Whiskey on the Rocks

by Nina Wright

  “Ms. Mattimoe? I’m Edward Naylor, Ellianna Santy’s brother.” His manicured hand pressed mine lightly. “I understand you manage rental properties.”

  “That’s part of what we do. We’re a full-service real estate agency.”

  The gallon of Lake Michigan I’d swallowed last night had turned my usual contralto purr into a tenor growl. I cleared my throat and added, “I understand that Jenx—I mean, Chief Jenkins—referred you to us.”

  “Yes. Ms. Mutombo said you have a property in mind. I’d like to see several.”

  I glanced at Ms. Mutombo, who offered her lightning-quick shrug before disappearing into her cubicle.

  “I’m sure Ms. Mutombo also explained that you’ve arrived during peak tourist season. Our inns and B&Bs have been booked for a year. To be honest, Mr. Naylor, it’s a fluke that we have even one unit to offer on such short notice.”

  He paused as if weighing what I’d just said.

  “Then I suppose you should show me what you do have.”

  “Does your sister want to come, too?” I hoped not.

  He shook his head. “Ellianna is leaving this matter to me. She has enough to deal with. Losing Gordon was a shock.”

  The woman had my complete sympathy. She also had a damn good-looking brother, who wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. This was the first time since marrying Leo that I’d had that reflex: to glance from a guy’s eyes to the third finger on his left hand. Why did it make me queasy? I knew I wasn’t ready to act on such an impulse, but was it too soon to have it? My ribs throbbed. God is punishing me, I thought. Till I realized I had collided with a file cabinet while reaching for my jacket without taking my eyes off the Canadian. Fortunately, he was checking his Rolex.

  In the car, I savored something else about him: his scent. Edward Naylor smelled the way I thought Ralph Lauren would. Or Robert Redford before he got old: Woodsy. Manly. Rich. Edward wasn’t much of a conversationalist, but I didn’t hold it against him. He was here on a tragic errand, after all. His thoughts were probably with his sister, who was with Jenx at the county morgue.

  At Shadow Play, my prospective client remained quiet. Reading people is my business. I could tell that Edward Naylor approved of the Reitbauers’ taste. He didn’t need to say so.

  When I explained their rental terms, he replied, “Ellianna plans to stay no longer than a week. I’m sure this will be adequate.”

  Then it was time to administer the rental entrance exam—i.e., the Security System Aptitude Test. Please don’t let him turn out to be a techno-boob, I prayed. It would be too embarrassing to watch this hunk fumble a keypad. As it turned out, I barely had to show him how it worked.

  “You must have a system like this in your own house,” I said.

  He didn’t reply. Or if he did, I didn’t hear him because I got lost in the dimple in his right cheek. When I recovered, I reminded him to fill out the rental application form so that I could contact references and run a credit check. “Blah, blah, blah,” I heard myself say; what I really wanted to talk about was him.

  “Ellianna will fill out the form,” he said. “She’s the client, eh.”

  Eh? Noonan had said Canadians talk like that.

  Edward Naylor continued, “I have to return to Fredericton in a day or two.”

  “What do you do there, if I may ask?”

  “I run a small business.”

  A restaurant? A law firm? A male escort service? I strained to imagine this gorgeous man doing anything besides acting or modeling. Maybe he’s a kept man, I thought, who turns the lights on and off for some fortunate older woman.

  Edward Naylor was aloof, but I expect that of the supernaturally beautiful. His sister, on the other hand, turned out to be supernaturally bitchy. I retracted whatever sympathy or empathy I had felt for her as a fellow widow. Ellianna Santy didn’t play well with others. She saw herself as the star of the moment, the sun in the solar system, and so forth. As gorgeous as her brother, she lacked his ability to not piss people off.

  Odette had correctly predicted Mrs. Santy’s general appearance: blonde, willowy, rich. Her uncertainty about whether the eyes were green or blue was justified since they turned out to be turquoise. Edward was darker. I didn’t see a family resemblance.

  “What do you mean, you need to check my ‘references’?” Mrs. Santy said. “Chief Jenkins is my ‘reference,’ or have you forgotten?”

  “Actually, Chief Jenkins referred us to you.”

  She stared at me as if I were too far down the evolutionary scale to comprehend. Thank God her brother jumped in.

  “I’ll help you fill out the form, Ellie,” he said, placing his broad hand over her slender white one. “It won’t take long.”

  “It had better not. I have business to conduct. If everyone in this town is as dense as the people I’ve met so far, we’ll be here for weeks.”

  Edward eased her toward the table where Odette had laid out the necessary documents and writing instruments.

  “What does one have to do to be served a beverage in this establishment?” Mrs. Santy demanded.

  Odette smiled helpfully, indicating the water cooler and coffeemaker. “One need only serve oneself,” she said and faded into her cubicle.

  As soon as the Stunning Sibling Team had finished their paperwork and paid one week’s rent plus deposit, I gave them Shadow Play’s key and security code. According to the clause in our contract, I should have gotten Mrs. R’s written approval, but I figured these people were her kind of people. All about Money and Attitude. Besides, Mrs. R knew what I was doing.

  Edward gave me a polite smile and handshake; Ellianna didn’t. I half-hoped she had bad credit so I could bust her. Then again I didn’t want to have to act ugly in front of her better-behaved brother. Given the circumstances of their visit, and the volume of my business, I doubted I would even check Ellianna’s background. Now if Edward were the client, I’d leap at the chance to investigate him. Is he single? Affluent? And what about this “small business” he runs in New Brunswick?

  After they left, I phoned Mrs. R to make sure she approved the arrangement. She said she did, so I faxed her a copy of the signed contract.

  Then Noonan flung open our front door. Her spiky hair looked pricklier than usual, and her round eyes were red.

  “She accused me of killing her husband!”

  I didn’t need to ask who she meant.

  “That women is wicked!” Noonan said. “Why would I kill anybody? I’m a healer!”

  “Everyone knows that.” I put my arm around her muscular shoulders.

  “Mrs. Santy said I got him so excited he had a heart attack. I told her I don’t give that kind of massage!” She blew her nose angrily.

  “Of course you don’t! You’re a trained professional.”

  I had heard of paid sex-providers who also described themselves that way, but Noon seemed to take comfort.

  She said, “I told Mrs. Santy her husband was dead before I even started. You know what she said to that?”

  I couldn’t imagine.

  “She said, ‘Then someone must have worn him out first.’ What was that supposed to mean?”

  “He had a woman in town,” Odette interjected.

  I said, “I don’t know. He looked like a nice guy in Jenx’s photo.”

  “He was dead in Jenx’s photo,” Odette reminded me. “His wife thinks he was having an affair here. Having met her, I can only hope it’s true.”

  Noonan said, “He told me he was driving to Chicago.”

  Odette shrugged. “Maybe he was. Maybe he wasn’t. Maybe he was nothing like he looked.”

  “I liked his looks,” said Noonan.

  “Me, too,” I said, remembering Jenx’s photo. “We should all look that good. Alive.”

  Chapter Four

  Mrs. Santy didn’t bother me. Much. I deal with unreasonable, high-maintenance types every day. It’s not as if she’d accused me of anything . . . other than being a realtor. But my reaction to her ha
ndsome brother was unsettling.

  I left the office early for the second day in a row. Early in this biz is before 8 PM. Since Leo died, I tried to make the least of the dinner hour. He and I used to make the most of it: he cooked, I assisted. Mostly by pouring good wine and holding up my end of our conversations about the future. We thought we had a lot of that.

  These days, I was in the habit of stopping by Mother Tucker’s. No relation, just my favorite restaurant run by two good people. Walter and Jonny St. Mary are a long-committed gay couple retired from previous lives in Chicago. Now they feed the tourists and lonely working folk of this town.

  “Will it go away soon?” Walter asked as he poured me my second glass of a very fine Riesling. He was referring to the hubbub over Gordon Santy’s untimely demise.

  “If Crouch can confirm he had a heart attack, and the widow can’t find a smoking . . . whatever.” I giggled, feeling the tingle of Walter’s wine.

  “Ah, yes. The Other Woman Scenario,” Walter sighed. “I hear Mrs. Santy is a shrew. Is her beautiful brother straight?”

  Caught in mid-swallow, I stared at him. It hadn’t occurred to me that the gorgeous, aloof Edward might be gay.

  “I don’t know. I just thought he was Canadian. Does he seem gay to you?”

  “I haven’t talked to him.” Walter’s lustrous white hair gleamed in the bar light. It occurred to me that I might have been attracted to Walter if I hadn’t known he was gay. I chugged the rest of my wine.

  “Hit me again.”

  “Slow down, Whiskey,” Walter said. “This stuff isn’t potent, but it is precious. Jonny and I paid sixty dollars for the bottle. It’s not meant for guzzling.”

  “Then switch me to the cheap stuff.”

  Walter kissed my cheek. “Go home, dear. You have a dog to feed. And Jonny has your dinner ready.”

  This was the routine we’d fallen into: I’d have a couple, three glasses of expensive wine, and then Jonny, the chef half of the team, would pack me a deluxe go-box of the nightly gourmet special.

  “What am I having?” I asked Walter.

  “Broiled lake perch almandine with locally grown corn on the cob and garlic mashed potatoes. Peach pie for dessert. If you want it à la mode, you’ll have to stop at Food Duck for a pint of vanilla.”

  “No à la mode necessary.”

  “The Canadians felt the same way. They had what you’re having.”

  I cupped my chin in my hand and smiled at Walter. “What do you think of them—really?”

  “Scenic but chilly. Like the country they come from.”

  The phone at Vestige started ringing as I was entering my security code. That morning I’d taken the time to activate the alarm. Abra wouldn’t win another free pass to the outside world if I could help it. When I entered, she ignored me, as usual. But the aromatic lake perch in my go-box had her attention.

  I grabbed the phone on the fourth ring, a split second before the machine could pick up.

  “What do you want to hear first—the bad news or the not-so-bad news?”

  I recognized Jenx’s voice.

  “You’re calling me with news that’s not so bad?”

  “And bad news, too. What order do you want it in?”

  “Hit me with the hard stuff.”

  “Shadow Play’s been burglarized. Mr. Naylor called it in. The alarm system failed. He claims he set it, but it never went off. Somebody broke in while he and his sister were at dinner.”

  “What was taken?”

  “We’ll need your help to answer that one. Some of Mrs. Santy’s jewelry, for sure. I assume the Reitbauers left you an inventory of household contents.”

  They had.

  “Any damage?” I asked.

  “The back door’s broken, but I haven’t noticed anything else. I just got here, though.”

  I sagged against the kitchen wall. “What’s the not-so-bad news?”

  “Mrs. Santy might not sue you.”

  Jenx suggested I come to Shadow Play as soon as I could. I took three greedy bites of Mother Tucker’s perch filets before stuffing the box in the fridge and taking Abra out to relieve herself. I let her pull me around the house; then we went back inside. But she craved more action. As I was leaving, she slipped out the kitchen door with me. I tried to tackle her in the breezeway. Abra bounded over to my car and placed her paws on the passenger door. Although I managed to set the alarm, Naughty Dog got to go for a car ride.

  I was surprised to see young Officer Swancott at the scene. In the glare from his patrol car’s headlights, Brady was posting crime scene tape around Shadow Play’s bashed-in back door.

  “Do you have to do that?” I said, rolling down my window. Abra leapt across my lap and out. “Damn that dog!”

  Brady said, “No problem, Whiskey. I got Officer Roscoe with me. He’ll bring her in.”

  Officer Roscoe was Brady’s assistant, a dignified German Shepherd trained by the Michigan state police. When Brady whistled, Roscoe appeared from around the corner of the house and stood at attention. Brady barked a command. Roscoe dashed off to execute it.

  “Thanks,” I said. “But does this have to look like a crime scene?”

  “It is a crime scene.”

  “I know. But that yellow tape is bad for business.”

  Brady pondered the situation and then yanked the tape down. I asked where I could find Jenx.

  “Inside,” he said. “Interviewing Mrs. Santy and Mr. Naylor. Let’s go in this way.”

  He opened the previously sealed door, and we followed Mrs. Santy’s anxious voice into the master bedroom. Three faces turned our way. Jenx’s looked as smooth and mulish as ever, but the other two were strained.

  “I thought you said the alarm system was state-of-the-art,” Mrs. Santy began. To her brother she added, “She told you the same thing, eh?”

  Eh again. Before I could reply, Jenx said, “Thanks for getting here so fast, Whiskey. Mrs. Santy is missing a watch—”

  “Not a ‘watch,’” Mrs. Santy snapped. “A Piaget. If that means anything to you people.”

  “We get it,” I said.

  Jenx continued, “Mrs. Santy hid her other jewelry before they went out, and the intruder didn’t find it.“

  “My other jewelry is antique—priceless family heirlooms.” The Canadian beauty fixed her icy eyes on me. “You’d be in deep, deep trouble if they were gone.”

  Edward Naylor laid a calming hand on his sister’s arm. He spoke softly. “Ms. Mattimoe, I didn’t notice anything missing from the house, but I did observe that the safe is damaged.”

  He indicated the Reitbauers’ built-in closet vault. The safe was intact, but the keypad was smashed.

  “Somebody must have pounded on it,” I observed.

  “Obviously,” sneered Mrs. Santy. “A junkie, probably. We might as well be in Detroit.”

  Outside Abra let loose her freakish howl, somewhere between a wild dingo sound and a dying human sound.

  “What is that?” cried Mrs. Santy.

  Jenx glared at me. “You brought her along?”

  “She brought herself, actually. I had very little to do with it.”

  “Jesus, Whiskey, this is a crime scene.”

  “I know, I saw the tape.”

  Before Jenx could reply, Mrs. Santy started screaming and didn’t seem able to stop. We all looked where she was looking, through the window to the floodlit terrace. Abra stood in the center, something dark and shapeless dangling from her mouth.

  “Shit,” hissed Jenx. “She went and stole somebody’s purse again!”