Whiskey on the Rocks

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Whiskey on the Rocks Page 14

by Nina Wright


  “You were at the Open House for our Featured Home, weren’t you?”

  He snorted. “It was an Open House. Odette didn’t offer it to me; I arrived with the uninvited masses! The only properties she’s shown me are four-room cottages five miles from the beach, every single one of them listed by Mattimoe Realty.”

  I took a deep breath. “What exactly would you like us to show you, Rico?”

  “The Very Best of the Coast, offered for sale by every agency and owner.”

  I promised we would do that starting today. Then I forced myself to apologize even though it made my ribs hurt.

  Rico said, “Someone was asking about you.”

  “Who?”

  “A guy came in here Saturday. I think he said his name was Keogh. He wanted to know if you still had that Afghan hound.”

  I no longer cared about the damned finger. Just about Abra and Chester and the sanctity of my own home. As I rounded the bend before Vestige, an oncoming stretch limo honked at me. I checked my rear-view mirror. Was that Chester’s arm waving from the passenger window?

  Sinister scenarios played in my brain:

  (1) Chester honking for help as he was kidnapped by Darrin Keogh.

  (2) Chester rushing Abra to the vet after she’d been injured by Darrin Keogh.

  (3) Chester banished to boarding school because I’d refused to keep him during Cassina’s World Tour.

  My car phone rang. It was Chester.

  “My father wants to see me! He sent this limo! I’m catching a plane to L.A.!”

  Without thinking, I said, “I didn’t know you had a father.”

  “Stop the car!” Chester bellowed. Over the phone I heard brakes squeal.

  “I didn’t mean to upset you,” I said.

  “You didn’t. Abra’s in the middle of the road!”

  “Dead?”

  “No. She’s a mess, though. I bet she’ll need a week at the doggie spa.”

  I heard the limo door open and Chester call her name. Then I heard the driver mutter something in a foreign language. Probably something about the mess Abra was tracking into his limo.

  Back on the line, Chester said, “We’re turning around, Whiskey. I’m bringing Abra home!”

  “What about your father?”

  “Rupert’s waited eight years to meet me. I guess he can wait a little longer.” Chester lowered his voice so the driver couldn’t hear. “Should I check the purse for the finger, or do you want to do it when we get home?”

  Chapter Eighteen

  I wasn’t sure whether Abra was happy to see me. But I was relieved beyond words to have that piece of Leo back in my life. Burrs and all. Chester’s toothless smile touched my heart, too. I wished I had a steak on hand so that they could share it, cheek to jowl.

  Jenx arrived within four minutes of our 9-1-1 call. Chester timed it on his techno-wonder watch and proclaimed a new record in rapid response. As Jenx snapped on a pair of surgical gloves, I looked away. Then I heard the rustle of paper.

  “No finger in here. But there’s a message for you, Whiskey.”

  “A message for me?”

  “Before I let you read it, you’ve got to promise not to over-react.”

  “How can I know what’s over-reacting until I see it?”

  “Fair enough.” Jenx passed me a folded piece of notebook paper. I opened it, read it, and screamed.

  “That was over-reacting,” she said.

  Maybe. But the unsigned note was a list of sexual fantasies involving my dog. The last line said, “I could have my way with her, but I’m letting her go. If she leads me to what’s mine, I’ll leave her alone. Stay out of it.”

  “This has got to be from that wacko Darrin Keogh!” I said. “It’s his sick-puppy routine, only now he wants a dead man’s finger!”

  “More likely his ring,” said Jenx.

  “Either you call the MSP, or I will!”

  “I already did. They’re sending a cruiser.” Jenx checked her Timex. “My response time is much better.”

  “Did you tell them about the finger?”

  “Not yet. But I told them about the missing dog and the threatening messages.”

  Chester said, “You’ve got to tell them about the finger!”

  “I will. And I’ll insist that we work together. Balboa says those boys need our help as much as we need theirs.”

  Chester looked worried. “Will you get in trouble for withholding evidence?”

  Jenx ruffled his hair, which was already standing on end. “I don’t think so, Deputy. Withholding evidence depends on intent. My intent is and always has been to solve this crime.”

  Abra yipped and initiated a spirited pas de deux with Chester.

  “That dog needs a bath,” Jenx said, fanning the air.

  “And a shave and a bodyguard. So do I.” When Jenx looked at me, I said, “I need the bodyguard.”

  We heard a siren.

  “Finally, the state boys,” announced Chester. He frowned at his watch. “Their response time is unacceptable!”

  Abra, Chester, and I hung back while Jenx went to greet the officer. He was one of those wrestler-types with wrap-around reflective sunglasses that stay on all shift. I asked Chester what he thought Abra had done with the finger.

  He cocked his head at her, and she returned the look.

  “She’s too excited to talk about it, Whiskey.”

  “You know that by looking at her?”

  “Body language is eighty-five percent of canine communication.”

  Apparently, Jenx’s body language wasn’t serving her so well. I watched as she thrust the purse and note toward the officer, who jumped back as if stung. I half-expected him to reach for his sidearm. He recovered quickly, folding burly arms across his chest as he listened to Jenx’s story. A few minutes later, she was striding toward us, fists clenched.

  “You okay?” I asked. “The last time your face was that red, the Holy Spirit joined us.”

  “Boy Officer insists I ‘come in’ with him and answer questions.”

  “Before he talks to me?”

  “It’s not about you, Whiskey. It’s about whether or not I’ve impeded a police investigation.”

  “But I’m in danger here! Well—I could be. Abra could be, for sure.”

  “Call Brady and ask him to look out for you till I get back. I have to follow the kid in my car.”

  Boy Officer was in his cruiser already, talking on the radio. He never glanced our way.

  “Will she lose her job?” Chester said, hugging Abra, who had nodded off.

  “Not Jenx. She’s a player.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “She’s . . . like Abra. Nobody beats her at her own game.”

  Abra gave a sleepy woof of agreement, her head resting on Chester’s bare knees. I thought about poison ivy and wondered if it was already too late.

  “Chester, you should wash with Fels Naptha right now!” Not that I was sure what that was or where to get any. I seemed to be channeling my mother.

  “Okay . . . but can I take Abra to a safe house?”

  He explained that Rupert’s private plane was standing by to fly him to L.A.

  “Rupert said I could bring a friend. And we’ll all be better off if Abra’s with me.”

  A tempting offer, but I pointed out the tangles and twigs in her coat. Chester swore he’d get her a makeover and keep working The Program while they were gone.

  “What Program?” I asked.

  “Dogs-Train-You-dot-com, remember? The secret to our success.”

  I wasn’t sure we’d had any. And I couldn’t in good conscience inflict Abra on a stranger, even a man who’d never bothered to know his son.

  Chester said, “No problem. Cassina says he’s having his first ‘bout of guilt,’ so I should make the most of it. Besides, he has a beach house in Malibu. Abra will feel right at home.”

  For Rupert’s sake, I hoped not.

  “Do you even know if your father likes do
gs? He could be allergic.”

  Chester shook his head. “Cassina says he picks up strays all the time.”

  She could be speaking metaphorically, but I let that go. Maybe it would be safer for everyone if Abra were gone. It would certainly be simpler.

  “What does your father do for a living?”

  “He was a musician in my mom’s band. Now he’s a Hollywood producer. Cassina says he had a near-death experience and saw God. That’s why he wants to meet me.”

  I told Chester to call me if he had any problems. I expected to hear from him soon.

  Brady assured me that he and Officer Roscoe would swing by later, so I decided to work at home. With Abra gone, my alarm system activated, and police protection on the way, I felt safe from Sparky.

  I told my receptionist to forward only those calls that qualified as urgent or lucrative. The first time the phone rang, I figured it was too soon to be Chester.

  “How dare you?” a familiar voice demanded.

  “Pardon?”

  “How dare you try to sweet-talk my husband out of seeking restitution? Thanks to you, our beautiful beach home was like totally trashed, and our priceless Matheney got stolen!”

  At least the savage murder didn’t bother Mrs. R.

  “My husband is a very busy, very important man. He will not play the fool,” she declared. “So don’t phone us again. You’ll hear from our attorneys.”

  “That’s unnecessary. I’m willing to do whatever it takes—”

  “We’re taking you to court. For negligence. Remember the clause in our contract about screening tenants? The people you rented to weren’t even the people you said they were. They were like . . . Canadian criminals!”

  They were precisely Canadian criminals, but I didn’t say so.

  “You approved Mrs. Santy as tenant,” I reminded her.

  “Do you have that in writing? No you don’t! And our contract says you have to.”

  She was right about that. In the interest of saving time, I had accepted her verbal approval over the phone.

  “That’s not all, Mrs. Mattimoe. Your fingerprints were all over our house!”

  “Because you asked me to remove valuables to your bedroom safe.”

  “Then why did you leave our most valuable possession to be stolen?”

  “Because it wasn’t on your list to be locked up!”

  “Oh, but it was, Mrs. Mattimoe. You put the wrong fucking picture in the safe!”

  I mentally replayed reading the list and stashing the goods. I had locked up a small watercolor that was not the Matheney before I even knew what a Matheney was. But I had locked up the right watercolor, the one stipulated in Mrs. R’s instructions.

  She said, “The Magnet Springs police will testify that your dog had our Matheney. It’s in their report. And your dog is a known felon!”

  “My dog retrieved your Matheney!”

  “For you, Mrs. Mattimoe! And when that didn’t work, you went back in and got it again.”

  “That’s ridiculous!”

  “We’ll see what a jury says.”

  I paced my office until my heart rate slowed. When the phone rang again, I wasn’t sure I wanted to answer.

  “I owe you an apology, Mrs. Mattimoe.”

  “Who is this?”

  “Robert Reitbauer. I believe you just spoke with my wife.”

  “Oh. Yes.”

  “I apologize on her behalf. Kimba has been . . . well, overly emotional since the problems at Shadow Play.”

  Ah, yes—Kimba. I had forgotten Mrs. R’s first name.

  “I let her oversee our real estate interests. I suppose you could call it her little hobby.”

  And my little livelihood.

  “Kimba is used to getting what she wants, and she wants to take you to court. I’ll do my best to convince her otherwise and to keep our attorneys at bay. But you’ll have to let the matter go, Mrs. Mattimoe. Stop calling and aggravating her.”

  I assured him I would.

  Mr. Reitbauer added, “I believe you had good intentions.”

  Not exactly a professional commendation. I summoned enough grace to thank him, anyway. We had barely disconnected when Odette buzzed.

  “I took that call first, Whiskey, and I’m sure of one thing: the caller was not Mr. Reitbauer.”

  “I hope your telephone telepathy is wrong this time. We don’t need a lawsuit.”

  “You don’t need your stepdaughter, either, but she’s here.”

  That was a shocker. “Avery’s in the lobby? What does she want?”

  Odette lowered her voice. “I haven’t asked, but from the looks of her, a maternity wardrobe would be nice.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Avery Mattimoe was never my friend. She was in her mid-teens when her father married me. By then, she and her mother Georgia had already moved to Belize with a hunky builder named Garth. Once upon a time, Garth and Leo had been partners. That was how Garth met Georgia, and the two fell in love. Yet Avery convinced herself that the divorce was my fault. Maybe she just liked Garth better than she liked me. She sure didn’t want to share Leo. The distance between Central America and Middle America made visitation difficult. Avery spent the first couple Christmases and summer vacations with us. From then on she begged Leo to meet her for visits in more exotic locations. I hadn’t seen her in three years—except at Leo’s funeral. And that was a painful blur.

  My Late Beloved was going to be a grandpa in absentia. I couldn’t imagine Avery pregnant. She was about as maternal as—well, as I was. Maybe less.

  Though I already knew the answer, I asked Odette to ask Avery whether she would rather meet me for lunch at the Goh Cup or drive out to Vestige.

  Odette said, “She wants to come ‘home.’”

  I was sure she had put it just that way. Odette asked me to hold a moment. Back on the line, she said, “I’m watching her squeeze her big belly into her little Honda CRX. Cute car, but you’ll need to buy her a minivan.”

  “I’m sure it’s on her list.”

  I scrambled to find something, anything, edible in the house. Without Chester around to nag me, I hadn’t gone to the store. So I called Walter St. Mary at Mother Tucker’s and implored him to send over a couple wonderful lunches for Leo’s daughter and me. Inspired, he said he’d deliver them himself.

  “I remember what a sweet tooth Avery used to have,” he said. “And how she loved her cherries: cherry pop, cherry pie, cherry ice cream, cherry tarts.”

  I winced.

  Walter added, “Jonny saw her in the Goh Cup this morning. He said that must be one big baby she’s carrying.”

  I watched my estranged and enlarged stepdaughter pry herself from her car. Once standing, she stuck her tongue out. That didn’t mean she knew I was watching. Avery sticks her tongue out many times a day. What started as a childhood gesture of insolence evolved into a grotesque nervous tic. Maybe once upon a time, Leo or Georgia told her it was cute. Not anymore.

  “I didn’t come here for a lecture,” she said the instant I opened the door.

 

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