Nina Wright - Whiskey Mattimoe 06 - Whiskey and Soda (15 page)

Still no sound from downstairs. My stomach tightened, not because I feared Pauline Vreelander, but rather because I didn’t completely believe her. There was volatility under that steel veneer. I didn’t buy her unlikely description of their marriage, and I didn’t accept her calm response to her husband’s violent end. When my own husband died suddenly—of natural causes—I came unglued and stayed that way for months. Pauline showed neither shock nor grief, at least in front of me. When I did see emotion flicker, it seemed to be resentment that life would no longer work out the way the happy couple had planned. But were they a happy couple? Who was the unwelcome woman at the front door? And how did she manage to provoke Pauline?

Footsteps. I resumed the position she had last seen me in and pulled my phone from my purse so that I appeared to be nonchalantly checking text messages when Pauline returned. I didn’t even look up until she spoke.

“So sorry about the interruption, Whiskey. Do you have any questions about the house?”

About the house? Pauline the educator was back on task, refocusing us both on the point of our meeting. I clicked off my phone and slipped it back into my bag.

“Before you went to answer the door, you were saying that George Bentwood’s life was ‘simplified’ when Mark died. If you don’t think George killed him, who did?”

Pauline stared. “Did I say ‘simplified’? I don’t recall. This has been a very confusing day, as I’m sure you understand.”

“But who would have benefitted by Mark’s death?” I said, feeling a twinge of guilt for prodding the freshly widowed.

She sighed, apparently concluding that I was not worth resisting.

“Probably anyone whose life was made harder by Mark’s policies. I’m not sure that’s a motive for murder. More likely, the killer is someone who deeply needed to please or protect George. For all intents and purposes, he is The Bentwood School.”

I felt my eyebrows arch in question, but Pauline had given me what she would.

“Thanks for your time. If you decide to put the house on the market rather than accept Bentwood’s offer, let me know. I’d be delighted to be your agent. If you like his offer, I strongly advise you to use a real estate attorney. As I said, I can recommend someone.”

Was I imagining it, or did Pauline scan Mark’s desk to see whether I had disturbed anything? I had, but how could she tell unless she had memorized the mess? Coolly she thanked me for my time and proceeded to show me out. At the front door we shook hands. Hers was much colder now than it had been when I arrived. Due to stress? Anxiety? Fear? Someone had upset Pauline Vreelander’s balance although I expected that she would regain it quickly. She held the door open for me and wished me a good evening. Instead of leaving, I lobbed one more question just to watch her response.

“You sounded distressed when you answered the door. Who stopped by?”

I might as well have barked like a dog.

“Excuse me?”

“Someone upset you, Pauline, and I’m sorry that happened. Who would do such a thing at this difficult time?”

She pressed her thin lips together. For a split second I thought she might order me to leave.

“One of the mothers. She insisted that Mark borrowed a report that the PTO needs back.”

“Why would he have that?” I said, when what I meant was why would he have it here?

“Exactly what I told her,” Pauline agreed pleasantly.

Only that wasn’t what she had said, or all of what she had said, at any rate. I had heard her loudly insist, “No, no, absolutely not.”

“It’s a trivial matter, I’m sure,” Pauline said.

She gestured dismissively with the hand that wasn’t on the door. The hand that was on the door opened it wider to ensure an easy exit for the pregnant lady.

I stalled. “Too bad you don’t know the mother personally.”

“Why?”

“Well, you might have felt more comfortable discussing it.”

“Why would I want to discuss a PTO issue?” Pauline snapped.

“Right. I meant to say that you would have felt more comfortable dismissing it.”

“I felt just fine dismissing it, and now, regretfully, I must dismiss you. I’m very busy today, Whiskey, as I’m sure you understand.”

I concurred and quickly reiterated my condolences as I stepped outside. I wondered, though, how profound a personal loss she had suffered. Legally Mark Vreelander was her husband. In reality, was he also her lover, her soul mate and her best friend? Or was he her “beard”? Jenx used that term for an opposite-gender friend acting as lover to disguise the other person’s homosexuality. Was Pauline a lesbian? She didn’t seem so to me, and my Gaydar was usually spot-on. It could have been blunted by pregnancy, though.

If she wasn’t a lesbian, was Mark gay? As briefly as I had glimpsed the man in his Spandex, he seemed straight to me, but the real question wasn’t their sexual orientation or the quality of their marriage. It was who killed the headmaster, and why. If the woman at Pauline’s front door were in fact a member of the PTO, I had to wonder why those moms continued to misbehave. Their nemesis was dead. Why pester the widow? Unless they needed something that was in her house.

I paused at the curb. Did Bentwood need something in that house, too? His purchase offer included the furnishings. Was that a tribute to Loralee Lowe’s design prowess or an attempt to obtain an item that belonged to the late headmaster? Bentwood had made Pauline an offer she wasn’t likely to refuse. Did he hope she would take his check and leave before finding something of value, perhaps something hidden in plain sight?

Fingering the two flash drives in my jumper pocket, I glanced at the house. A heart-shaped face peered down at me from the dormer window in Vreelander’s upstairs office. The mini-blinds dropped back into place, but not before I had identified the watcher: Loralee Lowe.

Mentally I played back my tour of the Vreelanders’ home. I had walked through the entire house without seeing or hearing anyone besides Pauline. Did Loralee enter when the doorbell rang? Was she the verbal combatant whose words I couldn’t decipher? Or had she slipped in through the back door during that brief fracas, either with or without Pauline’s knowledge? Why would the widow agree to meet in her own home with the woman her late husband had planned to fire?

As I slid less than smoothly into the driver’s seat, my phone signaled the arrival of a message. I almost didn’t read it when I saw that it was from Jeb. No way was I going to concern myself with updates on the Abra-Sandra situation. That matter needed to be fixed by the time I got home, end of story. Before I could drop the phone back in my bag, up popped a photo of Sandra dressed as one of Santa’s elves. Her perky costume was accessorized with large holly-bordered sunglasses and a ridiculous pointy green cap.

Refraining from bouncing my phone off the windshield, I replied: You’re supposed to make Abra *like* her.

I dropped the phone into the depths of my big dark bag, took two steadying breaths and checked my watch. One thing was working out just right today, my schedule. I would be on time to meet Stevie McCoy at Mother Tucker’s.

Even if Pauline Vreelander wouldn’t need my real estate services, Stevie had indicated that she did. An unmarried woman working at a private school wasn’t likely to be in the market for high-end real estate. But Stevie knew a lot of people who could be. Considering the aggregate wealth of parents at The Bentwood School, the potential for getting referrals made tonight’s meeting worthwhile. Not to mention that I enjoyed Stevie’s world view, mainly because it mirrored my own.

How I had come to love sipping Pinot Noir at Mother Tucker’s carved-oak bar. Naturally I would be sipping something nonalcoholic tonight, but I expected to get high on ambience alone. Since blossoming into an obviously pregnant person, I hadn’t done nearly enough socializing. Now I asked myself why. Expectant mothers often led gloriously active lives, at least celebrity expectant mothers did. My social orbit had shrunk in direct proportion to my waistline’s expansion.

Truth be told, I had been depressed about my relationship with Jeb, as well as the Michigan economy. Combine personal and professional woes with an unexpected pregnancy, and life could seem less than rosy. Not anymore. Suddenly Jeb was back and business looked brighter than it had in two years. True, there was one more crazed canine than usual at my house, but Jeb and Chester were working on that.

I embraced the mixed odors of booze, food and fresh pine as I pulled open the restaurant’s front door. Mother Tucker’s proprietors had outdone themselves decorating for the holidays. Live Christmas trees in assorted sizes twinkled from every corner. Smiling, Stevie McCoy waved from the bar, where she was sipping what looked like a cosmopolitan.

“Welcome,” she said. “I’m buying the drinks. Soda?”

Feeling uncharacteristically cheerful, I craved something tastier. “How about hot apple cider?”

“With cinnamon,” Stevie suggested.

The barkeep said he’d have to check the kitchen, but he thought he could accommodate that request.

“Nutmeg, too?” he suggested. “Or ginger?”

“Throw in both, plus brown sugar. I’m living large these days, literally.”

Stevie laughed. Outside The Bentwood School, she looked relaxed and happy. Her wardrobe change enhanced the impression. She wore Ugg boots, skinny-leg jeans and a plush lavender pullover with a plunging neckline. Stevie had a smooth throat and perky breasts for a woman in her fifties. I was the kind of gal who noticed what I wanted to emulate as I aged. If a body that tight had ever produced a child, I would feel heartened.

“You’re about, what? Six months?” Stevie asked.

“Exactly,” I said.

“Is the baby kicking?”

“Not much.”

The truth was not at all. I had felt a few flutters, but nothing that anyone would identify as a foot, elbow or knee, nothing to convince me that there was an active little person in there.

“I carried my son high like that,” Stevie was saying. “Not a problem ’til my eighth month. Then breathing became a bit of a challenge. You’ll be fine, though, especially since you’re not delivering in the height of summer.”

“I’m due in April,” I said, realizing I hadn’t spoken that sentence out loud to anyone except Jeb, Mom and Noonan, and those three had to make me say it.

“The second trimester is the best,” Stevie declared. “I felt wonderful, and my tits never looked better.”

In fact, Jeb and I were both enjoying my historical first cleavage. Not bad for a girl who had always dreamed of filling a B-cup, and I did feel remarkably better than I had during my first trimester.

“Boy or girl?” Stevie asked.

I shook my head. “I don’t want to know the results of my gender scan.”

“Neither did I,” she exclaimed. “Call me old-fashioned, but I enjoy a good surprise.”

Her attitude sounded a tad healthier than mine. I had declined finding out the gender because I didn’t want to be responsible for planning the perfect “all-boy” or “all-girl” arrival. Preparing for a generic baby was as much as I thought I could handle. Jeb, however, was eager to create a gender-specific nursery. From now on, I would feed him Stevie’s “I enjoy a good surprise” line. Jeb loved surprises. I was sure I could convince him to embrace this one.

Stevie McCoy had the kind of charisma that many sales professionals cultivate: she drew people to her by disclosing personal tidbits that actually revealed very little. By the time we had chatted for a full hour—over two cosmopolitans for her and two spicy hot ciders for me—I knew these facts about her:

• She had a son.

• She was divorced.

• She went to work at The Bentwood School because she needed a job after her divorce.

• She knew how to handle even the most demanding parents.

• She considered Robin Wardrip and Kimmi Kellum-Ramirez to be among the most high- maintenance people on the planet.

• She respected Mark Vreelander although he tried to make too many changes too fast to suit the parents.

The most revelatory aspect of our conversation was what she didn’t say. Stevie offered a total of zero responses or comments about George Bentwood. Oh, she made vaguely appropriate noises whenever I brought him up, but she managed to smile, nod, sigh, and shrug her way into the next transition without going on the record about anything to do with the school president. Empowered by all those spices in my cider, I played hardball.

Me: “I hear that Loralee Lowe had George Bentwood’s love child.”

Stevie: “Who told you that?”

Me: “Oh, several people. I don’t know their names.”

Stevie: “Hmm.” (Silence.)

Me: “I understand that was why Loralee’s husband left her.”

Stevie: “Really?”

Me: “Was that why Bentwood stepped down from the headmaster position? Because of the scandal with Loralee?”

Stevie: “I’m not aware of any scandal.”

Me: “You do PR and marketing for the school, right? You must be aware that there’s gossip in Magnet Springs about Bentwood’s being a womanizer.”

Stevie (shrugging): “Gossip is something I can’t control. We do a lot of charitable work in the community. George and the school are mainly known for that. How about ordering some dinner? I have some real estate questions for you.”

I agreed to eat something. All that hot cider was making me feel like a beach ball filled with warm surf. For my comfort, Stevie suggested we move from our bar stools to a booth by the window. When I stood up, the contents of my belly sloshed and jumped a little. Either I had taken in way too much fluid, or the inhabitant of my womb was learning the backstroke.

Stevie smiled when I put my hand on my bump and described the sensation.

“Congratulations, Mom. Your baby is saying hello.”

My doctor had told me that first babies rarely felt as active in the womb as later ones did. I think she said it had something to do with changes that occur in the uterus after one kid has already stretched it to the max. Since I had no intention of ever going through this again, I let all references to “subsequent pregnancies” zoom right over my head.

“I loved being pregnant,” Stevie sighed.