Nina Wright - Whiskey Mattimoe 06 - Whiskey and Soda (11 page)

I knew it was too good to be true.

“In this particular case,” she continued, “I may be willing to make an exception. I may agree to work with Abra if she continues to make Napoleon happy.”

Did Napoleon need a playmate? A hooker? A dominatrix? Anouk seemed to read my mind.

“Napoleon is the best dog I’ve ever bred or shown. His conformation is superb, and he enjoys competition. Alas, he has been deeply depressed for months, ever since I sold Josephine.”

“Josephine? Was she his doggie girlfriend?”

“She was his mate and also his soul mate.” Anouk sighed. “I had my reasons for selling her, but I regret them now. Or I did until Abra came along. Your girl amuses Napoleon in a way I didn’t think any bitch ever could again. The light is back in his eyes.”

The twinkle. Apparently even poodles had it.

My first choice would have been to drive straight to Vestige, drop off Abra and then go deal with my mother. No sooner had I pulled out of The Bentwood School parking lot than I remembered that a French bulldog named Sandra Bullock was now in residence at my house, hopefully for the short term only. But I couldn’t just dump Abra and run. To be fair to Jeb, I should be there when we introduced one bitch to another, and I figured the process might take a few minutes if we were going to do it right.

That meant Abra had won a free trip to my office. Sure, I could have planned to leave her in the car while I confronted—I mean, greeted—my mother. Except that I didn’t have a crate in the car, and I valued my leather upholstery.

Suddenly, I saw a way to turn the whole situation to my advantage. If, as Odette had said, Irene Houston were determined to assume a position at Mattimoe Realty, all I’d have to do is let her believe that every day was Bring Your Dog to Work Day. Abra and real estate were a lethal combination. She automatically aligned herself with my most sinister clients. Add the fact that my mother was deathly afraid of being knocked down by a big jumping dog. Hello, solution to my problem.

Periodically checking Abra’s status in the backseat, I was amazed to find her still resting. She looked serene, like Sarah Jessica Parker napping in her trailer on the set of the latest
Sex in the City
movie. How long could this unnatural behavior last? My plan for my mother depended on Abra’s returning to her normal spastic self.

I dialed Odette’s cell.

“Are you on your way?” she hissed, sounding more impatient than happy to hear from me.

“Yes, and I’m armed with Abra.”

I filled Odette in on my scheme to scare off my mother with my dog, adding, “The only glitch will be getting her settled down again and back in my car. My dog, I mean. Not my mom. I’ve got no leash and no crate.”

“Do you have a stun gun?”

“No. Maybe we’ll get lucky and a muscular male tourist will happen by to assist us.”

Odette made her famous raspberry sound, confirming that downtown Magnet Springs was still deserted.

“We’ll think of something,” I muttered.

“You’ll think of something. That’s your dog, and the other one is your mother.”

Moments later, I parked my car in the lot behind my office, next to a bright blue Chevy Volt with a Florida plate. Checking the rearview mirror, I held my breath. Abra still hadn’t twitched so much as an eyelid, which set up the question I’d never been able to solve. How to wake her without exciting her? Sure, I wanted her to be frenzied inside my office, but I needed to get her there first without a leash.

I imagined carrying the sleeping bitch inside, but that didn’t seem a promising start to the wild scenario I needed. Also, at six months pregnant, I probably shouldn’t lift an Affie. At least not in front of my mother, who would surely see it as an opening for strident advice.

Tap-tap-tap.

The sudden sound on my windshield made me jump, and Abra, too.

“Yoo-hoo! Odette said you were on your way so I came out to greet you.”

A deeply tanned version of my seventy-year-old mother stood smiling and waving. What had become of her tightly permed gray hair? For the first time in her long life, Irene Houston was a strawberry blonde. I would never have recognized her wardrobe, either. Mom wore skintight black Capri pants and a stylish peasant blouse that revealed cleavage. Before today, I would have sworn that cleavage was something my mother did not have.

“Get out of the car, Whitney. I want to give you and my future grandbaby a great big hug.”

I glanced into the backseat where Abra now stood growling, hackles raised.

“Um, I can’t predict what that dog will do if I open the door,” I said with total honesty.

“Oh, she’ll settle right down,” Mom said. “Come on out.”

Abra’s growl intensified, and she leaned back into her haunches like a coil preparing to spring.

“She’s getting crazy, Mom.”

“Tell her to relax. Who’s the pack leader, you or her?”

Apparently, Mom had forgotten every story she’d ever heard about Abra.

“Sorry, but I don’t think I dare open the door ’til we—”

Mom opened the door for me.

“Down, girl!” she barked.

The command worked. Instantly. I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it, but my Afghan hound stopped growling and lay down, her tail thumping.

“How did you do that?” I said.

“Same way I handled you when you threw a tantrum. You gotta learn to be firm, Whitney.”

We hugged but only for second. The Houston clan are neither clingers nor coddlers. We don’t frighten easily, either. Therein lay the fatal flaw of my Bring Your Dog to Work plan. Mom would get a leash and a crate, and—unlike me—she would use them efficiently.

“Good news,” Mom announced. “I’m here to help you with your business. And I’ve already figured out what you need.”

“A vacation?”

“An experienced office manager and receptionist who works for free. In other words, me.”

“You can’t work for free.”

“I’ve already started. Ask Odette.”

“Odette called me, Mom. She’s not happy—”

“I’m not happy letting Irene work without compensation.”

Someone with a richly syncopated voice was speaking. Someone who sounded remarkably like Odette.

“Whitney, you have to pay your mother, and you have to pay her a fair wage.”

“Well, I don’t need much,” Mom said. “I get social security.”

I wasn’t listening. I was gaping at Odette.

“Something remarkable happened in there,” my best agent whispered.

“Your body was inhabited by aliens?”

“Your mother balanced our books. Then she took a phone call from a prospective tourist and convinced him to rent a cabin for two weeks.”

We both regarded my mom, who cocked her head distractedly.

“Phone’s ringing,” she said and trotted back inside to answer it.

“You wanted her out of here,” I reminded Odette.

“That was before I realized she was competent.”

“She’s my mother. She’ll make us crazy.”

“She’ll make you crazy. Other people’s mothers have no effect on me.”

Odette smoothed her gleaming black marcelled hair with a perfectly manicured hand. She was always impeccably dressed and coiffed, yet she deigned to work here.

“I feel commissions coming on,” she cooed and followed my mother.

I peeked into the backseat of my car, where Abra had fallen asleep again. Between Anouk and my mom, my dog might actually be manageable. I wasn’t ready to say that out loud, though.

Call me superstitious. I mean, realistic.

With Abra dozing in my car, my mother managing my office, and Odette making me money, I decided to go home.

My goal was to devote the rest of the day to Jeb. Almost three months had passed since we parted company in a confusion of jealousy and insecurity. Okay, we broke up because of my jealousy and insecurity, but Jeb hadn’t helped the situation by being so eager to hit the road to promote his new CD. Although last night’s reunion had been passionate, it was overshadowed by a murder and a rescue dog.

As for the latter, I didn’t want to believe that Jeb’s saving Sandra Bullock was more than an isolated good deed. He couldn’t possibly plan to keep her, especially now that Abra was back. Today I would help him find Sandra’s “forever home.” We just had to figure out who was in the market for a boxy little dog that snored and snorted.

When my phone rang, I was pleasantly surprised to discover that the caller was Stevie McCoy.

“May I call you Whiskey?” she began.

“Everybody does.”

“Everybody thinks Stevie is short for Stephanie, but it’s not. It’s my real name.” She laughed. “Listen, I might be in the market for a Realtor. Would you have time to talk with me after work today?”

Another prospect? Ka-ching. Then I remembered that I had just vowed to devote the rest of the day to Jeb. Oh well, he didn’t know that, and we couldn’t raise a kid on music royalties alone. I agreed to meet Stevie wherever she wanted.

“How about Mother Tucker’s Bar and Grill?” she suggested.

I never turned down an opportunity to visit my favorite local tavern even though I was temporarily off my favorite beverage, Pinot Noir. We agreed to meet at the bar at five. That would give me enough time for a second installment in my reunion with Jeb. We could get the doggie introductions out of the way. Secretly, I doubted that Abra would even acknowledge Sandra, and who cared, anyway, since Sandra was a short-term guest.

I remembered that I was temporarily banned from meeting real estate prospects in public. Odette had ordered me to remain behind the scenes until I recovered whatever limited physical appeal I had once had before my body swelled and I lost my tenuous grip on fashion. This case should qualify as an exception. After all, Stevie had chosen me. For the first time in months, the adrenalizing juice of professional ambition surged through my veins. I could still make magic, even while pregnant and even in a down market.

I checked my dashboard clock. It was just past eleven. Jeb and I should be able to dispatch with the doggie hellos by noon. We could grab ourselves a tasty lunch—or a tasty substitute for lunch—and spend the next three hours sorting out our own hellos, to be continued after my meeting with Stevie.

It occurred to me that we might be able to shave time off the canine meet-and-greet if Jeb had Sandra Bullock standing by when Abra and I rolled into the driveway. I’d never introduced the Affie to a female dog before, but how different could it be? Abra would let the French bulldog know that she could visit for a few days, provided the sight hound didn’t have to look at her.

When I phoned Jeb, he was less certain that we could rush the process. I chose not to challenge him or even mention that he would need to find another home for Sandra. If he didn’t already grasp that, we would sort it out soon enough.

My man followed my request to the letter. He and Sandra Bullock were standing side by side in the driveway when I pulled in. It had been too dark the night before to discern Sandra’s true color. By daylight I saw that she was a wrinkled and stocky ash-blonde, the canine equivalent of a career barmaid. She wore a leash and collar, both made of gold lamé with too many faux emeralds. Please. That was like dressing an elephant in a tutu. I saw Jeb’s expression as he gazed at her. It proclaimed, “I can’t do enough for this dog.”

When I hit the brakes, Jeb waved at me. He used his other hand to produce from behind his back a sparkly green hat with a wide floppy brim, which he placed on Sandra Bullock’s square head, securing the chin strap. She wagged her stubby tail.

The car windows were closed tight, which should have blocked the scent of French bulldog but didn’t. Suddenly wide awake and on her feet, Abra sniffed the air noisily. When she spotted Sandra, or more likely Sandra’s shiny hat, the howling began. Afghan hounds are relatively quiet compared to, say, scent hounds. When they do set up a racket, it is of the ghostly “rhoo-rhoo” variety guaranteed to prickle your nerves. Add to that Abra’s tendency to leap and lunge. Before I could turn off the engine, she was performing a ballet solo using the entire car interior as her stage.

Of course Sandra heard Abra’s reaction. Even tucked under a chapeau, those oversized bat ears were probably keen enough to detect my innermost thoughts. What was the French bulldog’s response to Abra’s frenzy? She transitioned from standing next to Jeb to lying demurely at his feet, blinking up at him with long-lashed black-button eyes. Jeb blew her a kiss. Gag me. It was time to end that six-legged love fest.

I rolled down my window with the intention of saying something unflattering about Sandra’s hat. The comment died in my mind the instant Abra escaped my vehicle. Still “rhoo-rhoo”-ing, she sailed above my belly and the steering wheel straight out the window, landing squarely on Sandra’s head. Clearly the hat offended her.

The Frenchie had astonishingly quick reflexes, not to mention survival instincts. What ensued was a blur of noise and motion as the two blondes spun themselves into a whirring ball of spit, fur, and fury. Jeb knew better than to try to physically separate them. He shouted for me to lay on the car horn, which I did, and they shot apart just long enough for Jeb to snatch Sandra’s leash and scoop her into his arms. Grabbing a crazed, snorting dog should have been a bad idea except that Sandra settled down instantly, tucking herself neatly into his embrace. Jeb slipped into the house and secured the front door.

My bitch had scored the hat. As she celebrated her victory by dashing up and down the driveway, I cowered in the car, wondering what to do next. Abra’s trophy notwithstanding, this didn’t feel like a win. The other team was in the house; we were in the driveway.

Abra slowed her pace, no doubt frustrated by lack of audience response. I cracked open the passenger door, and she jumped back in, depositing the slimy accessory on the passenger seat. Warily we eyed each other and the hat.

My phone rang.

“You okay?” Jeb said.

“I’m not sure.”

“How’s Abra?”

“Why don’t you ask her yourself? Better yet, put Sandra on. Maybe they can talk it out.”

“Whiskey—”

“What’s up with the costume for your little girlfriend? I think the hat was what set Abra off. She’s a sight hound, you know.”