning my Affie, not to mention preventing a dogfight in my living room.

  She refused, claiming that Napoleon was waiting in her van. They had an agility practice session scheduled in Vanderzee Park downtown.

  “I expect Napoleon to perform very well. He is relaxed and confident, thanks to an early and invigorating night with your bitch.”

  After Anouk left, I studied Abra, admiring her sleek Sarah Jessica Parker profile. Most male dogs found her impossible to resist. Even if they did resist, she didn’t take no for an answer. Abra’s sexual frolics tended to last all night, leaving her and her partner exhausted. Anouk had theorized that the love-hounds returned early because they were running scared. Of what?

  12

  Anouk was almost always right about dogs although I questioned her judgment in most other matters.

  The woman lived for standard poodles and archery. In fact, she was a former Olympic trainer and current instructor who owned her own archery range in addition to her dog training and grooming biz.

  Which brings me to her third passion—being French. Despite having resided in the U.S. for at least three decades, middle-aged Anouk spoke English with a thick accent. I suspected her of preserving it on purpose. Once upon a time, Anouk had been as sexually uninhibited as my dog. Her children were not her husband’s but rather the result of a long-running affair. When I had admitted that I couldn’t imagine the arrangement, Anouk blamed my Midwestern roots.