Nina Wright - Whiskey Mattimoe 07 - Whiskey, Large

by Nina Wright

  “Who won the chauffeur’s cap?” I was almost afraid to know.

  “Well, Roscoe proceeded according to regulations, and the other two went for it anyway they could.”

  “Poor Roscoe.”

  Jenx nodded. “He’s in worse shape than the cap.”

  “How much recovery will he need?”

  “A couple days. It’ okay. He’s got vacation time coming. Meanwhile, you can relax knowing that Abra’s home safe.”

  That was a temporary condition, and we both knew it.

  “I can’t believe Diggs is alive,” I said.

  Jenx explained that Chester planned to adopt Diggs, once he devised a plan to smuggle him into The Castle, as he had done with Prince Harry and Velcro. For now, Diggs was staying at Vestige. Chester hadn’t mentioned any of that.

  “Abra and Sandra are at Vestige,” I protested.

  “So’s your mom,” said Jenx, “and she’s good with dogs.”

  The chief explained that my devious former driver, Helen Kaminski, was now in jail, but she wasn’t talking. Apparently, she had followed Jeb when he left Vestige for his recording session in Grand Rapids. Near Sugar Grove on County Road H, she passed him, honking and signaling wildly that he should pull over and assist her.

  When Jeb approached her vehicle, Helen stepped out and used a stun gun on him. With the help of a bearded dude wearing glasses, whom Jeb assumed had been hiding in her backseat, she bound and gagged my husband using—wait for it—oversized Cassina Enterprises handkerchiefs. The diva’s staff must have ordered a million of ’em. Helen and the dude laid my guy in the backseat of the Town Car and drove him to a nearby farm, where they dumped him into a mostly empty corncrib.

  For the benefit of city dwellers, a corncrib is essentially a wire-mesh silo for—you guessed it—harvested ears of corn. Feed corn. Not the sweet corn we humans eat with lots of butter and salt.

  Jeb’s stressed-out scent wafted across open fields, attracting the attention of a certain roaming Affie and her canine boy-toy. The dogs weren’t where they were supposed to be, but the two-legger was even farther afield. Jeb heard though couldn’t see Abra and Diggs outside the corncrib, barking like crazed terriers. Of course he recognized Abra’s “voice,” but he didn’t have a clue who Diggs was. Using doggie lingo, Abra somehow let Diggs know that Jeb was part of her human pack. She caught a whiff of Chester, her favorite human, and she zoomed off to find him with Diggs in tow.

  I wanted to believe that Abra left Jeb only to fetch him help, and not because her attention span was shorter than her eyelashes.

  She located Chester and “told” him all about Jeb. After my neighbor translated her message for local law enforcement, Chester, Jenx, and a county sheriff’s deputy followed the dogs to the corncrib, where they found my husband thirsty, sore, and covered in corn dust—exactly how he looked in my hospital room. He had desperately wanted to be with me when I gave birth, but he was just a little late.

  He had apologized for it fifty times.

  “I’ll be there for the next one, I swear.”

  Except there wouldn’t be a next kid, or so I had told anyone who would listen during my pregnancy. Now, though, I wasn’t so sure. Maybe, just maybe, I would do it again, minus most of the drama. Maybe.

  Fresh from his shower, Jeb entered my hospital room. Sunshine streamed through the window, highlighting his still-boyish good looks. How could I resist him, especially when he cast me that hot cock-eyed grin? Jenx caught the look, too, and cleared her throat.

  “Whoa. It’s too soon to start working on Baby Number Two. When does your first kid get a name?”

  Jeb and I exchanged glances. We had achieved perfect harmony on almost every point except that one.

  Jeb said, “I think I might defer to the mother.”

  “Always a good idea,” I replied.

  Jenx returned the conversation to the topic of last night’s crimes. Although Helen Kaminski had been arrested and charged with multiple counts of kidnapping and felonious assault, her twangy-voiced cohort was still at large. Jeb had an appointment with the State Boys to pore over mug shots. If he couldn’t ID the guy from those, he would work with a police sketch artist.

  “Helen is UberSpringer,” I said. “How can we prove it?”

  “You can hire an investigator if you want to press charges for libel,” Jenx said. “Or, now that Helen’s in the slammer, you can wait and see if there are any new posts.”

  I was too tired to think about Twitter let alone calling my attorney. The wait-and-see approach sounded just fine.

  “The State Boys, with a little help from County, are looking for your car,” Jenx told Jeb. “We assume the bearded dude drove it away and stashed it somewhere. MacArthur has volunteered to drive around the county at his own expense searching for it.”

  I pictured the Scot cruising back roads in the black Mercedes, windows rolled down, his handsome sniffer twitching. In my version, he wasn’t wearing a shirt.

  “What’s the deal with Diggs?” I said. “If he isn’t dead, whose corpse was at the Mullens’ house?”

  “Dr. David’s autopsy confirms that it was an old dog,” Jenx said. “A Labrador mix he didn’t know, and it was dead before the fire.”

  “Meaning somebody planted a dead dog at the house before they blew up the propane tank?” Jeb asked.

  “Looks that way,” Jenx said.

  Relief surged through me and probably through my nursing baby, too. I felt almost irrationally pleased to know that no dog had suffered. Unfortunately, there were still two human victims.

  “Who would want Lisa Mullen and Hamp Glancy dead?” I mused.

  “If it was Todd Mullen, he hired somebody to do it,” Jenx said. “Todd’s alibi checks out, and not just the guys he was with at the cabin. The State Boys interviewed attendants at two gas stations where he stopped on his way up north. They remembered him and his Thunderbird because he acted like a jerk.”

  “Any chance Lisa and Hamp were having an affair?” I asked.

  Jenx said, “Nobody thinks Hamp was a womanizer.”

  “He wasn’t,” Jeb piped up. “I knew Hamp from back in the day when I used to play the local bars. He was devoted to Dani.”

  “No accounting for taste,” I said.

  “Now, Todd, on the other hand, has always liked the ladies, but he and Lisa had fun together. When I played the Holiday Inn in Grand Rapids, they’d drive up to catch my sets.”

  Although I didn’t say so out loud, I believed Lisa had had at least one significant fling. My mind replayed MacArthur nostalgically sniffing the dead woman’s scarf.

  “Lisa’s scent was strong along Wham Road,” Jenx remarked, “so she might have had a boyfriend, but it wasn’t Hamp.”

  The chief’s eyes met mine. We both knew whom Lisa had liked.

  “Dani had sibling issues with Lisa,” I said. “They were bitchy sisters, kind of like the de Havillands. Call me intuitive…”

  Jeb smiled. “Babe, nobody’s ever going to call you that.”

  Five days later, when the first warm and fuzzy haze of motherhood had morphed into the reality of day-to-day life, I was still happier than I would have thought possible. Mom and Jeb were helping me establish new routines at Vestige even as visitors dropped in with presents for April Grace Halloran.

  Jeb was at the grocery store when MacArthur stopped by with the biggest gifts yet—two life-size plush toys. One was a blonde Affie and the other a blonde Frenchie.

  “These should help April learn to love Abra and Sandra before she’s old enough to play with the real things,” he said.

  “If only we could give Abra and Sandra life-size versions of April,” I quipped.

  “We can,” he said. “I’ve ordered two red-haired versions of the Cry-and-Pee Kid. They’re reinforced as chew-toys, and they’ll be delivered on Thursday.”

  “Chew toys?” I gaped at him in horror.

  “Just kidding,” he laughed. “In fact, they’re treated with a special chew-r
epellent coating. The dogs will learn to see and sniff the baby but never, ever touch her.”

  I liked that and wanted to believe it would work. With Anouk’s ongoing pet-psychic therapy, Abra and Sandra were acting less like the de Havilland sisters every day. Maybe miracles could happen.

  The Cleaner fussed over my baby as only a man who loves kids can, then he turned serious.

  “Can we talk business a minute, Whiskey?”

  “Real estate? Sure.”

  “No. Criminal business.”

  MacArthur must have read alarm in my eyes because he quickly added, “Nothing to do with real estate. As far as I know, nobody plans to sue Mattimoe Realty anytime soon.”

  That was good news, especially since I had managed to lose every trace of Bill Noury’s legal advice.

  I said, “What kind of criminal business do you mean?”

  MacArthur cleared his throat. “In addition to kidnapping and assault? Libel, slander, larceny, and fraud, for starters.”

  “Helen has been busy,” I exclaimed.

  “Not only Helen,” said MacArthur. “She has a partner.”

  I nodded. “Do the cops know who it is?”

  “Not yet. He helped her stash Jeb in the corncrib.”

  “I know,” I said. “It had to be the guy who called her while she was driving. He told her to pull off the road and blindfold me. I swear, there was something familiar about his voice.”

  MacArthur nodded, his eyes drifting to the baby in my arms. The sleeping baby.

  “You might want to put her down and take a break while you can.”

  “Good idea,” I said, struck by the Cleaner’s paternal wisdom. I had heard it before. Sleep when baby sleeps, or otherwise seize the moment. I called for Mom to come fetch April for a nap in the nursery while I chatted with MacArthur.

  He observed, “Your daughter has a poetic name. April Grace.”

  “She’s named for my mother.”

  “I thought your mother’s name was Irene.”

  “Her middle name is Grace.”

  “And April is your daughter’s birth month,” MacArthur mused. “Well done.”

  We faced each other on the chocolate-brown leather sofa in the library, a cozy vellum-hued room I had converted from Leo’s office after he died and would probably convert again soon, to a play room this time.

  MacArthur said, “Whiskey, I believe the State Boys are missing some fairly obvious clues. Obvious to me, anyway, but then I do have the better sniffer.”

  He tapped his nose as if to remind me that he didn’t require a scent hound.

  “What did you smell?” I said.

  “It’s not only what I smelled but where I smelled it. When we were at Dani Glancy’s house, I smelled Diggs.”

  “How is that possible? He was out cavorting with Abra.”

  “True, but before that he was in Dani’s house, probably often and for long periods of time. The phone number on Diggs’ tag didn’t belong to the Mullens. It was Dani’s cell.”

  “Are you saying that Diggs was Dani’s dog? Why did Dr. David think he belonged to the Mullens?”

  “Because he did belong to the Mullens.”

  “But Dani took care of him?” I asked.

  “Dani co-opted him. She stole his time and affection.”

  “Stole?” I was skeptical. “The Mullens weren’t into their dog. They hired Anouk to spend time with him.”

  “Which only made Dani want to win Diggs’ affections even more,” he insisted. “Anything to one-up or distract Lisa. Don’t you see? Dani is a ruthless taker. Lisa told me she was always like that, seizing whatever she wanted, often just to prove that she could. Whiskey, I think she blew up her sister’s house.”

  I stared at him. “And her sister? And her own husband?”

  “Yes,” the Cleaner said. “I think Dani was hell-bent on punishing Lisa for easily and naturally being everything Dani had to struggle to become—smart, desirable, elegant, enticing.”

  MacArthur sounded as if he could go on and on. The man had possession of Lisa’s scarf, which oozed her signature scent. I was quite sure their joint fragrances were all over Wham Road.

  He shook himself. “What was I saying?”

  “That Dani wanted to punish Lisa.”

  “Yes, by taking her possessions. First it was her dog. Then her house. Then her life.”

  “But Hamp died in the explosion, too,” I reminded him.

  “That may have been an accident. More likely it was part of Dani’s plan. She was jealous of how easily Lisa attracted men. Never mind that Hamp wasn’t interested. Dani might have thought he could have been if Lisa had looked his way. More important, Dani didn’t love Hamp anymore.”

  “She told you that?”

  He nodded. “She used to call me to whine about her life.”

  She may have also called him to seduce him, wanting what her sister had had.

  “Dani complained about you, Whiskey,” MacArthur said. “It was personal, not professional.”

  “Dani doesn’t even know me.”

  “Even so, she doesn’t like a thing about you. To her, you represent a kind of success she can’t begin to achieve. All you really need to know about Dani is that she can never be happy. She is hopelessly, terminally jealous.”

  I could believe that Dani Glancy was a stone-cold crazy-ass bitch, but I could not believe she was a do-it-yourself arsonist.

  “No way Dani used her own perfectly manicured hands to blow up her sister’s propane tank,” I declared.

  “Of course she didn’t. She hired someone to do it for her, or she has a lover who’s willing to collaborate.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Dani has had a number of lovers, and she wasn’t always discreet,” MacArthur said. “It was sometimes a source of embarrassment for Hamp, but he loved her too much to let her go. That might have been the reason he went to Lisa’s house the day it blew up.”

  “You think Hamp wanted Lisa’s advice about dealing with Dani’s lover?”

  MacArthur shrugged. “We’ll never know.”

  I wondered aloud whether money might have helped drive Dani to murder.

  “Money is often a factor,” MacArthur conceded, “though there wasn’t much to be gained here. Hamp and Dani had a lot of personal debt. His life insurance should pay off their cars, mortgage, and credit cards, but there won’t be a windfall. As for Lisa’s estate, Todd Mullen told Jenx that he and his wife have ‘conventional wills,’ leaving everything to each other. Nothing for Dani there, except the dog.”

  “So Dani committed murder for debt relief and a doodle?” I asked.

  “I doubt she wants the doodle,” MacArthur said, “but I do think she’s glad to be single.”

  Getting even with her sister and starting fresh with no debts, plus a hot boyfriend, might entice a sociopath. Was there a hot boyfriend?

  MacArthur said, “We don’t know her partner’s identity or the extent of his involvement. His hand may be stirring a few pots.”

  “Such as?”

  “This is a small town with few lucrative opportunities or places to hide. My guess is that Dani’s man worked with Helen, too.”

  Try as I might, I couldn’t connect the dots between Helen and Dani. One wanted a baby. One hated her sister. They both wanted revenge, but there was no way to know if that was enough to unite them or put them in league with the same bad guy.

  “Dani’s man might be the voice I heard on Helen’s phone,” I said.

  MacArthur didn’t reply, but I sensed a high degree of interest. His phone pinged, and he excused himself to check a text. I had to admire how fast his muscular fingers flew across the smart phone’s screen in response.

  “Checking in with Avery?” I chided him.

  “Not Avery,” he said. “Ben Fondgren is on his way here.”

  “Here? To see you?”

  “No. To see Dani.”

  “I’m confused.”

  “So is he.” MacArthur passed me t
he phone. “Check out my home screen.”

  He tried not to smile. The image was Dani Glancy provocatively posed in a string bikini. I had never worn one of those, and I never would.

  “Where did you get this?” I said.

  “We were at Dani’s house, remember? She left it in plain sight, so I borrowed it on the hunch that it might come in handy, and it has.”

  Illegal for sure, but I would never tell Jenx.

  Very slowly I said, “Why would Ben think Dani wants to see him at my house?”

  “It’s not Ben’s job to think. It’s his job to do what Dani tells him.”

  “Well, Ben can’t be Dani’s lover,” I reminded MacArthur. “He’s gay.”

  “He could be bisexual,” MacArthur said, “or he could be involved with her for other reasons.”

  Before I could ask about “other reasons,” the doorbell rang.

  34

  I excused myself to check the peephole. As it turned out, my visitor was not Ben Fondgren. It was someone I had never met, yet I knew him as soon as I opened the door.

  The man I had heard on the other end of Helen’s phone stepped into my home. The man who had called himself Randy Dupper. I recognized his voice and his Appalachian dialect when he said, “Are you Mrs. Mattimoe?”

  Even before he spotted MacArthur, the man looked anxious. The instant the Cleaner stepped out from behind my door and slipped a pair of plastic handcuffs on him, he looked downright terrified. Too terrified to resist arrest. That was wise because MacArthur had sixty pounds of muscle and six inches of height on the guy.

  “Where’s Fondgren?” MacArthur growled.

  The man’s brown eyes bulged behind black plastic glasses.

  “My best guess is he’s crossing the border into Mexico. Ben said to meet him here for my next payment, but the second I saw you, I knew I was screwed. They set me up.”

  “Who’s ‘they’?” I said.

  “Ben and Dani.”

  “Where’s Dani?” MacArthur said.

  “I reckon she’s in Mexico, waiting for Ben.”

  If that were true, Ben probably knew somebody had Dani’s phone. Somebody in Magnet Springs, most likely. Maybe that realization had been his cue to send this lamb to the slaughter.