Whiskey Straight Up

by Nina Wright

  “Whoa, Prince Harry!” he shouted.

  “‘Whoa’? Isn’t that a command for horses?” I said.

  “And other equine creatures,” he agreed, realigning the wire-framed glasses that never set quite straight on his too-small nose. “But Dogs-Train-You-Dot-Com recommends using it for canine crowd-control. See, it works.”

  We all looked at Prince Harry, who wagged his tail, spread his rear legs, and peed.

  “Outside!” Chester scooped the leaking puppy into his arms and bounded toward the lobby door. Abra disdainfully sniffed the air before trotting off in the opposite direction. Like Avery, she preferred to delegate her maternal duties.

  Roy rose nimbly and returned to the seat across from me.

  “Is that your son?” he asked.

  “No!”

  When he winced, I realized how loudly I’d spoken. And how defensively. It wasn’t that I disliked kids; I just had way too many in my life. Softly I added, “That’s my neighbor’s son, when she remembers she has one.”

  I asked Roy if he’d heard of Cassina, the harpist-singer-songwriter currently touring to promote her latest CD, Cumulus Love. He nodded, adding that she had a huge following at the state penitentiary.

  “I’m taking care of Chester while Cassina’s on the road,” I explained. “In exchange, he’s taking care of Abra and her pups. At least that’s the plan.”

  “Seems like a bright kid,” Roy observed.

  “That’s one word for him.”

  Other words included hyperactive, overdramatic, bull-headed, and extremely needy.

  “How many puppies?” Roy asked.

  “There were five,” I said. “We’ve found homes for all but one, Prince Harry the Pee Master. Not bad considering we couldn’t identify the father. We think he was either a golden retriever or a yellow lab. But Abra’s not talking.”

  Hearing her name and hoping for treats, the Queen Mother poked her patrician muzzle around the doorframe. When nothing tasty materialized, she withdrew to look for trouble elsewhere.

  Roy cleared his throat. “I need work, Whiskey, and I was wondering if you had any. I know my reputation in this town. I’ve got a lot to make up for, especially since I can’t ask Leo to forgive me.”

  “Leo forgave you,” I said. “My husband didn’t hold grudges.”

  “Then I have to earn your forgiveness,” Roy said. “Yours and Avery’s.”

  “I can’t speak for Leo’s daughter. . . .” I could hardly speak to her since she preferred to ignore me. “But I can hire you part-time, if that helps.”

  Roy nodded gratefully. I handed him a card with Luís Regalo’s name and phone number. “Our property manager. I’ll tell him to expect your call.”

  Roy was about to speak, but someone else piped up.

  “Howdy, y’all.”

  We turned to see Gil Gruen, Cowboy Realtor and mayor of our fair town, dressed in his standard uniform of Stetson, western shirt, tight jeans, and alligator boots. In deference to our blustery January weather, he had added a heavy sheepskin coat. Born and raised right here in Michigan and a member of my high-school class, Gil had morphed into Wyatt Earp the day he founded Best West Realty.

  “Howdy, yourself,” I yawned. “What do you want, Gil?”

  He focused on my new handyman. “Well, I’ll be a son of a gun. Aren’t you Roy Vickers?”

  “Yes sir, I am,” Roy said, rising to his still impressive full height. Gil was well built but no taller than five foot nine. I could have sworn I saw fear flash across his face when Roy stood. But he recovered quickly.

  “You’re not thinking of moving back here to Magnet Springs now, are you, Roy?”

  “As a matter of fact, Roy’s coming to work for me,” I said. “He starts tomorrow.”

  Gil scowled. “What the heck are you thinking, woman? This man stabbed your husband!”

  “If Leo forgave Roy, the rest of us can, too.”

  “I doubt your fellow citizens feel that way.” Gil shuffled his booted feet. “Speaking as both mayor and local business leader, I’d call this ex-convict a threat to our community. No offense, sir.”

  Roy said nothing.

  Gil cleared his throat and added, “I’ll convene a public meeting on that urgent matter tonight.”

  “You can’t prevent a free man from living in this town!” I said.

  “If child molesters have to register, then all ex-convicts should do the same. Magnet Springs is a tourist town, Whiskey. We’ve got to insure the safety of our guests as well as our citizens!”

  He tipped his Stetson and turned to leave.

  “Wait a minute, Gil!” I called after him. “I assume you had a reason for coming over here?”

  “Thanks for reminding me.” Mr. Best West smiled smugly. “We all know you’re a lonely woman, Whiskey, but bear this in mind: David Newquist is under contract as my client. If I hear one more time that you’re trying to steal the good doctor, I’ll see you in court.”

  Roy rose automatically.

  “Threaten me all you want, Mr. Mayor, but leave Ms. Mattimoe alone.”

  Gil Gruen blinked, then grinned. “I do believe you’ll regret saying that, Roy.”

  “I don’t believe in regrets, sir. Only in action. Now kindly get the hell out of here.”

  Chapter Three

  Gil Gruen turned red, then maroon, and finally purple. He sputtered but couldn’t put together another sentence before striding from my office. The heels of his cowboy boots clicked on the hardwood floor.

  “Maybe you shouldn’t piss off authority figures your first day out of jail,” I advised Roy Vickers.

  He shook his head. “The only way I survived prison was by standing up for what I believed. I believe you’re on my side, Whiskey, and that guy’s an asshole.”

  True enough.

  Roy continued, “I also believe that I need to be in Magnet Springs for the next phase of my spiritual evolution. This is my road to wholeness.”

  The ex-con sounded like an ideal prospect for Noonan Starr’s New-Age counseling service, the Seven Suns of Solace. It’s one of those “step” programs designed to help people turn their lives around. Only this one is pure touchy-feely and more than a little spacey. At least it sounded so to me. I asked Roy if he’d ever heard of it.

  “Of course.” His eyes brightened. “While I was inside, I read the book twenty-nine times.”

  “The book?”

  Roy produced a well-worn pocket-sized paperback: Seven Suns of Solace: Finding Peace in Your Personal Galaxy. According to what was left of the ragged cover, the author’s name ended in Ph.D.

  “Who wrote this?” I said.

  “Fenton Flagg. He’s a genius.”

  I nodded doubtfully. My personal policy was to avoid strong emotions, except love in its many forms and of course lust. I preferred to deflect my way through life using as much dry humor as possible. But I had to admit that counseling worked for some people. Even New Age counseling, Noonan style. The previous summer she had launched her Seven Suns of Solace practice, much of which she conducted over the phone. You’d be surprised how many tourists stopped in for a massage and went home wanting tele-counseling with Noonan.

  Roy was shaking my hand and thanking me for the opportunity to prove he could work hard when Prince Harry bounded back into my office, followed by Chester. Both were covered with fresh snow.

  “What happened to you two?” I said.

  Chester used his bare fingers to rub the wet white stuff off his glasses. His face and hands were pink from the cold.

  “Prince Harry didn’t want to come in, so I had to wrestle him down. We’re still working on the basics, Whiskey.”

  At which point Prince Harry again assumed squat position.

  “No!” we three humans cried in unison. Chester scooped up the puppy and ran back outside.

  “Believe it or not, I run a business here,” I told Roy. “Or try to. Which reminds me . . . Tina—! Where’s Abra?”

  That’s when we he
ard the scream. Roy made it out my office door first. I followed him down the hall toward the lobby, legs churning. A woman I didn’t recognize was on the floor of my foyer. Horizontal. A dog I knew only too well was on top of her, trying to pry the feathered hat from her head. While Tina stood by helplessly, Odette was already in action, waving her very own sequined purse in Abra’s face. Abra prefers sparkly to feathery any day, so I wasn’t surprised when she grabbed the bag in her pearly whites.

  Now you know the secret to Odette’s success: when a healthy commission is at stake, she’s willing to make personal sacrifices.

  Abra was still in mid-air when Chester opened the front door for himself and Prince Harry. Amid the blur of blonde and gold hair were yips, more screams, and a couple worthless commands from Dogs-Train-You-dot-com.

  Then Abra and son were gone. Chester, too.

  I should have been good at handling moments like that. God knows I’d seen enough of them. But it was Odette who recovered fastest. Ignoring Abra’s theft of what was surely a designer handbag, she deftly assisted the stunned woman on the floor from a horizontal to a vertical position.

  “Whiskey, I’d like you to meet Mrs. Oscar Manfred Gribble the Third,” Odette trilled. “She’s thinking about buying a summer home in the vicinity of Magnet Springs. A very nice summer home. Directly on Lake Michigan.”

  Odette stared at me meaningfully. The meaning she wished to convey was Mega-Money, which I could have grasped without help. Now that Mrs. Gribble the Third was no longer covered in spastic canines, her affluence was apparent. I didn’t know designer labels, my interest in clothing being limited to its role as color-coordinated body-cover. However, I was quite capable of recognizing expensive fabric and cut, and that’s what Mrs. Gribble was wearing. Under her full-length fur coat, I caught sight of a tasteful wool suit in a muted dark plaid accented by a heavy pearl necklace. Her tan boots and gloves were of the softest leather, probably made from the hides of newborn lambs. Her maroon feathered hat doubtless came from some endangered South American parrot.

  Mrs. Gribble herself was what we like to call a “mature” woman, somewhere between sixty and senility. Taller than average, though not as tall as I, she must have been a knockout in her youth with cheekbones most women would kill for. Now, though, she was thin verging on gaunt, the bones in her face protruding almost aggressively. Still, with her glossy salt-and-pepper hair and large dark eyes, she was glamorous in a way that commanded instant respect. Especially since she hadn’t yet threatened to sue me for Abra’s antics.

  “This is Whiskey Mattimoe,” Odette said as I extended my hand.

  “She runs the place,” Tina added.

  “Except for the dogs,” I said. “I have very little control over them. So sorry, Mrs. Gribble.”

  To my amazement, the austere woman smiled.

  “Don’t apologize, Mrs. Mattimoe. It was because of the dog that I chose your firm over your competitor’s.”

  “Pardon?”

  “In the Chicago papers, I read about your recent . . . shall we say . . . misadventures. Riveting. I found the stories riveting.”

  “You did?”

  “Absolutely. I used to breed Salukis, so I understand the sight hound mindset.”

  “You do?”

  Odette cleared her throat, a signal to me to make more intelligent rejoinders. Before I could, however, Mrs. Gribble added, “Once upon a time, I also owned a Warren Matheney watercolor—a Cumulus, no less—so I found the case fascinating from that standpoint, as well.”

  Finally I got it. Mrs. Gribble had followed newspaper accounts of the mysteries surrounding the death of celebrated Chicago artist Warren Matheney, a.k.a. Cloud Man. I was mentioned in a few of those articles because Abra’s own criminal record and purse-stealing tendencies had inadvertently helped solve three murders.

  “Tell me,” I whispered, “are Salukis as hyper as Afghans?”

  “Oh, yes,” she said. “But easier to groom.” Mrs. Gribble lowered her voice. “The little boy who’s chasing the dogs—is that Cassina’s son?”

  As far as I knew, there had been no mention of Chester or his famous mother in any print coverage of the Cloud Man case.

  “Uh. . . . How did you know?”

  The wealthy woman smiled again. “I know people who know things, regardless of whether their information goes to press.” She glanced out the window and back. “Should someone check on the little boy?”

  Oops. Chester was my temporary ward, after all. I wasn’t a natural at this substitute-mother thing. “Out of sight, out of mind” was more my style.

  “Why not let Roy do that,” Odette suggested, “while Whiskey and I sit down with you, Mrs. Gribble. We’ll go over a few listings that might be of interest.”

  That was when I turned to my new handyman, and my blood ran cold for the second--or was it third?--time that morning. The ex-con was staring at Mrs. Gribble, his face as white as the stuff on the ground outside, his mouth slack. For a brief moment, I thought he was having a stroke.

  “Roy?” I said.

  Instantly the ruddy color came back to his face, and his jaw tightened.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he replied, military style. “I’m on it. I’ll round them all up.”

  “Well, not necessarily all of them,” I amended. “Just Chester. And maybe Prince Harry, provided he’s recently relieved himself. Don’t go out of your way to find Abra. She’ll wander home soon enough. . . . ”

  Roy left, and Tina dashed across the street to fetch Mrs. Gribble a double-mocha cappuccino from the Goh Cup while Odette and I interviewed our guest about her real-estate preferences. She was the kind of client I like: not only affluent but decisive. Mrs. Oscar Manfred Gribble the Third knew exactly what she wanted. Even better: I knew we could find it for her.

  Before she left the offices of Mattimoe Realty, she had put her curvaceous, back-slanting signature on the dotted line, making us her buyer’s agent of record. If we could satisfy the lady, Odette and I would share a commission from three to six percent of at least a million bucks, depending on whether Mrs. Gribble bought a property that was also one of our own listings.

  Screw you, Gil Gruen, I thought with satisfaction.

  Odette and I decided to celebrate by having lunch at Mother Tucker’s, my favorite restaurant and main source of nutrition. If it weren’t for Walter and Jonnie St. Mary, the big-hearted gay couple who ran Mother Tucker’s, I might have starved following Leo’s death. They soothed me with good wine, stuffed me with hot food, and then ordered me to go home almost every single night for six months. Thanks to them and a few other good people, I managed to put one foot in front of the other during the long bleak weeks when I didn’t care about anything, including my own life.

  Now things were looking up, especially with Mrs. Gribble’s handsome commission on the horizon, and Abra my bête-noire temporarily missing in action.

  At least I thought things were looking up until we walked in the door at Mother Tucker’s.

  The first thing Odette and I noticed was the announcement posted on the Community Events board:

  EMERGENCY MEETING TONIGHT

  7 PM AT THE TOWN HALL.

  Question:

  DO YOU, THE MERCHANTS AND OTHER RESIDENTS OF MAGNET SPRINGS,

  WANT A VIOLENT CONVICTED FELON ROAMING OUR STREETS

  AND SCARING OUR TOURISTS? NOT TO MENTION OUR CHILDREN???

  IT WILL HAPPEN UNLESS YOU SAY NO!

  JOIN MAYOR GIL GRUEN TONIGHT TO ADDRESS THIS ISSUE

  BEFORE IT’S TOO LATE.

  “I’m surprised he spelled all the words right,” Odette said dryly.

  I shrugged. “Those aren’t hard words. Besides, his computer has spell-check.”

  Just then I heard a familiar voice coming from the bar. Not a pleasant voice. Not the voice of anyone I liked. But a voice I knew. It was loud and loaded with emotion. Possibly also with alcohol despite the hour. My digital watch said 11:56 AM.

  Odette cocked her head at me. “Isn�
�t that--?”

  “I’m afraid so,” I sighed.

  The familiar voice was suddenly drowned out by an even louder, more emotional voice that I didn’t recognize. Odette—who has a gift for placing voices—didn’t seem to know this one, either.

  Then the first voice cried, “If you don’t like the way I’m raising our babies, why don’t you try doing it! The job sucks, and the pay sucks way worse!”

  Meet Avery Mattimoe, my charmless stepdaughter.

  At least I thought she was still my stepdaughter even though her father, my husband, was dead. There’s no easy way out of the Wicked Stepmother gig.

  Apparently, she was screaming at the father of her babies. No one I knew had ever met the man. No one even knew his name. Finally I was about to meet him. And, although I didn’t know it then, I was about to fall in lust.

  How rude (and how typical) of Avery to have children by a man who was just my type.

  Chapter Four

  Little known fact: I had a weakness for men with southern accents. Nothing twangy, thank you. I liked buttery soft vowels and breathy consonants, sort of a cross between Jimmy Carter and Elvis, which was what I heard the first time I heard Nash Grant.

  Although he was shouting at Avery—or maybe because he was shouting at Avery—his voice arrested me. I stood rooted to the plank flooring in Mother Tucker’s foyer, the snow sliding off my boots.

  Odette had to elbow me in the ribs—in my previously broken ribs, I might add—in order to get my attention.

  “Father Unknown’s in town,” she said.

  I couldn’t wait to enter the bar and lay eyes on him. As it turned out, we didn’t need to move. Avery came galumphing past, Nash Grant at her heels.

  Some women look radiant when they cry. Not Avery Mattimoe. Not me, either. We get blotchy. Not that I often let myself cry; I’m the suck-it-up kind. Avery, though, turns on the tears like a garden hose. Somebody should advise her not to. On this occasion, a six-inch string of snot stretched from her nose like a bungee cord as she tore through the foyer.

  Not that I was studying Avery. The man behind her claimed my attention. The man I would later meet and lose my senses over.