Whiskey Straight Up

by Nina Wright

  That was when I realized that I should check with Chester’s friends from the private school he attended . . . if only I had a list of his friends or could recall the name of his school. Someone picked him up and dropped him off every day. I didn’t even know that person’s name.

  Oh yes, I’m a very, very, very bad child-care provider. . . . What was Cassina thinking when she left her son with me?

  The digital clock on my desk read 6:34. If I were going to attend tonight’s Town Meeting, and as a Main Street Merchant—not to mention as Roy Vickers’s new employer—I should, then I’d have to leave at once. But someone at Vestige should be on the lookout for Chester. I peered into the nursery, formerly the family room. The unnamed nanny was curled on the floral loveseat, reading a paperback through glasses with clear plastic frames. When I coughed softly, she glanced up.

  “Hi,” I began.

  To my surprise, she stood at attention.

  “Deely Smarr,” she said, as if replying to roll call.

  “Whiskey Mattimoe,” I returned.

  “I know. Can I help you, ma’am?”

  Ma’am? Such formality impressed me. I was also struck by how familiar she looked, yet this nanny was new, on duty for less than a week. She was a muscular girl inclining toward fat. Who did she remind me of?

  “I hope you can help me,” I said. “I need to leave for a couple hours, but my houseguest Chester is—uh—missing, along with his puppy, and I’m worried about him. About Chester, I mean. The dog can probably take care of himself if he takes after his mother. . . .”

  I was babbling, and we both knew it. Deely Smarr waited for me to continue. I wasn’t sure what else to say.

  “Could you—uh—keep an eye and ear open, in case Chester calls or, better yet, comes home?”

  “Yes, ma’am. No problem. I have a lot of experience standing watch.”

  So Deely Smarr was ex-military. That explained the formality. But I still didn’t know why she seemed familiar. Leah whimpered in her crib, and the nanny looked toward the sound. Then I got it: Deely Smarr looked amazingly like the baby’s mother—only bespectacled with shorter hair and a proportionately smaller build, though not much smaller. Had Avery unconsciously hired her own double to take care of her kids?

  I thanked Deely and headed out. Three paces later, I turned back.

  “If Abra comes scratching at the door, I suppose you should let her in, too.”

  “Yes, ma’am, I will.”

  “Army?” I asked.

  “Coast Guard.”

  “Really? What job?”

  “D.C., ma’am.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Damage Controlman.”

  I nodded. “Carry on.”

  By the time I arrived at the Town Hall, available parking spaces were as scarce as green grass in January. I ended up parallel-parking my Lexus RX 330—a mid-sized SUV—on Schuyler Street, two blocks away.

  My nose and eyes were leaking from the cold when I flung open the Town Hall’s oversized door to find standing room only. Gil’s posters had served their purpose. Half the adult population of Magnet Springs was there. I leaned against the door and scanned the packed room. In attendance were Odette and Tina, as well as Peg Goh of the Goh Cup, Noonan Starr, Walter St. Mary, and other local business owners. Missing was Dr. David Newquist. What did that mean? That David didn’t respect Gil enough to attend the meeting, or that Gil had humiliated David into staying away?

  Jenx was there with her partner, Henrietta Roca, proprietor of Red Hen’s House, bar none the best inn in town. The presence of our police chief meant that Officers Swancott and Roscoe were on patrol. I fervently hoped that they would apprehend Chester and Prince Harry before our meeting concluded. It was way too frosty out there for either boy or beast.

  A ripple of whispers passed through the crowd as Mayor Gil Gruen stepped up on the stage at the end of the hall. For the occasion he had removed his ever-present Stetson, which he held before his chest like a shield. No one could miss his swagger or the fact that his cowboy boots added two inches to his height.

  “Good evening, ladies and gents,” he bellowed into an over-amplified microphone.

  “Step back!” and “Turn it down!” his audience roared in reply.

  After a few adjustments, Gil continued at a loud but tolerable volume: “Thank you all for answering my call to duty tonight. We, the citizens of Magnet Springs, are facing the kind of crisis that separates the men from the boys.”

  When the ardent feminists in the crowd protested, Gil made a mock defensive maneuver and amended his comment.

  “And the ladies from the girls. How’s that?”

  “Women, not ladies!” Henrietta Roca shouted back.

  Gil glared at her for just an instant, and then bowed excessively, sweeping the brim of his Stetson across the floor at his feet.

  “Whatever your gender—or preference,” he said acidly, “you’re here tonight because your livelihood may be at risk. I don’t need to remind you that our 42nd Annual Ice-Fishing Jamboree starts tomorrow. As I speak, hundreds of tourists with fat wallets in their back pockets are pointing their cars toward Magnet Springs. Many have been coming here their whole lives. But they might never come again once they learn of the threat among us.”

  The room was silent. No one seemed to breathe.

  “This very afternoon, a man whose name means Shame in Magnet Springs returned to our fair town with the intention of spending the rest of his days here. This man is a violent man. A convicted felon who tried to murder in cold blood a good man, a man we all respected. Nine years ago—almost to the day—Roy Edgar Vickers, known then as the town drunk, savagely attacked Leo Mattimoe, stabbing him multiple times in the chest and leaving him for dead. For that crime, Roy Vickers was sentenced to life in prison. But you know as well as I do how the prison system works. Too many bad guys, not enough space in the jails. So today Roy Vickers was paroled, making him our problem—yours and mine. What was the first thing that the would-be killer did? He came straight back to the scene of his crime. And what happened next? You’re not going to believe this, ladies and gents. I mean—sorry—” Gil lowered his head in Hen Roca’s direction, “—women and men. Good women and men. . . . ”

  Gil cleared his throat.

  “Roy Vickers found himself a job. That’s right. A scant three hours out of the slammer, and the convict got himself hired, right here in Magnet Springs. Who in their right mind would hire him, you say? Who in their right mind, indeed! Well, hold onto your horses. The ex-con’s new boss is none other than the gal who was once married to his victim. That’s right—the traitor among us is my fellow real-estate broker and your neighbor, Whitney Houston Halloran Mattimoe.”

  Picking up its cue, the crowd gasped collectively. Of course, the response was mere sound effect. Given the small size and gossipy nature of Magnet Springs, no one in the hall was hearing the news for the first time. But when it came to orating, Gil was skilled. What audience doesn’t crave entertainment? This was just plain good theater. It got better: When Gil raised the hand that didn’t hold the Stetson and pointed a finger straight at me, every face turned to stare. Even the faces belonging to my friends. What can I say? They were following stage directions.

  As they studied me, my nose still dripping from the cold (why did I always forget to carry tissues?), Gil declared, “Of course, you know her as ‘Whiskey’—a nickname we’ve never questioned. And yet—”

  “I gave her that nickname, back in seventh grade.”

  I felt the weight of the crowd’s gaze shift from me to the shadows on the far right side of the hall. Of course, I knew the voice before its owner stepped forward: Jeb Halloran, my first husband.

  He was also my first kiss, my first sexual encounter, my excuse for leaving Magnet Springs, and my reason for coming home again when our stormy marriage disintegrated. Although we could never make the magic work for long, we could never hate each other, either. An itinerant musician who looked and sou
nded like a younger James Taylor still searching for his style, Jeb drifted between gigs. I hadn’t known he was back in town or noticed him when I arrived in the hall, probably because he showed up after I did and entered by the side door. Jeb would never have two nickels to his name, but his charm would last forever.

  “It was her voice, Gil,” Jeb continued. “I loved the sound of her whiskey voice. And I still do.” Jeb turned toward me and winked. I winked back.

  God love the good ex-husbands of the world. They’re out there.

  Suddenly the door at my back was yanked away from me. I staggered backwards as cold air rushed in, along with Roy Vickers.

  Chapter Seven

  Gil Gruen made a show of checking his watch.

  “You’re late, Roy. The meeting started at seven o’clock sharp. And you’ll have to park your dog outside.”

  All eyes were on Roy’s dog, or more accurately on the dog in Roy’s arms. The puppy, that is: Prince Harry the Pee Master.

  “Is Chester all right?” I asked Roy, taking the squirming pup from him.

  “I didn’t find Chester, Whiskey. Just the dog. Sorry.”

  My heart clenched. “Where?”

  “Excuse me, you two!” Gil called out. “The rest of Magnet Springs is holding a meeting here. You can hear all about it later. Go conduct your private business somewhere else.”

  “Not so fast,” Roy said. “I have something to say to everybody in this room.”

  To my astonishment, he strode up the center aisle toward the stage. Gil clutched the microphone so tightly that his knuckles whitened.

  “This ain’t no debate, Roy,” Gil sputtered. “I’m conducting a meeting here. It’s my show!”

  Ignoring him, Roy stepped nimbly onto the stage and faced the audience. He didn’t need a mike to make every word heard.

  “Folks, in case you don’t know me from when I used to live here—and even if you do—let me introduce myself. My name’s Roy Vickers. I did a terrible thing nine years ago, and I got no excuse for it. That’s why I stand before you tonight. To ask you to try to understand something that it took me a long time to learn: I need to earn forgiveness. It’s the only way I can make my life count, and no man’s life should be wasted. I’m talking Cosmic Balance here. To restore that, I have to do good works in this town, where I once did something that was pure evil. Sadly, it’s too late for me to make personal amends to Leo Mattimoe. So I’m starting with the people he loved. Mrs. Whiskey Mattimoe is giving me the chance I need to begin making things right. In time, I intend to do good for every single citizen of Magnet Springs. If you’ll just give me a chance. Thank you.”

  Jeb Halloran applauded slowly, his hands held high. After a few beats, others joined in. Soon most of the house was clapping. Noonan Starr turned in her seat to face me, tears coursing down her cheeks. She was radiant.

  Prince Harry yipped his approval. I felt rather than saw the second part of his response when a warm puddle formed in the crook of my arm. We slipped outside and I placed him in the middle of the snow-cleared sidewalk, as Chester would have done, but the pup had already finished his business. My sleeve dripped. I said, “Where’s Chester, Prince Harry? Why did he run away?”

  The puppy cocked his fuzzy head at me and whimpered. For a fleeting moment I almost believed he was trying to tell me something. If only I’d had my Dogs-Train-You-dot-com Communication Cheat Sheet.

  “What’s going on, boy?” I said. “Where did Roy find you?”

  “Wouldn’t you rather talk to someone who can talk back?”

  To identify that voice I didn’t need to turn around. So I didn’t. I leaned forward and scooped the pup onto my already soggy arm.

  “Thanks, Jeb, for standing up for me.”

  “No big deal. Gil should remember how you got your nickname. He was there.”

  “That’s right. He was in Mrs. Dimmitt’s class with us.”

  “That’s why he hates you today.”

  “Pardon?”

  Jeb grinned. “You don’t remember, do you? But Gil does. He asked you to the Middle-School Mixer. You said no, and you didn’t let him down easy.”

  “You and I were going steady!” I said, suddenly recalling the scene.

  “Lucky me.”

  I smiled at my ex-husband. Under the post lamp, he was as handsome as ever, maybe more so. Why is it that the first lines in a woman’s face make her look old, whereas the first lines in a man’s face make him look like a grown-up, finally?

  “How ya doin’, Whiskey?”

  “Better. And worse. I lost Chester.”

  Jeb nodded as if women misplaced kids every day.

  “But you found a dog.”

  “I didn’t. Roy did. It’s Chester’s dog.”

  That was the first time anyone had said so, yet it had been true for weeks. The only reason Prince Harry hadn’t been adopted was that Chester didn’t want anyone else to have him. Why hadn’t I seen that? It was Chester’s subtle way of making sure he’d get a dog of his own while his pet-phobic mother was otherwise engaged. If Chester were standing in front of me, I would have congratulated him. How I wished Chester were standing in front of me.

  “Everybody’s going to come pouring out those doors any second,” Jeb said. “How about we grab a cup of coffee? Or something stronger?”

  I nodded toward Prince Harry.

  “Underneath the dog, I got a sleeve full of pee.”

  “So I guess we’re going back to your place,” Jeb said. “You do know how to make coffee, don’t you?”

  “Instant.”

  He made a face. “I know you know how to open a bottle of beer.”

  “I can even operate a corkscrew.”

  “That’s my girl.” He wrapped an arm around me and guided me toward the street.

  “You got a car parked somewhere?” I asked.

  “Nope. If you’re sweet—and you crack the windows—I’ll let you drive. No offense, but you smell like piss.”

  Before long I was wearing a dry sweater, and I had the beginnings of a very nice buzz. Partly from the Glenfiddich and tall water Jeb had poured from my own bar. Partly from the back rub he was giving me. Scotch was Jeb’s drink, not mine. Since I generally limited myself to wine and beer, I was surprised to learn I had a bottle of scotch on hand. Leo had drunk bourbon.

  It started as a platonic back rub. But it was loaded with memories of back rubs gone by. Back rubs from our wild and crazy twenties that had ended with us tearing off each other’s clothes. The truth is that nobody alive knew my body better than Jeb Halloran. Except, in her own way, Noonan Starr. But Noonan was a health-care professional, so her back rubs belonged in a completely different category.

  I should have known that the liquor’s “slow burn,” as Jeb called it, would get me in trouble. The bar and the leather couch we were using were in Leo’s former home office. Although I had tried to redo the room as a library, I had been only partly successful. My late husband’s vibes lingered everywhere. That was probably why I agreed to a second scotch: to help me forget about Leo and focus on Jeb’s expert back rub.

  After a while, I became aware that I was on my back, and Jeb was on top of me. It was all so familiar somehow that it didn’t seem wrong. In fact, it felt like exactly what I needed.

  Until Reality came knocking in the form of Avery Mattimoe.

  At least I had remembered to close the library door, and Jeb had had the presence of mind to lock it. So Avery was reduced to pounding and shouting.

  “Whiskey! Are you in there? Chester’s puppy just peed all over the nursery, and I’m not cleaning it up!”

  First I pulled my lips away from Jeb’s. Then I shoved him off of me. With a grunt, he landed on the carpeted floor.

  “Whiskey?” Avery called. “What’s going on in there?”

  “Uh, nothing.” I sat up so quickly that the room spun.

  “Then open the damned door!”

  That was when I realized that my sweater was missing. Fortunately, I s
till had my bra on, and my pants, but that wouldn’t be good enough for Avery. I couldn’t think of a single good reason why I’d be reading topless. Plus, I probably smelled of scotch, and I didn’t have a book handy. And what to do about Jeb? I’d have to put him somewhere. He was on his feet, moving toward the bar.

  “No! No more scotch!” I hissed at him.

  “What did you say?” called Avery.

  Jeb shook his head and ducked behind the bar. My foggy brain finally got it: he was hiding.

  “Uh—just a minute,” I told Avery. “I’m looking for . . . a bookmark. . . .”

  Actually, I was looking for my pullover. In every corner of the room.

  “Just fold back the corner of the page,” she snapped. “Why’d you lock the door, anyway?”

  “For privacy,” I said. “I like to read privately.”

  “Since when?”

  As I bent down to check under the couch, I nearly tipped all the way over.

  “Yikes,” I muttered, catching myself.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Avery bellowed. “Just open the door!”

  Something soft and fuzzy struck me in the back of the head. Not a dog this time. My missing sweater. Jeb must have found it. I pulled it on, ran my fingers through my mop of curly hair, and checked to make sure that my visitor was out of sight. Then I took a deep breath and opened the door.

  Avery was wearing men’s pajamas, her heavy arms crossed over her ample chest. She looked the very embodiment of Pissed Off. But the second she saw me her expression shifted to suspicious.

  “Where’s your book?” she said.

  “I re-shelved it.” I stepped into the hall and clicked the door shut behind me.

  Avery narrowed her piggy little eyes. “You reek of scotch. Is that what you use Dad’s office for? To get drunk in?”