Nina Wright - Whiskey Mattimoe 06 - Whiskey and Soda (13 page)

“Any chance of that?”

“Nah. Let me know what you see at the house. Be a good volunteer deputy.”

I handed Abra off to Jeb as soon as he’d removed the most offensive traces of Sandra Bullock from the house. From the most sensitive area of the house, that is. Our meekest hope was that Abra might tolerate the Frenchie’s scent if it were limited to a respectful distance from her boudoir.

Jeb agreed to trot Abra around the property a few more times, evading views of the doggie exercise pen, where he’d temporarily stowed Sandra. The plan was to simultaneously tire the Affie and give me dog-free time to dress for my Realtor gig.

Rifling through my closet with exceedingly low expectations, I spotted a beige corduroy jumper I could not remember acquiring. The label read “Maternal America” size XL. I wore size 8, max. Correction: I used to wear size 8, max, when I wasn’t in my current condition.

A lifelong anti-shopper, I had committed zero time and energy to purchasing maternity-wear. The jumper, therefore, was the work of closet gremlins. Underneath I wore a long-sleeved tan T-shirt that was obscenely tight, which didn’t matter since it was covered by the surprise jumper.

I now had a reasonably attractive clothing item that fit. However, I could not explain its existence in my wardrobe. Nor did I want to think what size I would be by my due date if at six months I was already wearing maternity-size XL.

Happily for me, denial was my best-developed skill. Flushing the worries, I grabbed my briefcase, phone and keys, and exited through the front door, close to where I had parked my car. Jeb jogged past, pulled by Abra. He held up four fingers.

“Four what?” I asked.

“I think I can last maybe four more laps,” he panted. “Will she be tired by then?”

“Not a chance.”

“The relief team’s here!” announced a high-pitched voice punctuated by two kinds of barks.

Up the driveway jogged Chester accompanied not only by Prince Harry but also by Velcro, the teacup-sized shitzapoo I’d re-gifted him six months earlier. Chester was carrying Velcro because the pooch’s legs were too short and his joints were too weak making Velcro the neediest, noisiest, most annoying canine alive. If another dog that shrill and manipulative ever entered my life, I would have to … give it to Chester. I shuddered, remembering Velcro’s ruining a romantic relationship and fraying my last nerve. Abra had been indifferent to Velcro, but the micro-beast had driven me nearly mad.

Now I was off to make money, which is what I was trained to do. Suddenly, I had two prospects in a single afternoon making this my best shot in months at showing that I still had the right stuff. Waving good-bye to Chester and Jeb, I vowed not to check my phone for their progress reports. Hear no doggie, see no doggie, know no doggie.

The Vreelander home was located on Fresno Avenue, about a mile from The Bentwood School. Frankly, I had assumed that housing would be part of the headmaster’s compensation. Most private-school employees couldn’t afford to buy a home in a tourist town, but until I met with Pauline, I wouldn’t know the Vreelanders’ situation.

Their house was a red-roofed, wood-shingled white Craftsman bungalow, a low-slung story-and-a-half structure, built circa 1920 during the Arts and Crafts movement. A small dormer covered a modest-sized off-center front porch; wide horizontal windows flanked the red front door.

I parked on the street and studied the house. Its curb appeal was high. The lawn, still green in December, was uniformly thick and trim. Aggressively manicured yews lined the foundation. A wide brick path led straight from the sidewalk to the steps. Shades were down on both front windows making it impossible to tell whether anyone stirred inside. There was no driveway because the detached garage of this and all other homes on the block faced an alley running parallel to the street. Similarly styled bungalows lined both sides of Fresno Avenue. At 3:30 on a bizarrely mild December day, I almost expected to see kids in the street playing baseball, but the neighborhood was perfectly still.

Pauline Vreelander had changed out of the business suit she’d worn that morning. She answered the door in a navy blue boatneck sweater with ivory wool pants. I saw no trace of tears or stress.

“How are you, Ms. Mattimoe?”

“I’m fine, but please call me Whiskey—unless, of course, my nickname makes you uncomfortable.”

She laughed, a short staccato burst that sounded like a much needed stress release.

“Not at all. That confusion at the school this morning was most unfortunate.”

I nodded. It was my turn to ask her how she fared.

“I’m all right, thank you. No doubt I’m still in shock. Mark always seemed more alive than most people. To accept that he’s dead will require some time.”

“If there’s anything I can do to make your life less stressful—” I began, but she shook her head.

“I’m hoping you can help me professionally. As you know, I live and work in Dallas. Mark took this position with the intention of spending at least five years at The Bentwood School. That was why we bought, rather than rented, a home. Our plan was for me to retire at the end of this academic year and join Mark here. I was going to start my own educational consulting firm.”

“And now?” I asked.

She smiled again, the ghost of old dreams flickering in her face.

“I hope you can help me decide.”

“Decide what?”

“Whether to offer the house for sale on the open market or accept George Bentwood’s cash offer and close the deal this week.”

Pauline produced a business-sized envelope made of heavy vellum bearing the blue and yellow logo of The Bentwood School. Her full name was handwritten with a flourish in dark-blue ink.

“Open it, please,” she said. “His offer is inside.”

Without comment, I unfolded the expensive stationery and read the brief memorandum composed on school letterhead using today’s date.

TO: Pauline Vreelander

FROM: George Bentwood, President

RE: 379 Fresno Avenue, Magnet Springs, MI

Please accept my condolences on the death of your husband. This offer is in addition to and independent of the life insurance policy included in Mark’s contract.

On behalf of The Bentwood School, I hereby tender a cash offer, good for three days from the date of this memo, for the purchase of the home and its furnishings at the above-mentioned address. As School President and Chairman of the Board of Directors of The Bentwood School, I am authorized to present this proposal for acquisition of the stipulated Fresno Avenue property as a permanent part of the institution, to be used for the short- and/or long-term residence of future lecturers, guests and/or administrators. Details of said offer are stipulated below.

I wore my poker face as I processed the figure and the terms of Bentwood’s proposal, not lifting my eyes from the page until I was ready to meet Pauline’s intense gaze.

“His offer is close to current market value,” I said. “About what you could reasonably expect to get if you listed now for a quick sale. The ‘plus’ is that it’s a cash offer, which means you can—”

“—be done with all this.” She finished the sentence, her voice cold.

“Is the house in both your names?” I said.

She shook her head. “It’s in my name only. I understand, though, that it’s viewed as marital property.”

“That’s not an issue at this point if you want to sell. Do you want to sell?”

“Don’t you really mean, do I want to sell to George Bentwood?”

“You’d be selling to The Bentwood School,” I pointed out.

“True,” Pauline said. “But I’d have to deal with that bastard.”

I could feel my eyebrows arch. Nothing in my brief dealings with Pauline Vreelander had suggested that she strongly disliked the school president. My mind flashed back to the chaotic assembly that morning. Pauline had taken over for an utterly ineffective Bentwood when she calmly addressed the student body. Did she dislike him for his lack of leadership, his apparent laziness, or another reason altogether? I decided to tread lightly.

“I can recommend a real estate attorney who could handle this transaction for you. You wouldn’t have to deal directly with Bentwood.”

“Forgive me,” she said. “My remark was inappropriate. I called you, Whiskey, because I like what I’ve heard about Mattimoe Realty. Also, you inspire trust.”

I did? Pauline Vreelander had seen me only amid the post-mortem kiddie chaos at The Bentwood School. I found it hard to believe that, in that setting, I had inspired trust. My name alone had inspired panic.

“You remain calm under pressure,” Pauline added. “Chief Jenkins told me you behaved bravely last night.”

Ah, last night. I hardly considered my reaction to Mark Vreelander’s murder “brave.” At least I hadn’t peed my pants or turned my bike around and headed for home, screaming at the top of my lungs. I had called the cops like a good citizen and scrambled into the woods to save my life and my baby’s. My baby. I had used the possessive form automatically. Like a woman with genuine maternal instincts.

“Whiskey, are you all right?”

Pauline Vreelander studied me with genuine concern.

“Oh. Yes. Sorry. I was just thinking about last night.”

“How awful that must have been for you, especially in your condition.”

I glanced down to see that both my hands had moved to cover my bump.

“Do you have children?” I asked.

“Like many educators, Mark and I devoted our lives to other people’s children.”

“I see.”

I didn’t, though, at least not completely. “I thought Mark was career Army.”

“Mark was a teacher first, a good one and then he went into administration. At the last possible minute he enlisted.” She shook her head at the memory. “Mark was determined to serve his country. He built a military career designing training programs. When he retired from active duty, he couldn’t wait to get back to his first love, K through 8.”

Odd, I thought, but who was I to pass judgment on anyone’s career path? I, who had been my ex-husband’s part-time roadie and full-time groupie-repellant until I found my calling in real estate, which happened only when I found and married Leo Mattimoe.

“If you don’t need or want to sell the house immediately,” I said, “we may be able to get you a better offer. It’s entirely up to you.”

“Would you like a tour?” Pauline asked.

Would I ever. I liked the looks of the living room and what I could see from there of the kitchen, which had been recently updated with stainless steel appliances. The house featured exposed wood ceiling beams, wide wood molding and shiny golden oak floors. Everything on the first floor appeared to be in excellent condition. The furnishings, too, were of high quality and the décor—in warm light gray, dark brown, deep red, and amber—was tasteful and relaxing.

“Did Mark hire a decorator?” I said.

Pauline hesitated before replying, as if deliberately selecting both tone of voice and word choice.

“Loralee Lowe decorated the house when she lived here with her daughter. I understand she trained as an interior designer before becoming a teacher.” Pauline scanned the living room. “Perhaps she should have stayed in the design field.”

I glanced at the widow, who had affixed a stiff smile to her face. It didn’t seem connected to the rest of her.

“This is nice,” I agreed neutrally. “So, you and Mark bought it from Loralee and her ex-husband?”

I assumed the teacher and her spouse must have sold the house to arrive at their divorce settlement.

Rather than answer my question, Pauline commented on her own previous remark. “She definitely has a fine eye for color and shape.”

I seized the opening she gave me. “You think Loralee is a better designer than teacher?”

“Oh, my, yes,” Pauline exclaimed and then tried to backtrack. “But who am I to say? I don’t work with her.”

“Mark did,” I let my voice rise hopefully, cuing her to continue.

She switched the topic to the renovated kitchen. It featured gray and beige granite surfaces, a bright terracotta floor, and lots of sunlight streaming through three windows. From there we checked out the small dining room and the more than adequate master bedroom suite, complete with Jacuzzi tub. Upstairs were another full bath and two relatively small bedrooms, one used as a guest room, the other as an office. The office door was closed.

“I apologize in advance for Mark’s mess,” Pauline said, her hand on the doorknob. “He was obsessively neat about everything except his office, and I haven’t had time, needless to say, to clean it up.”

Her remark contradicted Jenx’s report about Vreelander’s spartan office at The Bentwood School. Was Pauline over-apologizing for a room that needed cleaning?

Not at all. When she swung open the door, I was stunned by the windblown state of the space. Loose papers appeared to have been tossed with notebooks and journals—some cracked open at the spine—across the L-shaped desk, the credenza, the coffee table, the loveseat, the two chairs, and the floor. Some papers were in short messy stacks; others seemed to have fluttered aimlessly to their final resting spot. The room struck me as a private place, the retreat of a person who didn’t work seriously there, or who didn’t care how it would look to others because others never entered. Could that explain Mark’s being a slob at home and a neat freak at work? I wasn’t sure if the psychic duality was possible, but how else to explain the contrast, unless Jenx had exaggerated her findings, or someone had straightened Mark’s school office before the chief arrived.

“Chaotic, I know,” Pauline said. “I, for one, couldn’t work like this, but Mark swore he could find anything he needed in two minutes or less.”

I chuckled politely. “Did he use the same system at work?”

“It was the system he preferred,” Pauline replied. “Mark was extremely self-disciplined in almost every respect. But his approach to office organization? Entirely intuitive and impulsive. He loved being able to run his office the way he wanted to.”

“Did he and Bentwood see eye to eye?”

“On what?” Pauline’s voice turned sharp.

“The way Mark ran his office and the school.”