by Nina Wright
“Maybe not,” I said lamely. “Maybe she found it in the street.“
“Somebody, get that goat out of here!” shrieked Ellianna Santy. Then she fainted.
What makes people mistake my dog for a goat? By the time Jenx, Brady, and I reached Abra, Officer Roscoe was on the case, attempting to subdue her with one of those fancy police moves he had learned in East Lansing. Unfortunately, Abra mistook his professional vigor for sexual ardor. This dog’s no Nesbitt, she must have thought, for she eagerly assumed the position. Her response confused Roscoe. Apparently they didn’t cover that contingency in Canine SWAT School. Human Officer Swancott snatched the handbag from Abra’s grinning mouth and ordered Roscoe back to the patrol car. He sailed in through the open passenger-side window. With difficulty, I wrestled the whining Affie into my vehicle, sealed the windows, and activated the child-proof locks. She continued howling and making bedroom eyes at Roscoe, but he ignored her. Clearly, he was still on the clock.
Inside Shadow Play, Brady and Jenx had donned surgical gloves and were examining Abra’s find. They glanced up when I entered.
“Can I just go ahead and pay the fine this time?” I said, cringing at memories of Abra’s purse-snatching past and the court hearings that followed. “I thought she was rehabilitated.”
“She might be,” Jenx said. “This time she might be on our side.”
“I doubt it.” I peered over Jenx’s shoulder at what looked like an expensive leather purse, none the worse for Abra’s mauling.
“Check out the ID.” Jenx flipped open an eel-skin wallet to display a Michigan driver’s license.
I studied it. “So?”
Brady said, “Probably our thief. This was in the bag, too.”
He produced a gleaming gold wristwatch, edged in diamonds.
Jenx whistled. “I take it that ain’t cut glass.”
“Probably worth about thirteen thousand,” I said.
“Dollars?” Jenx said. She whistled again. “But does it keep better time than my Timex?”
“There’s something else,” Brady said. From the purse he carefully withdrew a square wood-framed watercolor, about five inches by five. Instantly I recognized it from my walk-through last night. It had adorned the master bathroom wall next to the vanity; I remembered because it was one of the few paintings in the house I had liked: cottony clouds floating in an azure sky.
“I thought Mr. Naylor said nothing was missing,” I said.
“He probably didn’t check the bathroom,” replied Jenx, “or else he didn’t notice. This isn’t very big.”
“But it’s valuable,” Brady announced. “It’s a Warren Matheney. See?” He pointed to the artist’s signature. Jenx’s eyebrows arched.
“Geez,” she whispered.
“So what?” I said.
The officers stared at me. “You don’t know Warren Matheney? ‘Cloud Man’?”
“Should I?”
They exchanged glances. Jenx said, “You ought to get out more, Whiskey. Warren Matheney had a show at the West Shore Gallery last month.”
“I’m not into watercolor. Is he supposed to be good?”
“Like the best in the Midwest,” Brady said. “He’s been on Oprah.”
“And the cover of People magazine,” Jenx said. They looked at each other again. I had the feeling, and not for the first time, that most people knew things I didn’t.
Brady added, “Cloud Man’s popular because his paintings help people relax. Stare at this a minute.”
I did. Brady was right; the picture was soothing. Kind of like white noise.
“So you’re saying this is worth something?”
“I take it you haven’t seen the news this week,” said Jenx. “Warren Matheney was found dead in his Chicago apartment.”
“He’ll never paint again,” Brady said. “So his stuff just got super expensive. I’ll bet this little number’s worth at least a hundred grand now.”
“Get out of here!” I snorted.
“Brady should know,” Jenx said. “He’s doing his master’s in art history, aren’t you, bud?”
“Nights and weekends. On-line through Northwestern.”
“But if that picture is worth that kind of money, why didn’t Mrs. R have me put it in their safe?”
“Maybe she forgot she had it,” Brady replied. “The Reitbauers have a lot of nice stuff. And they haven’t stayed here much. That’s an early Matheney. Circa ’78.”
“How can you tell?” I said.
Brady pointed to the picture. “Those are cumulus clouds. From his Cumulus Period. Matheney moved on to Cirrus and then Nimbostratus. He was flirting with Cumulonimbus when he died.”
We heard a low moan from the bedroom.
“Should someone look in on Mrs. Santy?” I said.
Jenx said, “Her brother’s in there.”
“I hate to sound like a nag. But shouldn’t you be chasing the person whose purse this is? Before she gets away?”
“Oh, she’s long gone by now,” yawned Jenx. “We called the sheriff.”
“His boys are better at pursuit,” Brady explained. To Jenx he added, “Want me to do a look-around? Canine-Officer Roscoe could use the exercise.”
Chapter Five
None of us knew Heather Nitschke. She was the leading suspect, the assumed owner of the leather bag. Hers was the name on the Michigan driver’s license brought to us by Abra.
The sheriff’s office ran her ID through the system and, like us, drew a blank. Ellianna Santy showed no interest in the recovered Matheney; neither she nor her brother had noticed it on the bathroom wall. Nor did Mrs. Santy seem grateful to see her Piaget again. She declared that the Reitbauers and I should give thanks that she didn’t plan to sue for emotional distress. Jenx volunteered Brady and Roscoe for overnight guard duty. I promised to notify the Reitbauers, make sure the back door was repaired or replaced, and dispatch a security technician to reprogram the alarm system. When Abra resumed howling, Mrs. Santy was still seething.
“Why can’t they stop that ungodly sound?” she asked her brother.
I took a long look at Edward Naylor and felt a fleeting kinship with Abra. We were both horny. And hopeless.
Back home, Abra and I tried to exit the vehicle at the same time through the same door. It wasn’t pretty. As I recovered my balance, a shadowy figure flew from the breezeway straight at me. I screamed. Abra yelped. Chester screamed back.
When the hysteria had subsided, he said, “I have a suggestion: Next time you remember to lock the door and turn on the alarm, don’t forget to check the windows.”
“I left a window open?” I said.
Chester flashed three fingers.
“Why didn’t the alarm system tell me that?”
“It did, but you didn’t listen.”
“You broke into my house!” I pointed out.
“Sometimes I have to. If you lock the door.”
“What are you doing here, Chester?” It was after 9:30 on a school night. “Are you locked out of your house again?”
Unlike me, Chester’s mother always secures their house. Sometimes she secures it so well that her own son can’t get in. I guess she forgets which side of the door she left him on. In her defense, Chester’s mother is extremely busy. In fact, she’s a superstar. She’s Cassina—the sexy yet spiritual harpist-slash-singer frequently seen on TV and the covers of supermarket tabloids. Chester had mentioned that she was about to launch a world tour promoting her latest CD, Cumulus Love. At least I think that’s what it’s called. Chester left a copy of the CD here somewhere, but I haven’t played it. I’m not into harp music. Cassina has one of those ethereal voices that’s supposed to remind you of heaven.
She and her entourage are often on tour. Usually she leaves Chester behind in the care of some nanny. But live-in help is short-lived at their house, which locals call The Castle. I conclude that Chester’s mother, like her son, is VHM (Very High Maintenance). Rumor has it that Cassina wears out the hired help
faster than most people wear out their socks.
Even when Cassina is in Michigan, she’s usually not home. She prefers to hang out at some kind of studio-slash-retreat near Traverse City. Occasionally Chester accompanies her, but more often she leaves him next door with one hired stranger or another. Chester has developed the habit of admitting himself to Vestige, whether I’m here or not, whether he’s locked out or not, whether I’ve locked up or not. Abra loves him. I . . . like him. But I sometimes wonder if his mother locks him out on purpose. He gets attention over here, and he craves attention.
Chester explained that Cassina and Company were in Traverse City, “laying down tracks.” He was sure they’d be back by Friday.
“I guess they forgot to call The Service,” he said. The Service is what Chester calls the army of nannies, maids, gardeners, cooks, and chauffeurs Cassina hires. Abra was cleaning his glasses without bothering to remove them from his nose. Most Afghan hounds aren’t into licking, but this one loves to taste Chester’s face.
“Do you want to phone your mother about her . . . oversight?” I said.
Through smeary lenses, his eyes were earnest. “I’d rather not, thank you.”
“So—do you want some Mother Tucker’s take-home?”
“If you have enough to share.”
I did. And I’m handy enough in the kitchen to reheat Jonny’s food the way he intended. The three of us sat around the kitchen table chewing contentedly. Then I cleaned up while Chester walked Abra, or, rather, while Abra dragged Chester in circles out back. I left a brief message on Cassina’s voice mail that her son was here; I didn’t expect a response.
Back inside, his face flushed from fresh air and exercise, Chester announced, “I have an offer for you, Whiskey. A business proposition.”
“I’m listening.”
“Abra and I get along great. Right?”
“Right.”
“But Abra and you—well, you’ve got issues. Right?”
“Issues? I wouldn’t put it that strongly,” I lied.
Chester said, “She went to jail because you couldn’t handle her!”
“Abra went to court-mandated therapy because she has criminal tendencies. Those purse-snatchings would have happened no matter what. The dog-shrink said so.”
Actually, the dog-shrink had said Abra was “acting out” her anger over Leo’s death. I believed she was “acting out” her anger over my survival.
“What about the other night?” Chester persisted. “She almost drowned!”
“I saved her! You’re forgetting that part.”
“Because I told you to!”
“What’s your point?”
“I’d like to offer my services as Abra’s keeper.”
“You mean, like a zookeeper?”
“Like a guardian. I’ll train her and protect her from danger.”
“Does that include suicide attempts?”
“There’ll never be another one while I’m on the job. I’ll keep her safe.”
“But can you keep Magnet Springs safe from her?”
“I’m just one kid, but I’ll do my best. What do you say?”
Abra was sitting next to him, staring at me. I thought I detected a threat in her eyes.
“I suppose the decision should be Abra’s,” I said.
At that she leapt into the air, performed a canine double-axle, and landed on Chester’s head.
“You’re hired. What are your rates?”
“I’ll draw up a contract,” he said, rolling on the floor with his new charge.
“A contract?”
“I’m a professional, Whiskey. Just like you.”
That reminded me: I needed to call the Reitbauers and inform them of the break-in. I got the answering machine featuring a message from Robert Reitbauer, who sounded a good deal older than his wife. I explained what had happened, emphasizing that no one was hurt, and everything was recovered.
I had barely returned the phone to its cradle when it rang. Mrs. Reitbauer sounded like a teen-ager although she was almost thirty. We had never met face to face, but I knew people who had met her. No one I knew had met her husband, the cement baron.
“Whiskey? It’s like a trauma. You said one of my watercolors got stolen?”
“Yes, but it was recovered. No damage.”
“Which one?” she asked.
“The Matheney.”
She gasped. “No way!”
“Yes. The tenant got her watch back, too. A Piaget. And no one was hurt.”
Mrs. R said, “You gotta catch the creep who stole my painting!”
That seemed a tall order for a realtor. I told her the police were working on it.
“Cool, that’s cool. I’m like so relieved. Oh—did you need something?”
I explained that our contract gave me the authority to act on her behalf in managing the property. However, I wanted to know her preferences regarding replacing the back door, repairing the closet safe, and so forth. She told me to do whatever I thought was right and send her the bill. Then she clicked off.
Something was wrong, and it had nothing to do with the break-in at Shadow Play. My house was silent. My house, whose current occupants included a rambunctious eight-year-old boy and a hyperactive Afghan hound. The great room was empty. Then I heard something outdoors. Something familiar yet foreign. What was it? I rushed to the nearest window overlooking the lake. Nothing there . . . except that faint sound again. Laughter. A child’s laughter.
He crossed into view then, strolling across the illuminated terrace with the dog at his side. They both looked at me. I waved. Chester smiled. Abra turned her back on me and took a shit.
The next day was the kind of hellish circus that only realtors in resort towns can understand. Leaf-Peeping Season arouses in visitors fantasies of living, at least part-time, in our part of the world. Thus, on that lovely fall day, Mattimoe Realty was overwhelmed with inquiries. Some walked in the door; others telephoned. All tried the patience of my very patient receptionist with questions like “Do you have anything with four bedrooms, a sundeck, a Jacuzzi, a fireplace, and—oh, yeah—lake frontage . . . for less than $200,000?”
We welcome inquiries. It’s how we make sales and eventually money. Since agents work on commission only, we try to separate Prospects from Dreamers, and we identified mostly Dreamers that day. Still, Odette and my other agents landed a few live ones. The earliest and likeliest were whisked away to view properties.
I had secured my house and dog and delivered my houseguest to his private school in town. Hunkered down in my back office by eight, I called my property manager about replacing or repairing Shadow Play’s door and reprogramming the alarm. He called back around noon to report that everything had been repaired, except the moods of the tenants. Oddly, he assumed that Edward and Ellianna were married. When I asked why, he couldn’t explain other than to say that they acted pissed off.
I worked right through lunch. The next time I checked my watch, it was almost three. Chester had assured me that he could get a ride back to Vestige from a classmate’s mother.
“Today I begin my work with Abra,” he announced, sounding like a happy mad scientist.
“Shouldn’t we wait till we have a contract?”
He grinned broadly, revealing two missing baby teeth. “I trust you, Whiskey.”
Now my stomach was growling, so I headed across the street to the Goh Cup. It was busy for a Thursday mid-afternoon. Most of the overstuffed chairs and sofas were occupied by pink-faced tourists enjoying a pick-me-up, probably before descending on our office. Owner-operator Peg Goh greeted me. She’s an unfailingly cheerful woman in her late fifties.
