Nina Wright - Whiskey Mattimoe 07 - Whiskey, Large

by Nina Wright

  When I handed back Chester’s phone, I got out my own to notify my “peeps,” as Ben called them. Within half-an-hour everyone employed by Mattimoe Realty understood their roles in assisting our new consultant. Motivating them was easy. They were plenty worried about UberSpringer and the damage he might do to their earning power.

  “Thanks for the referral,” I told Chester after I completed the calls.

  He had remained in the kitchen while I talked, quietly preparing and then drinking a chai latte. Only now did I realize that he had brewed it using a one-cup-at-a-time stainless steel coffeemaker I’d never noticed before. It was a pricey item for a police station kitchen with scuffed harvest-gold appliances.

  “Where did that come from?” I said, nodding at the coffeemaker.

  “I bought it,” Chester said as if the answer should be obvious. “When I’m on deputy duty, I like my chai latte. Jenx prefers French roast, and Brady drinks decaf. This keeps everybody happy.”

  “Everybody but Peg,” I said, referring to our coffee-vending mayor whose shop was across the street. “Does she know about this?”

  “Don’t worry. We still patronize the Goh Cup at least twice a day.”

  I believed him. Public employees and downtown merchants ardently supported each other in this town, regardless of tourist-pet policies.

  “Where’s Jenx?” I said, realizing I hadn’t seen her since I left the bathroom.

  “In her office,” Chester said. “I don’t recommend disturbing her. MacArthur came in while you were on the phone, and Jenx is debriefing him now.”

  He checked his Patek Phillipe watch, worth more than most people’s cars. “When they finish, he’s going to drive me home. I’ve got a distance-learning lecture at 4:30.”

  “M.I.T. or Princeton?” I asked, aware that Chester routinely enrolled in online seminars at both Ivy League schools.

  “Harvard this time. Nanobiotechnology. It’s a survey course.”

  I blinked. “I don’t even know what ‘nano’ means.”

  Chester nodded sagely. “That’s why we have to save Mattimoe Realty.”

  Jenx’s office door opened, and she emerged with her new volunteer deputy, the studly Scot.

  “We have a rapidly closing window,” the chief explained. “MacArthur and I are joining Brady and Roscoe in the search for Napoleon’s field. Whiskey, can you give Chester a ride home?”

  “It’s Deputy Chester, and I’m coming with you,” my young neighbor declared.

  “We’d be glad to have you,” Jenx said, “but you have class.”

  “At Harvard, no less,” I added.

  Chester shrugged. “I record every lecture. Harvard won’t mind if I watch this one after dinner.”

  Using his blazer sleeve, Chester buffed his Texas Ranger star.

  “Let’s roll,” he said.

  I understood. The kid needed to follow up on Napoleon’s eye-witness account if only to test his powers of translation. I turned to MacArthur.

  “How did you know where in Vanderzee Park to look for the shell casing?”

  He touched the side of his nose. “Some say I’m a bit of a scent hound myself. I’ve a gift for sniffing gunpowder residue, as well as bodily fluids.”

  “Stinks fade, deputies, so let’s go,” Jenx said, charging for the door.

  I made it halfway to a standing position before I realized she didn’t mean me.

  The police station door banged shut behind Jenx, MacArthur and Chester. I plopped back down onto the creaking kitchen chair and bawled like the little kid who didn’t get invited to the party.

  What the hell was the matter with me, besides an advanced case of first pregnancy? Given how much I complained about Abra and her antics, did I actually get some kind of kick out of chasing bad guys? Did I need my crime-fighting “fix”?

  I’d never thought of myself as an adrenaline junkie, let alone a wannabe cop, so why did I feel blue about being left out of the local posse?

  Suddenly I heard Leo’s laughter, that warm rumble I used to count as the greatest sound on earth. My late husband, taken from this world too young and fast, had a gift for putting problems in perspective. With kind words, a soft touch and that gentle laugh, Leo Mattimoe could soothe the scared and heal the wounded.

  I stopped whimpering and listened hard, willing his laughter to ring out again. Instead, I caught the citrusy scent of Leo’s after-shave. Breathing it in, I smiled serenely. Somehow, some way, he would always be with me.

  My maternity leave would come to an end. When it did, and I was a full-fledged responsible first-time mother, I would chase criminals again. And sell real estate.

  As long as I shared my home with Abra, I would have no choice about the criminals. Call it karma. Call it canine magnetism. Felons would continue to find my Afghan hound, or she would find them. In turn, I would step up to help Jenx track down the bad guys.

  Laying both hands on my belly, I whispered to the little person inside.

  “You’re about to arrive, and Leo’s already gone. I guess you couldn’t both be here at the same time, but I’m going to show you a million amazing things, starting with the dog Leo brought us. Oh, Baby, just wait ’til you meet Abra.”

  15

  I didn’t know exactly how long I sat alone in the kitchen at the police station until Helen woke me. Yup, I had nodded off again. When she woke me, we still had twenty minutes before Mom would serve dinner at Vestige. It irked me that Helen had appointed herself my human alarm clock.

  First, I was seriously sleep-deprived. If you have to ask why, you’ve never had a baby or lived with someone who did. I simply couldn’t find a comfortable position, in addition to my almost continuous need to pee. Jeb would tell you he hadn’t slept through the night since my thirty-third week.

  Second, I didn’t need a sitter. I was in the process of making a baby, not becoming one. Back when I was a kid, my mother never hovered, probably because she was busy with her own life, so I didn’t want a driver who hovered now. Unless, of course, he was a hunk from Glasgow.

  Downtown Magnet Springs was deserted when Helen and I emerged into the cool slanting light of a late afternoon in early spring. I didn’t care if someone saw me exiting the police station. That happened often, given Abra’s penchant for crime and attraction to criminals. I did care, though, if someone saw me looking as awkward and exhausted as I felt. I must have moaned a little.

  “Pregnant women have their own kind of beauty,” Helen offered.

  “Newly pregnant women, maybe,” I said, “if they get the glow.”

  I’d had no glow, only morning sickness, but I’d felt better by my second trimester. In fact, when Jeb came home to stay in Magnet Springs, my sex life shifted into high gear. Until my third trimester, also known as Hippopotamus Phase. Lately I felt like the biggest, heaviest thing on earth.

  “You’re coming to the very best part,” Helen chirped, holding open the door to the Lincoln. “It’s almost time to deliver your perfect baby!”

  I paused to admire Chester’s shiny loaner car and to consider that it came with a perennially upbeat driver. Helen tried hard to make the world brighter. Too hard. Yet she mostly succeeded.

  Suddenly, I wished for throngs of people who would peer past my huge belly and take note of my rise in status. The only folks in Lanagan County with their own car and driver were Cassina and Chester, and, temporarily, me. Where were my witnesses?

  Main Street remained empty. Sighing, I let gravity and a subtle push from Helen ease me into the vehicle. I nestled against the soft leather and closed my eyes.

  “Miss Whiskey!” a voice whispered. “I didn’t want to startle you, but we’re home.”

  “Home?” I blinked.

  “Uh-huh,” Helen said gently. “You fell asleep again.”

  “No, I didn’t,” I mumbled although I obviously had.

  She handed me a handkerchief to wipe the drool off my chin.

  “You were snoring by the time we reached our first stop sig
n.”

  She made it sound like some kind of record. What could I say? The Town Car was swaddling.

  Before Helen could help extract me, my cell phone rang. No need to check Caller ID. The ring tone was “Bad Boys,” theme song from the TV show Cops.

  “Hey, Jenx,” I said. “Did MacArthur’s nose find the third shell casing?”

  “Not yet, but he did sniff out body fluids.”

  My stomach tightened.

  “Of the canine variety,” she added quickly. “That’s why I’m calling. I need to deputize your dog.”

  “Since when does Roscoe require back-up? Especially of the kind Abra provides.”

  “Roscoe’s off the clock,” Jenx said. “He’s already logged his limit in overtime.”

  “Then why not deputize Napoleon? He’s got a clean record, and he responds to commands.”

  Jenx cleared her throat. “Because he might be the shooter’s target. Have you forgotten your own theory?”

  Almost. Actually, I was in the process of refining my theory. The more I learned about the power of social media, the more fraught with danger the whole concept seemed. Although Web professional Ben Fondgren had tried to convince me of its positive potential, we both knew I wouldn’t need his services if not for the likes of UberSpringer. Anyone who tweeted, posted, and blogged as much as Anouk was bound to attract or offend the wrong person eventually. If recent bullets weren’t intended for her, they may have been intended to hurt her emotionally by wounding or killing her dog.

  “Too bad Mooney isn’t available for hire,” I said, referring to our local jurist’s well-trained pet, a bloodhound-Rottweiler cross. The huge canine could track and attack. His only liability was a copious and slippery trail of drool.

  “He’s with the judge and his bride on their honeymoon in the Carolinas,” Jenx said.

  I started to say I couldn’t imagine anyone including a dog in their honeymoon, then I remembered that Jeb had sneaked Sandra along on ours. We were midway to Traverse City when she blew her cover by yowling piteously. Jeb insisted she had hurled herself into the trunk of his Beamer rather than stay, like Abra, with a sitter, but I never believed it. Frenchies can’t leap like that. Besides, she was dressed for travel in a neat little Chico’s pantsuit and a wool car coat.

  “Why pick Abra for deputy?” I asked, dragging us back on topic. “There’s gotta be a better choice in Lanagan County.”

  “Not for this gig. I need a dog who knows the lay of the land.”

  “Abra knows the lay of—”

  “That, too,” Jenx interrupted me. “I need a dog who was there last night when the alleged shot was fired, and a dog who can work well with Chester. Napoleon is at risk, so we’re enlisting Abra.”

  “Okay,” I sighed. “But I’m signing some kind of waiver. No way I’m ending up liable for the damage we all know Abra will do.”

  “Get your lawyer to draw something up,” Jenx said.

  “I’m not calling him now. It’s after hours, and he’s expensive enough during the day.”

  Bill Noury’s original itemized list was still lodged in my bra. I shuddered to imagine his humorless counsel for my wayward dog.

  “How about we do it like this,” Jenx offered. “Brady’s on his way home to make dinner. I’ll tell him to go online and find a template that looks like a legal waiver. We’ll revise it as needed and get your signature tonight.”

  I agreed.

  “There’s less than two hours of daylight left,” Jenx continued. “How soon can you get Abra here?”

  She identified “here” as a slice of state-owned land between Anouk’s home and Uphill Road, a township byway running parallel to the Lake Michigan shore. Riding in the patrol car with the windows open, MacArthur had sniffed gunpowder in the vicinity. He and Roscoe had both picked up whiffs of fresh doggie fluids. Now the canine professional was off duty, but the Cleaner was willing to work all night. Even so, Jenx needed a second opinion for his nose.

  “We’re gonna find something potent tonight,” she vowed. “The State Boys won’t like my tactics, but if I use two snouts instead of one, they gotta listen. By the way, Whiskey, have you told anybody about the dog corpse MacArthur found in the rubble?”

  “No, and I’m trying not to think about it,” I said.

  “Here’s the thing,” Jenx continued. “We’re gonna keep the dead dog on the down-low, just in case a person of interest might think that particular dog’s still alive. So don’t say anything, got it?”

  I didn’t follow her logic, but I was willing to play along. I was also willing to volunteer Abra’s questionable assistance even though leashing and transporting her without help from Jeb or Chester would be a challenge. Then I remembered Mom’s experience with Rosie, the “best dog ever,” and Helen’s availability to get us places.

  My driver had waited patiently while I took Jenx’s call. Now she helped pull me from the Town Car. Once I was vertical, I informed her that a police emergency required my dog’s immediate presence at a potential crime scene. That had to sound ridiculous, especially if you knew my dog.

  “Miss Whiskey, I’m prepared to assist you,” Helen said. “Master Chester would expect no less.”

  Master Chester? I hated to admit it, but Helen’s old-school word choice and other quaint behaviors were beginning to grow on me. She meant well, and her work ethic was beyond reproach. So what if she talked like a character actor in a bad 1950s film?

  I had worried that Mom’s fascination with her new smart phone might delay dinner, but the savory aroma of pot roast greeted us, awakening my salivary glands and setting my stomach to growling. Baby got the message, too. My little womb-roomie performed a frantic disco dance.

  “I found an app with all these recipes,” Mom announced without greeting either Helen or me. “Oh, and Jeb texted me. He’s running late at the studio, so I’m going to keep his entire dinner warm. There’s an app for that, too.”

  “You’ll have to keep my dinner warm, also,” I said and hastily explained what Jenx needed from Abra and me.

  Mom inserted three fingers in her mouth and whistled shrilly, demonstrating a skill I didn’t know she had. That was just the start of the surprises. Abra promptly bounded down the stairs from her room and slid to stop at my mother’s feet, primly awaiting further instruction.

  “Since when…?” I began.

  “Whitney, women in your condition don’t postpone dinner,” Mom scolded. “They take care of priorities, which means they take care of themselves.”

  She nodded curtly at Helen, who produced Abra’s leather leash from I knew not where and clipped it to her rhinestone-studded collar. The whole enterprise took less than thirty seconds during which Abra never broke eye contact with my mother.

  I tried again. “Since when does Abra respond to you like that?”

  Mom sighed. “This isn’t brain surgery. Be the Alpha for once and watch what happens.”

  Could managing Abra really be that simple? No commands to memorize, no trainer to hire, no defense attorney to consult?

  “Abra isn’t Rosie, Mom.”

  “Ah, Rosie,” Helen said nostalgically. “Now there was a difficult dog.”

  “Say what?”

  “She sure was,” Mom agreed, a faraway glint in her eyes. “Training her was the most fun I ever had.”

  “You were good at it,” Helen said. “I always thought you should have been a professional.”

  To me she added, “Your mom helped lots of people with their dogs.”

  “Wait. Rosie wasn’t an angel?” I asked.

  Mom and Helen laughed so hard that Abra stood up and wagged her tail. She always enjoyed jokes told at the expense of other dogs.

  “Rosie, an angel? No way!” Mom said. “She was a stray your dad found in the alley behind his office. The vet thought she was about two years old.”

  “I remember what a mess she was,” Helen said. “Stinky and sticky.”

  A description that often fit Abra. I could hardly b
elieve this.

  Mom said, “Rosie wasn’t housebroken, and she didn’t know a single command. Such a headstrong bitch! Oh, my, I loved her.”

  Helen nodded. Abra issued a supportive roo-roo.

  I found my voice. “You said Rosie was ‘the best dog’ ever.”

  “She was.” Mom reached for her phone. “Here’s a photo from my Facebook page.”

  “You’re on Facebook?”

  Mom showed the screen image to Helen first and then passed her phone to me. I stared at a faded color photo of a much younger version of my mother with both her arms wrapped around a big yellow dog.

  “What you don’t understand, Whitney, is that the best dogs are often the most challenging,” Mom said. “They test you, and then they learn to trust and love you. It’s extremely satisfying when they come around.”

  Abra chose that instant to lock her chocolate eyes with mine, and I swear she nodded, the hairy tease.

  16

  After Helen leashed and loaded Abra, we were ready to roll. Mom quickly dished up a steaming heap of pot roast and mashed potatoes, plus a thermos of milk, and packed them in a handy thermal lunch box for me.

  “When did I get this?” I said, nodding at the lunch box, which bore the proud logo of Four Legs Good, the radical animal rights advocacy founded by Dr. David and Deely.

  “You didn’t get this, dear. I did. For a modest donation.”

  “I’ve made way more than ‘modest’ donations to Fleggers,” I said, thinking of several occasions when I had written four-figure checks, mainly to assuage my guilt for not wanting to keep critters that would cramp my lifestyle. Yoda the rogue Devon rex and Velcro, the shitzapoo who required assisted-living devices, sprang to mind. Not that Fleggers believed humans could “own” animals. Oh, no. Their biological hierarchy placed all breathing creatures on more or less the same socio-political plane. Animal Farm, anyone?

  To be fair, it was a very nice lunch box with compartments for silverware, napkins and even dessert, which Mom included only when I begged her for it. Pursing her lips, she added two peanut-butter cookies from the still-warm batch she had baked for Jeb. How did she expect me to resist them when I could sniff them?