Whiskey and Water

by Nina Wright

  Jeb was in fine form, although his playlist of “Oldies but Goodies” turned out to be more good than old. This set consisted entirely of songs from our touring days—in other words, the 1990s. Ever the chameleon, Jeb executed graceful covers of tunes by Seal, Blues Traveler, and the Dave Matthews Band. Pleasant memories for me, but not too pleasant since he fortunately omitted Barenaked Ladies.

  “And now I’d like to make a request on behalf of that liquor-named lady who’s here tonight,” Jeb announced. “She was with me on the road when those tunes were new. But now she’s with somebody else—“

  “No, she’s not,” shouted a drunk at the bar. “She’s all alone! Hey, baby!”

  Jeb said, “Whiskey missed my earlier cover of ‘Call and Answer,’ which used to be our make-up song. So I’d like to play it for her now as I close out the evening. Thank you, everybody, for coming tonight.”

  As he strummed the opening chords, Jeb leaned into his microphone and said, “Whiskey, you know it’s true. . . .”

  That was when Jenx and Fenton joined me. Jenx looked completely relaxed, which was more than I could say for Fenton. He and Jeb locked eyes.

  “Fenton’s amazing,” Jenx whispered to me. “I’m gonna buy all his books.” She wrinkled her nose. “You smell like puke.”

  I thought Jenx was reaching for her gun, but she came up with a roll of breath mints. When I started to peel one off, she told me to keep the pack.

  Jeb dazzled his audience with about five minutes’ worth of closing guitar riffs. When the song finally ended, everybody clapped, Fenton included. In fact, he clapped the longest and loudest. Either it was about karmic balance, or he really liked the way Jeb played BNL.

  To Jenx I said, “The guy who looks like Gil is your leading suspect in Twyla’s murder. Right?”

  Jenx said she couldn’t comment on an ongoing investigation.

  “Since when? You drafted me as deputy, remember?”

  “Oh yeah.” Jenx glanced around the room. I followed her gaze. Most patrons were busy ordering last call or settling their checks. A few were buying CDs from Jeb.

  “At this point, we’re focusing on the cleaner and the mayor,” Jenx whispered.

  “You suspect Peg?” I gasped. “I didn’t think she even knew Twyla.”

  “Our former mayor. Gil.” Jenx rolled her eyes.

  “Isn’t the purpose of an investigation to gather facts rather than support suspicions?” Fenton said.

  “We follow the evidence,” Jenx said. “But Brady only works twenty hours a week, and Roscoe’s in a union. So we can’t follow it far.”

  “That’s where I come in,” I told Fenton. “I work for free.”

  “Whiskey likes to follow theories, not evidence,” Jenx said. “She’s no bargain.”

  Although forty miles and two counties beyond her jurisdiction, Jenx’s plan, as she explained it, was to “informally question” a few members of Jeb’s audience about the guy who looked like Gil.

  I was skeptical. “You’re in uniform, and you’re carrying your service revolver. You’ll scare the crap out of people.”

  “Watch this,” she said, waving to a couple headed for the door. “Yo! Could I ask you guys something?”

  To my surprise the couple smiled and came toward her.

  “Jenx has the gift of an open heart and mind,” Fenton observed.

  “That sounds like a psychic reading,” I joked.

  For the first time since arriving at the Holiday Inn, Fenton grinned at me. “Want to hear my psychic reading of you, Dear?”

  “Sure.”

  “You’re in love with your ex-husband.”

  I recoiled in dismay. “Am not!”

  “Yes, you are, Dear. You’re as married to Jeb as I am to Noonan.”

  I shook my head. “Big difference: we got a divorce.”

  “A mere formality. Noonan and I will divorce, too. Legally. But in spirit she will remain my permanent spouse, just as Jeb is yours.”

  “I went and got another spouse.” I reminded Fenton. “His name was Leo Mattimoe, and he was the love of my life.”

  “Leo was a transition relationship,” Fenton said. “An emotional and intellectual interlude.”

  “Interlude, my ass! Leo was my soulmate.”

  I said that way louder than necessary. Jeb glanced up from his CD sales.

  “I loved Leo the way you loved Noonan,” I hissed at Fenton.

  He shook his head. “You’ve confused shock of loss with depth of love. A natural error. Of course you loved Leo, and he was necessary to your personal evolution. But Jeb is your emotional compass, just as Noonan is mine.”

  Before I could raise another objection, Fenton added, “Here’s the rest of your psychic reading, Dear: You tend to assume you have all the facts while overlooking both the obvious and the inevitable.”

  “That’s Whiskey,” quipped my ex-husband, sliding into Jenx’s abandoned chair. “Relentless as a riptide. How’d you like my last number?”

  I was too rattled to answer. If I’d had Jenx’s magnetism, Jeb’s electronic equipment would have been arcing all over the stage. Fenton complimented Jeb’s music in a way that suggested he actually knew something about music. It turned out that he did. Once upon a time, Fenton had been a music major. He still played jazz piano whenever he got the chance.

  “Man, I wish I’d known that,” Jeb said. “I would have asked you to sit in.”

  The conversation turned to when and what they could play together. Magnetic or not, I thought my head might explode. Were Jeb and Fenton rivals or brand-new buds? And what the hell was that nonsense about “permanent spouses”? Did Fenton want to have sex with me or not?

  Excusing myself—not that they were listening—I left Jeb and Fenton to offer Jenx my volunteer services. She was now talking with no fewer than six lounge patrons, all of whom looked happy to help. Jenx ignored my arrival, so I pulled up a chair and just listened.

  Our police chief was keeping the conversation light by ensuring everyone that their comments were “off the record.” Her notepad was nowhere in sight. All three couples had seen the man who looked like Gil Gruen. I shivered at their descriptions of his cowboy clothing, which was the main reason they’d noticed him. Grand Rapids was a long way from Dallas. Maybe the guy in the Holiday Inn lounge was a tourist.

  Jenx thanked folks for sharing their observations and wished them a safe trip home. As soon as they left, she whipped out her notebook and pen and wrote furiously.

  “Gotta get this down before I forget,” she muttered.

  A glance back at my table confirmed that Fenton and Jeb didn’t miss me. Jeb must have ordered a beer for himself and a diet cola for Fenton. They were laughing and talking. I’d spent enough years on the road to recognize male musicians in bonding mode.

  Jenx stuffed her notepad back in her pocket and announced she was ready to check out the perimeter, cop talk for going outside. Since my “permanent spouse” and my date wouldn’t miss me, I tagged along.

  “One couple spotted Gil when they pulled into the parking lot,” Jenx reported. “He was looking in car windows, like he was checking out things to steal. When the guy started toward him, Gil took off fast. Not running, but moving like he had somewhere to go. A while later, he showed up in the bar. He paid close attention to Jeb—but he didn’t stay long.”

  It irked me to hear Jenx of all people call the mystery man Gil. “Talk about theories before evidence! You got zero proof, yet you assume it’s him!”

  Jenx explained that she was using the official MSPD code name for the as-yet unnamed man who resembled our presumed-dead mayor. “GIL” was an acronym for Gone In (the) Lake.

  I suggested that “GITL” would be better, but Jenx said it sounded like a character from Fiddler on the Roof. I countered by asking how the hell anyone who heard the term “GIL” could tell whether she meant the mystery man or our former mayor.

  “Only you would assume GIL means Original Gil,” Jenx said. “He has an acro
nym, too: O-Gil.”

  I told her that sounded like non-alcoholic beer. To which she replied that I was too stubborn to be a good deputy. Maybe Jenx and Jeb were right. Maybe Fenton’s psychic reading was more accurate than I wanted to believe. But not the part about Leo. Or the part about Jeb. No way.

  Flashing on Fenton made me think about his missing dog. I asked Jenx if she’d told him about Chester’s “interview” with Abra.

  “Does Fenton know that Norman might have drowned?”

  “We don’t make assumptions, remember? Just cuz Abra stopped ‘talking’ about Norman doesn’t mean the dog’s dead!”

  True, Abra had the attention span of a flea. Norman might well have reappeared later, and she forgot to mention it. Or chose not to. Or maybe Chester got the story all wrong.

  “Kids love dogs,” I ventured. “There could be a connection between Twyla’s kids and Norman. They’re all missing.”

  Jenx wanted to hear what I had to say.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  I didn’t have anything solid enough to be a theory, let alone a trail of evidence. All I knew from my time spent around Chester was that dogs attracted kids the way shiny trinkets attracted Abra. They had to have ‘em. Or at least touch them. Thinking aloud, I wondered if a dog—not necessarily Norman—might have lured Twyla’s kids away.

  “Like the Pied Piper of Hamlet?” Jenx asked.

  I was reasonably sure Shakespeare hadn’t written that one. The question was whether a dog—by accident or training—might have convinced Twyla’s kids to come with him. Or her. Experience had taught Jenx to immediately suspect my dog.

  “For the sake of argument, let’s say Abra led them astray. Where would she take them?” the chief wondered.

  Abra didn’t look guilty this time, at least not to me. For once, I actually knew where she was: at home in her room at Vestige. Norman was the one we couldn’t find. Better that he was in big trouble than that he was belly up in Lake Michigan.

  “Hey, that’s the guy who saw GIL in the parking lot,” Jenx said, pointing across the lot to a man opening a car door for his partner. “Let’s see if he can show us where GIL was.”

  Once again Jenx managed not to alarm the nice people—no easy feat when you’re in uniform, running toward somebody, yelling. But then Jenx has a nice smile. In fact, the couple remembered exactly where they’d seen GIL and pointed to the far side of the lot.

  “He was especially interested in one particular vehicle,” the wife recalled. “It’s gone now, but there was an ambulance over there. Not a real ambulance. It was a clown car or something.”

  Jenx said, “Can you describe it?”

  “A big old yellow and white striped thing. The sides said Animal Ambulance. Had to be a joke. Or maybe a pet-grooming service.”

  “It’s a joke,” I assured her, although Fleggers had no sense of humor.

  After the helpful couple pulled away, Jenx said, “I’m thinking maybe GIL was only interested in the Animal Ambulance. He had a history with Dr. David.”

  True enough. Dr. David had detested O-Gil, and not just because O-Gil was an asshole. The two had a long-standing lease dispute. More important, they disagreed about how to handle vermin. The vet repeatedly blocked the mayor’s attempts to poison stray cats that lurked on his properties.

  “Looks like the show moved to the parking lot.”

  Jeb’s cheerful voice rang out. We turned to see my ex-husband and my date striding in our direction.

  Although the parking lot was dim except directly under the security lights, I could see well enough to physically compare the two men. Fenton was taller and broader with better posture. Jeb had a relaxed, shambling style—almost the same as when we were teens. I could have been watching him cross the Magnet Springs High School parking lot after a night football game. To my chagrin, that memory quickened my heart—and a certain other body part.

  When they reached us, Jenx announced that she was going back inside to chat with a few hotel employees, just in case they’d seen anything useful. Jeb offered to tag along and play volunteer deputy since he already knew some of the staff.

  To Fenton, Jeb said, “We’ll talk about that set later.”

  That left me and the New Age guru under the lights alone. Fenton used his cell phone to summon the Town Car, which quickly pulled up beside us. Where had the driver been while Jenx and I were checking out the perimeter? I reminded myself that most drivers are just drivers. When they’re not needed, they probably take a nap or phone their girlfriends or listen to a game.

  I declined Fenton’s offer of a nightcap from the Town Car bar. We had forty miles to go before dealing with the “Do we sleep together tonight?” question, and I wanted my wits about me. Between the latest appearance of GIL, the revelation of Twyla’s murder, and Jenx’s magnetic fit, I was rattled. Add to that the déjà vu BNL lounge experience with Jeb, plus Fenton’s psychic reading.

  When anxious, I like to talk about real estate. It settles my nerves by reminding me I’m good at something. So I ran down the list of Druin’s outstanding features, concluding that it had all the elements of a world-class retreat.

  “I’m sure it does, Dear,” Fenton drawled. “But I may be more interested in a place to live than a place to work. Let’s just leave tomorrow for tomorrow.” And he slipped an arm around my shoulders.

  “Okay, except that technically today is already tomorrow. It’s after midnight.”

  “Shhhh,” he whispered, and the next thing I knew we were kissing.

  This was anything but the chaste good-night peck he’d given me after our dinner at Mother Tucker’s. This was a long deep caress of the tongue. Not too hard, not too fast, not too wet. Just right. Oh so right. He tickled and teased the inside of my mouth in a way that was almost musical. Like an instrument he played me. And I happily played along. Our duet progressed, involving more body parts and more crescendos. Fenton stroked my face, my hair, my arms, my thighs. . . . If this was kissing, I had never been kissed before.

  Time flies when you’re doing it right. Apparently, we kissed for forty miles. When the Town Car pulled to a stop in my driveway, I couldn’t believe we were back at Vestige. Discreetly, the driver allowed us a few moments to compose ourselves. I had to disentangle my limbs from Fenton’s and rearrange my clothing, which was wildly askew and, in some cases, scattered.

  “Dear, may I have the honor of your company all night long?” Fenton said.

  “Yes, Dear,” I said, repressing the urge to say, “Yes, yes, yes, yes!!!!!!”

  I don’t remember traveling from the back seat of the Town Car through the front door of Vestige, but we did. And then Reality announced itself, in two distinct voices.

  First, Abra bounded down the stairs from her room, loudly reminding me that she needed to be fed. She also needed to be exercised, but she could do that herself by exiting through the doggie-door.

  Second, Velcro woke up. This was more traumatic, especially for Fenton. When the dog set up his panicked, high-pitched wail, my date covered his ears. Fenton explained that his hearing was painfully sensitive in that upper range.

  “What on earth is making those sounds?” he demanded.

  When I told him, he couldn’t believe it was a canine. Fenton had never met a miniature. Palms pressed to his ears, he squinted at Velcro as I dashed by with the crate.

  “Why would anyone breed something like that?” he muttered.

  Outside in the exercise pen, I tipped the crate, but Velcro didn’t want to leave it. Finally, I succeeded in shaking him out. The plan was to have him do his business on the ground, where God intended. Unfortunately, he had already done some of it in the crate. So I had to clean that—as well as his feet, his splints, and his tiny bottom, too. Another wave of nausea for me.

  Not that I blamed the little guy for his limited body-function control. After all, I’d been gone more than six hours. How I longed for the cleaner and that manly way he had with liquid spray and a box of baby wipes. . . .
<
br />   Speaking of babies, I didn’t need to check the nursery to know that Leah, Leo, and their mother were still out. Now that I was used to the twins’ presence at Vestige—although I would never grow accustomed to Avery’s—the house took on a hollow quality when they were gone. My stepdaughter was apparently still enjoying Family Night Out, ferried by a driver. If the driver was Rupert’s cleaner, was he doubling as diaper changer? I couldn’t see him as a nanny, but I knew he had at least a few of the necessary skills. The real question would be how did Avery get mixed up with Rupert? And when?

  Before I wiped down Velcro and crate in the laundry room, I checked on Fenton. He was perusing my book collection in the library-slash-bar, which used to be Leo’s home office. After my husband’s sudden death, I had closed up that room. Months passed. Finally, Odette convinced me that I was foolishly letting good square footage go to waste; she suggested a decorator who handsomely converted the space. Sometimes I swore I could still smell Leo in there, fresh coat of paint and new furniture notwithstanding. At least I could now use the room without being daily reminded that my late husband never again would. Odette’s “wasted square footage” argument was probably her way of helping me heal.

  I had kept most of Leo’s books, and Fenton was skimming one now—a slim maroon volume, whose title was something about real estate investment. A sign he was seriously considering Druin? I hoped so. Alas, however, the romantic mood we’d arrived with had evaporated. Fenton barely acknowledged my presence when I explained that I’d need a few more minutes to settle Velcro. In case he couldn’t hear me over the persistent yowling from the laundry room down the hall, I slipped off my linen jacket and checked my black lace camisole. Yup. Still as low-cut as I remembered. Hip-rolling my way right up to Fenton, I threw my shoulders back and offered him the best view in the house. He ignored me.

  “Diet cola, tea, or me?” I whispered.

  Without glancing up from the page, he said, “Dear, that little dog is a mood buster. He’s given me a headache, which doesn’t bode well for the rest of the night.”

  I promised to deal with it. After cleaning and re-crating the teacup dog, I had to decide where to stash him. Dr. David had said Velcro needed to be close to me, or close to my personal things. Surely not while I was making love, if making love was still possible. Surely Velcro could be at the other end of the house while that was going on.