by Nina Wright
“Dumb location— on a shallow shelf with too much vegetation for a solid freeze. That’s why Fishburg’s where it is: the ice is more reliable.”
“Roy was there?”
“I was eight, maybe ten, feet from the shanty when he came out, staggering like he was on a bender. I knew Roy back when he was a fall-down drunk. For a minute, I thought he’d been boozing again. His eyes had that crazy look. Then I saw the blood on his jacket.”
“Did you talk to him?” I said.
“I asked if he was hurt. He said it was fish blood. I never saw that much blood on a fisherman. Roy shouted at me to get back. Said the ice was too thin. Sure enough, there were cracks, so I turned around and went back to my shanty. That was all we said to each other. But something wasn’t right.”
It must have been just minutes later when I encountered Roy on his way back to shore. I saw the same haunted expression that Bud had seen, but I went on. Why didn’t I notice the cracks in the ice as I approached the shanty? Maybe it’s true that we can’t see what we’re not looking for.
“Did you tell Jenx, I mean Chief Jenkins, about this?” I asked.
He nodded. “I missed the excitement when you and the shanty fell through. Had a walleye on my line. Later I heard you saw Gil’s body go under the ice, so I called the chief and told her what I seen. She took my statement.”
“Anything else strike you as strange?” I said.
Bud thought about it while he downed what was left of his Schlitz.
“Yesterday morning, real early, when I first saw the shanty, there was a guy out there, skating around it. He looked like a fairy.”
“Gay, you mean? What made you think that?”
“He was wearing a full-length fur coat.”
Chapter Twenty-four
Why did Mr. Oscar Manfred Gribble the Third circle the ice-fishing shanty on skates early yesterday morning?
What was Roy Vickers up to a few hours later when he staggered from the shanty covered with blood?
And where was Gil Gruen’s body?
I pondered those questions as I replaced my pool cue in the rack. I didn’t realize Jeb’s cell phone had rung until he handed it to me.
“Deely Smarr for you,” he said.
“We have a situation,” she said.
“Didn’t we already have one of those?” I groaned.
“Yes, ma’am, we did, and now we have another.”
“Why are you whispering?” I said.
“Consider this a head’s up: your stepdaughter returned here at twenty-one hundred hours and summoned a locksmith to change your locks. He’s on his way now. I suggest you come home ASAP.”
She pronounced the last word “ay-sap.”
“You mean Avery’s locking me out?” I said.
“Yes, ma’am, that’s her plan. May I please speak to Jeb again?”
I passed the phone back to my ex-husband. He listened, murmured a couple responses and closed the call.
“Ready to roll?” he said before I could release the rage within me. “We want to stop the locksmith before he starts. Less of a scene that way.”
Jeb waved good-bye to everyone at the Blue Moon.
“I’ll be playing at the Jamboree tomorrow and taking your requests,” he said.
And hawking CDs, I thought. Maybe he and Deely were already working out a plan to launch his new line of Canine Music.
“That bitch!” I said as soon as we stepped outside.
“Deely’s just trying to be helpful,” Jeb said.
“I mean Avery! Avery’s the bitch! Where will this end?”
“At your front door if we’re lucky. The locksmith she called is a fan of mine. I’m surprised I didn’t see him at the Blue Moon tonight.”
“It’s my house!” I fumed. “Avery has no right to change the locks, whether the locksmith likes your music or not!”
“True. But what people should do and do do are two different things. I’m thinking of writing a song about that.”
“Don’t call it Do Do. If you substitute dogs for people and call the tune Abra’s Theme, you might have a huge canine hit. Deely told me about the soporific power of your Celtic tunes.”
“On dogs,” he clarified. “People stay wide awake.”
“Glad to hear it. Deely seems to think Fleggers could help you get rich.”
“Nash thinks so, too.”
“Nash?”
“He knows advertising. He has lots of ideas to promote my career. It’s what we talk about, mostly. That and you.”
“Me? Nash talks to you about me?”
Jeb didn’t reply. He was straining to unjam the Van Wagon’s passenger door.
“What does Nash want to know about me?” I insisted.
“He’s just curious—about you and Avery and Leo and the twins. You’re related now. Sort of.”
“Do you think he’s . . . attracted to me?” I asked, pretending the answer didn’t matter.
“I think we’d better roll,” Jeb said.
When we arrived at Vestige, we pulled in behind a van labeled Larry’s Lock and Key Services.
“We’re too late,” I said.
“No we’re not,” Jeb countered. “He just got here. Let’s go.”
“Easy for you to say,” I mumbled, trying vainly to open my door. That’s when I realized that the Van Wagon’s passenger door released only from the outside. I could have slid across the seat and over the gear shift lever to use Jeb’s door, but I was annoyed enough to let him walk around and do the honors.
“You need a new car,” I said as I stepped out.
“That’s why I’m hustling CDs,” he replied. “Let me do the talking here, Whiskey. Larry didn’t like you in high school.”
“I don’t remember Larry in high school.”
“Uh-huh,” Jeb said.
When I met Larry the Locksmith, I instantly knew why I didn’t remember him. Larry was one of those types who blend into the background: average face, average height, average weight (well, a little overweight by now) and absolutely zero personality. But who says you need showmanship to be a locksmith? Jeb supplied that element by making a dramatic entrance and immediately taking center stage. Fortunately for us, Larry hadn’t changed out the front door yet, so Jeb was able to fling it open. Both Avery and Larry were standing in the foyer. Avery, her eyes and nose still red from crying, was waiting, arms crossed, while Larry wrote up an estimate.
“Get out!” Avery shouted.
I assumed she meant me even though that was ridiculous since I owned the house. Jeb assumed she meant him.
“Easy, Avery,” he said. “How’s my man Larry?”
The locksmith lighted up. “Good. Real good. How the heck are you, Jeb? Long time no see.”
“I’m doing great. Hey, you need my latest CD. I’ve got a box out in the van. Let’s go get you one.”
“Not so fast!” Avery said. “We’re doing business here.”
Jeb said, “I don’t think so. Larry doesn’t violate the wishes of the homeowner.”
Larry looked confused. “I thought Avery was the homeowner. She said she inherited this house from Leo Mattimoe.”
“Well, she didn’t,” I said, unable to remain silent one moment longer. “Hi, Larry. How the heck are you?”
Larry stared.
“Leo left the house to my ex-wife,” Jeb explained. “Come on, let’s get you a CD!”
Jeb tossed an arm over Larry’s shoulder, and the two men exited.
If ever Avery could have set fire to my hair just by breathing on it, that was the moment. She seethed.
“Get out of here,” she repeated.
Deciding that silence was the safer if not better part of valor, I crossed the foyer toward the staircase. Time for bed.
“Not so fast, Whiskey!” Avery called after me. “We have issues to discuss.”
Without turning around or even breaking my pace, I replied, “Not tonight we don’t. Unless you want to turn in your key and move out before breakf
ast.”
“I’m not going anywhere. Neither are my children. And their father isn’t coming here to see them, even if their step-grandmother invites him in!”
That stopped me. I was on the third step already, so I seized the banister for support.
“Here’s the bottom line, Avery,” I said quietly. “Nash wants to help you and the twins, and believe it or not, so do I. You’re the only person working against your children’s and your own best interests. Get over it.”
I slipped into bed thinking I had never been more eloquent. Leo would have been so proud. Roy, too, would have appreciated my oratory skills. Roy?
It hit me then that the ex-con was somewhere in my house, probably sleeping naked. What if Avery found out? Assuming she knew he was in trouble, she’d have him and me busted for sure. How much trouble was he in? I didn’t think there was a warrant out (yet) for Roy’s arrest. Maybe I couldn’t be convicted of aiding and abetting a killer as long as I didn’t know what he’d done. I winced. Except that I had told Jenx about seeing the blood on Roy. That didn’t make me look innocent.
Someone knocked on my bedroom door. I tried to remember whether I had locked it and decided my best bet was to feign sleep.
Whoever was out there knocked again.
“Whiskey?"
I couldn’t identify the voice.
“Who is it?” I whispered back.
The door opened. I pulled the covers up to my chin. Against the dim light from the hall was a hulking silhouette.
“It’s me. Roy. Can I come in?”
Chapter Twenty-five
What do you say when a well-built septuagenarian ex-con who’s under-dressed and on the lam knocks at your bedroom door?
I said, “ Come in.”
He did, silently closing the door behind him. I switched on my bedside light. Roy was wearing Leo’s old bathrobe. The sleeves ended at Roy’s elbows, the hem an inch above his knees.
“Where did Deely find that?” I asked.
Roy said, “Whiskey, we need to talk. I don’t have much time.”
I motioned for him to sit down in the Morris chair across from my bed. Although Deely had coached me to play don’t-ask-don’t-tell, I couldn’t help myself.
“Where’s Chester?”
“I don’t know,” Roy said. “I wish I did.”
“But you retrieved two of his notes. Plus his puppy.”
“I was on his trail for a while, but I lost him. That’s why I need to get going again. I have a hunch where to look.”
“Tell me!”
Roy shook his head. “You’re better off not knowing. At least for now.”
Exasperated, I punched my pillow. “Then what do you want from me?”
“Clothes, for one thing. I had to dump mine.”
“Was that Gil’s blood?” I said boldly.
“Don’t ask.”
“If you killed Gil—or were involved in Chester’s disappearance—then I’m assisting a felon. That’s obstruction of justice.”
“I would never hurt Chester!” Roy exclaimed, his voice no longer a whisper. In fact, he’d spoken so loudly that we both held our breaths. Had anyone else heard?
There was a knock at my door. Roy’s eyes were round with terror.
When I didn’t answer, a familiar voice said, “Open up, Whiskey. I know where you sleep.”
I signaled for Roy to go into the bathroom. Then I went to the door and peered out.
“Thanks for getting rid of Larry,” I told Jeb. “You can go home now.”
“No wham-bam, only thank-you, ma’am? I saved your locks.”
“And I’m grateful, but not in the carnal sense. Please leave.”
Jeb had braced himself against the door frame with one hand. Now he used the other hand to stroke my hair. I hated that . . . because I loved it.
“Please,” I repeated, not moving.
“Please, what?”
I wished he wouldn’t ask. Standing there in my PJs with Jeb’s fingers in my hair, I was getting hot and bothered. Never mind how wrong it was. Never mind that I had a felon in my bathroom.
“We’re not alone,” I said, deciding that only honesty could save me.
He peered over my shoulder into the bedroom. “I don’t see anyone.”
“Come on out, Roy!” I hissed.
When he did, the men exchanged uneasy greetings.
Jeb said, “I may have underestimated you, Whiskey.”
“It’s not what you think.”
“I’m thinking you’re in way more trouble than I knew about.”
“Speaking of trouble, how did you get back in the house? I was sure Avery would lock you out.”
“She did. But Deely let me in.”
Roy returned to the Morris chair, which left Jeb the choice of standing by the door or sitting on my bed. He chose my bed.
Roy said, “Now one more person knows I was here. That’s not good for any of us”
Jeb the Unflappable told Roy not to worry. “Nobody takes a musician seriously,” he said. “Besides, your secret’s safe with me.”
That brought us back to the question of the hour. What did Roy want?
“I need to borrow your car,” he said. “And a little cash. Say, a hundred bucks.”
“Whiskey,” Jeb said. “Can we talk a minute? In the bathroom?”
I was sure he was going to tell me not to help Roy. Jeb locked the bathroom door and leaned against the sink. I sat on the closed toilet.
“Roy can borrow the Van Wagon,” Jeb said.
“Are you serious?”
“Sure. It’s not the least conspicuous car in the county, but anybody who sees it will think I’m at the wheel. That should help Roy.”
“Why would you want to help Roy?” I asked.
“Because you do. I want what you want. More or less.” Jeb winked.
“But then you won’t have wheels,” I pointed out.
“So you’ll have to drive me. I can live with that.”
When we gave Roy the news, Jeb added, “The Van Wagon’s a little temperamental. There’s a trick to getting her started sometimes. Kind of like Whiskey. . . .”
I cleared my throat. “Not to mention that you can’t open the passenger door from the inside.”
Roy wasn’t fazed. “No problem. My job was maintaining the prison fleet.”
“By the way,” I said, “did you ever replace the antifreeze in my company truck?”
“Yes. And your car. Plus, I tuned up your company snowmobile.”
I’d forgotten about the snowmobile, mainly because Leo used to take care of it. Since his death last spring, I’d ignored its presence in my garage at Vestige.
I was removing five twenties from my wallet when a third person pounded on my door.
“Do you have a man in there?” Avery demanded.
“A man?” I looked from Jeb to Roy. This could be fun. “You think there’s a man in here?”
“Deely said she let Jeb back in. I don’t want him sleeping in my father’s bed!”
“Oh, there’s no chance of that,” I said. “And even less chance of you telling me what to do. Go to bed, Avery! We’ll talk more tomorrow.”
I heard her thumping back down the hall, swearing with every step.
“No chance?” Jeb asked wistfully.
I shook my head and handed Roy the cash.
“I’ll pay you back with interest, Whiskey, from my first paycheck.”
“Yeah, well don’t be gone so long I forget you work for me. Jeb’s going to need his Van Wagon soon.”
“I’ll bring it back by Monday, I promise.”
My newly recharged cell phone buzzed. Who would be calling at 11:30 on a Friday night? Caller ID offered no information.
“Hello?”
“Nice ménage à trois you got going on up there. I didn’t know the hottie realtor was into threesomes.”
Thomas McKondin, a.k.a. C. Richards, R.N., again.
My instinct was to close my phone. But I knew
he must be right outside watching us. Jenx had said he was a voyeur, a peeping tom named Tom.
I activated my speaker phone so that the men in my bedroom could hear his response. Then I stretched out on my bed, where I knew no one outside could see me.
“Feeling lonely tonight, Mr. Nurse Man?” I asked. Jeb and Roy’s jaws dropped.
“Not lonely. Helpful. Nurse Richards is standing by to heal you, baby.”
“Heal me how?” I said, signaling my companions to relax.
“We’re talking sexual healing. Like the Marvin Gaye song.”
Jeb and Roy’s eyes were about to pop out of their heads.
“What can you do for me that these two hunks can’t?” I opened a couple drawers in my nightstand looking for something to write on.
“You’ll have to feel it to believe it,” the fake nurse said.
On a tablet I scribbled:
This pervert is wanted by Jenx and the FBI. He’s outside watching us now.
Roy and Jeb read the note, nodded to each other, and then started toward the door.
“Stop!” I said. The men froze. Thomas McKondin said, “What do you mean, stop? I haven’t got you started yet.”
I motioned for Jeb and Roy to sit down, but they wouldn’t. Roy moved between my north- and west-facing windows. Jeb headed into the bathroom, presumably to check the view from there.
“Your boyfriends can’t see me,” the peeping tom sing-songed, like one child taunting another. “But I can see them. No way they could satisfy you, baby! The one guy’s too old, and the other guy’s James Taylor. Uh-oh. You must have me on speaker phone. Mr. Taylor just gave me the finger.”
Bent low in order to keep out of sight, Jeb reentered the bedroom and signaled me to mute the phone.
“The asshole’s on the west side of the house, but he’s probably moving around. You got lots of trees for him to hide behind. I’m going out there.”
“I wish you wouldn’t,” I said.
“Roy, stay in the window and give him something to watch. Whiskey, keep our friend on the phone.”
“Let Brady or Jenx handle this,” I pleaded. “The guy’s so bad the Fibbies want him. Call 9-1-1.”
“I will. But first I want to know where he is.” Doubled over, Jeb rushed to the bedroom door, opened it as narrowly as possible and slipped out. For a musician, he liked to get macho sometimes.
