by Nina Wright
“Fine by me. So how the hell are you?”
“Fat, bored, and flat broke. Pregnant, too, in case you can’t tell.”
Just for the fun of it, I waited a beat for her to ask me how I was. It didn’t happen. I let her come in anyway. She lumbered over to the picture window and stared out.
“I can’t believe my dad left this place to you.”
Willing my blood pressure to stay in the non-stroking range, I replied, “I put as much of my own money into this property as Leo did. We owned it together.”
“Most of his estate went to you!”
“We co-owned everything. Debts and all.”
She stuck her tongue out. “That’s what tenants are for, right? To pay the mortgage? Nobody’s paying my bills.”
In a controlled voice, I said, “What about your trust fund?”
Avery snorted. “What about it? It’s like a joke!”
“Well, tell that ‘joke’ to everyone who doesn’t have a trust fund—which is almost everyone.”
“It won’t pay enough to live on till I’m thirty! Even then, I’ll probably have to work.”
“I believe that was Leo’s intent.”
She narrowed her eyes at me. “But he didn’t know I’d be a mother, did he?”
“I think he assumed you might breed eventually.”
Groaning, she lowered herself into the largest chair in the room. Her lack of resemblance to Leo had always helped me maintain an emotional distance. She had never seemed genuinely linked to her father or our life. Now that he was gone, and she was here, I felt a wave of overwhelming resentment.
“You don’t understand family obligation, do you, Whiskey?”
That made me want to stick my tongue out. “Gosh. I think I understand it as well as the next Daughter-Sister-Wife-Stepmother.”
Avery blinked. “I guess that’s what Dad saw in you. You’re almost funny. You’ve even got funny hair.”
My unruly curls had never amused anyone, least of all me and my hair stylist.
“I remember how you made Dad laugh, how he used to play with the hair on your neck when he sat by you. That made me crazy.”
“Why?”
”Because it meant he loved you without even thinking about it.”
Leo had done that. It was such an old, subtle habit that I hadn’t thought about it in ages. That didn’t mean I didn’t miss it, though. Suddenly, I missed it so acutely that I had to bolt for the kitchen.
“What would you like to drink?” I called back to her.
It didn’t matter since she was having what I was having, the only drink in the house: tap water. I would have offered it on the rocks if the icemaker were working.
A few minutes later we sat on the terrace overlooking Lake Michigan, sipping lukewarm water in strained silence and waiting for Walter to arrive with our food. Finally I worked up the nerve to ask when she was due.
Avery flicked her eyes away. “I’m in my third trimester.”
“So . . . you’re, what, seven months? Eight?”
I was no expert on pregnancy, but Avery seemed enormous. No way she’d be able to drive her CRX to term. Even in her slender days, she’d been a big-boned gal like her mom. I guessed she weighed two hundred pounds.
“Must be one big baby!” I quipped, echoing Walter and Jonny.
“It’s two big babies.”
“Two?” I stared at her stupidly.
“I’m having twins, Whiskey. Fraternal twins.”
“Fraternal?” For an instant I thought she meant the father was Sigma Beta Chi.
“Not identical. I’m carrying a boy and a girl.”
Stalling for inspiration, I downed my entire glass of water. Then I said, “Is that so? Well, well. Do they have a name?”
“If you mean a last name, I’m giving them mine. Their father is out of this. I’m doing it all on my own. And I need a place to have my babies.”
“You mean like a hospital?”
“No, I mean like here. A place to live. Till the twins get older and I get my life back.”
“Avery, I hate to tell you this, but your life with twins is never going to be like your life before twins.”
“I know that! But if I have help, it won’t be bad.”
“What kind of help are you talking about?”
“A nanny. And a personal assistant.”
“Excuse me?”
“There’s plenty of room for live-in help at Vestige. My dad would have wanted me here. With his grandchildren.”
She stuck her tongue out. I was tempted to do the same.
“We have no way of knowing that since your father is dead.”
“Well, I know it! And I know I have a right to stay!” She burst into tears. A flood of snotty, smeary tears. Some women are pretty when they cry. Avery Mattimoe isn’t one of them. As I handed her a box of tissues, a consoling notion struck me: the mother-to-be had a mother.
“Georgia must be thrilled about having grandchildren.”
“Ha! She thinks I’ve ruined my life. I’m never talking to her again.”
“Let’s not be hasty. I’m sure she would love to help.”
“There’s no room for me in her life, let alone two babies. Did you know that her boyfriend is my age?”
“What happened to Garth?”
“History. When he got fat and lost his hair, my mom lost interest. She’s into the club scene now. Since she had a face lift, tummy tuck, and boob job, she thinks she’s twenty-five. She has more tattoos and piercings than I do.”
I didn’t care to picture that. Quietly I said, “Avery, you can’t stay here.”
“Why not?”
“Because your father is dead, and I’m not your mother, and we don’t even like each other.”
“I don’t like most people! What’s your point?”
“I’m not a child-care provider.” I was growing very tired of explaining that.
“So hire someone! You can afford to.”
“Avery, sweetheart!” Walter St. Mary appeared on the terrace with Mother Tucker’s succor, so to speak.
Avery began sobbing anew. Walter reached out to comfort her. I reached out to take the food. That was when we heard the shot. Mother Tucker’s vegetable lasagna, which Walter was still holding, exploded. He reeled back, I hit the ground, and Avery screamed. I might have screamed, too; I don’t remember. What I do remember is seeing an immense pair of bright yellow wings drift up and out of sight beyond the dunes.
Chapter Twenty
“The shooter used a long-range deer rifle, a 30.06, with ballistic-tip ammo. That much we’re sure of,” said Brady. He eyed me uncertainly. “You say he escaped in a hang glider.”
“I saw it!”
Brady scratched Officer Roscoe behind the ears. “I’m sure you think you saw it, Whiskey. Yesterday you thought you saw Abra.”
“I did see Abra, as it turned out! She came back, remember? Then she left again, this time for California.”
Brady said, “Yesterday you needed a brain scan.”
“Well, today I need police protection! Someone’s trying to kill me, and we already know who it is!”
“You mean Darrin Keogh.”
“A.K.A. Sparky the Sicko. When is Jenx going to get here? She knows what I’m talking about.”
“The state police are questioning her about the Reitbauers’ missing watercolor and the missing bodies bound for Canada and the missing girl from Grand Rapids and the missing finger with the missing ring. It could take a while.”
“Are your sure Walter will be all right?” I asked.
“Minor flesh wound,” said Brady. “But the lasagna is history.”
“And Avery?”
“I checked with Peg Goh. She said Avery could stay with her, so I sent her over. That lady’s the best at calming people down. Ironic, isn’t it?”
“Why?”
“She’s in the caffeine business.”
I asked Brady whether the state police would bring Keogh in.
“They might want to question him, but there’s something you need to know. With or without a hang glider, Darrin Keogh couldn’t have shot at you.”
“Why the hell not?”
“Because he was selling antiques and collectibles in Angola, Indiana.”
“How can you know that?”
“I called the Angola Chief of Police. She personally vouches for Keogh. Said she stopped by his store at noon to discuss church business. They take turns delivering meals to shut-ins.”
I groaned. Brady continued, “Nobody could get here from Angola, Indiana, in an hour. Glider or no glider.”
“Maybe the man she saw wasn’t Keogh! Or maybe he hired someone to shoot me!”
“The chief says she’s known Keogh for years. He’s practically a saint.”
“He’s a perv among pervs! He’s . . . the perviest!”
“The chief says he sings in the choir, helps maintain the church cemetery, reads to the blind—”
“Oh, shut up.” I buried my face in my hands. Roscoe began licking my fingers.
“Is he trained to do that? To comfort victims?”
“There’s lasagna on your fingers.”
When my telephone rang, I welcomed the distraction. But Chester’s voice made my heart clench. No way he’d made it to California already. Plus, he was using his extra-high Tina Breen voice, which always meant trouble. I told him to take a breath and start over.
“Abra ran away again! We stopped at the Canine Coastal Salon on our way to the airport, like you said we should. When we came out, Abra froze, like she saw something in the distance. She was staring and growling and her hackles went up. And then she took off! I’m sorry, Whiskey!”
“Calm down. She probably saw a squirrel. She’ll come back in an hour or two. Or tomorrow. Or the next day.”
“No! She jumped into a car! Somebody at the other end of the parking lot opened their passenger door, and she jumped in. Then the car pulled away! I tried to order my driver to follow them, but he doesn’t speak English. We lost her again, Whiskey!”
Calmly I asked what kind of car it was. Chester said it was a Beamer. He was sure because half the kids at his school have them. This one was dark blue. I asked Chester if he’d seen the license plate. He hadn’t.
He said he felt too depressed to go to California now. I told him that was why people go to California, to feel better. Or was it to feel nothing at all? I told him to go, and I promised to call the minute I knew something about Abra. I thought it best not to mention the shooting incident or the hang glider or the fraternal twins. Even in California, Chester wouldn’t need one more thing to obsess about.
When I hung up, Brady was concluding a call on his cell phone.
“I owe you an apology, Whiskey. DNR reports an unauthorized hang glider on the dunes in the state park at the time of the shooting.”
“Bright yellow wings?”
He nodded. I told him the latest Abra story, insisting that Sparky was here. Brady said he was sorry, but he had to believe a fellow officer of the law. Suddenly I knew what I had to do, and I told him. He hated the idea.
”If you go to Angola, we can’t help you. That’s not our jurisdiction.”
”But you said Keogh is practically a saint! If that’s true, we have no problem. If it’s not, I’ll bring back evidence.”
Brady threatened to hang crime scene tape around my terrace if I left town. I dared him to. He said he supposed he should head over to the Coastal Canine Salon.
“Thank you!” I said. “So Officer Roscoe can sniff out clues!”
“I was thinking he needed a makeover.”
I called Odette to tell her I might be away overnight, depending on what I found out in Angola. She had already heard about the hang glider.
“I can see why you don’t want to sleep at Vestige, but why Indiana? You could stay at our house. It would be a nice change for you: we have food.”
I thanked her but declined. Odette added that Rico Anuncio had just phoned with the best offer on this month’s Featured Home.
“How is that possible?” I said.
“Same story he gave at the Open House: he recently came into money and expects to come into more. If he gets his dream home, he might not sue you.”
“Sue us, you mean.”
I asked Odette to stop at Vestige a little later in case Abra was trying to get in.
She said, “Why don’t you install one of those doggie flaps so she can come and go as she pleases?”
“Abra already does that. That’s the problem.”
Odette said, “If Avery is scratching at the door, should I let her in?”
“No way.”
I grabbed a map and my overnight bag, just in case. This would be my first road trip since recovering from the accident. I stared at Leo’s photo on the mantel.
“I’ve got to confront the creep you kept away from us,” I said aloud. I slid his picture, like a talisman, into my bag.
Although I had never been to Angola, Indiana, I was confident that I could find my way. In fact, I immediately spotted For Art’s Sake on Maumee Street less than a block from the soldiers’ monument in the center of town. My problem wasn’t finding the place; my problem was finding it open. Since Indiana doesn’t follow Michigan into Daylight Savings Time, I’d gained an hour on the trip in. Still, I reached the door exactly seven minutes after closing. Locked up tight. I could see lights on inside, though, through the narrow frosted panels on both sides of the door. I knocked. Hard.
Who should open it but a dead woman known as Ellianna Santy. She looked very much alive but not the least bit happy to see me. She slammed the door in my face.
The store had to have a rear exit. I started running full-out down the sidewalk toward the corner of the building. Then my pesky quadriceps piped up. They wished to remind me that I’d just spent two hours in a car and hadn’t bothered to stretch. Gasping in pain, I forced my legs to keep pumping. I rounded the back of the building in time to see a door fly open and two fair-haired figures rush out. One paused to play with the lock on the door while the other leapt into a midnight-blue Beamer. The driver gunned the engine, roared forward and narrowly missed me.
Darrin Keogh was still trying to lock his back door.
“Nothing works the way you think it should,” he said quietly. I wondered whether he meant hardware or a life of crime.
When he turned to me, I expected to feel the force of evil. Whatever that is. But close up, Darrin Keogh seemed about as sinister as Chester.
“How about a beer, Mrs. Mattimoe? There’s a nice little bar across the street. Seeing how you’ve come all this way, I’d say I owe you a drink.”
“She’s supposed to be dead!”
I had waited as long as I could before saying it. We were sitting across from each other in The Boot, which may or may not have been a nice little bar. It was definitely a dark little bar. I could barely make out Darrin Keogh’s face, but he seemed to be pressing a finger to his lips. I lowered my voice and leaned closer. “She’s wanted by the police!”
“Not if the police think she’s dead.”
