Nina Wright - Whiskey Mattimoe 06 - Whiskey and Soda (17 page)

“Go home and lie down,” she said sympathetically. “Have your boyfriend rub your feet.”

That sounded like a wonderful plan, provided the Frenchie was down for the night. I reached for the check, but Stevie beat me to it.

“I invited you,” she insisted. “And I enjoyed this.”

“Me, too,” I said. “Tomorrow I buy lunch.”

We agreed that I would pick her up in front of The Bentwood School at eleven A. M. sharp. I glanced toward the best booth in the house, where my mother appeared to be regaling my star agent with stories. As I watched, Odette refilled Mom’s wine glass. The woman who had raised me almost never drank, at least not while she lived in Michigan. Tonight I hoped she had a designated driver.

Mom paused long enough to take a big sip of the red wine, probably a fine Pinot like I would have been savoring if I weren’t in mom-to-be mode, resumed her story, imitating someone inclined to roll her eyes and sigh a lot. Her routine amused Odette to no end. I rolled my eyes and sighed.

Head throbbing, I made my way out of the restaurant into the fresh night air. Almost nothing about the evening smelled like December in Michigan. Except for the faintest trace of wood smoke from someone’s distant chimney, it might as well have been late March. I caught the scent of damp earth and old leaves. Even the lake sent up a mossy odor appropriate to warmer months. The air offered nothing crisp or frosty.

As I opened the driver’s door, I noticed a folded piece of paper tucked under my left wiper blade. Grunting, I leaned around to pluck it, planning to chuck it when I cleaned out my car. But this was no advertisement. My name was handwritten on the outside below the horizontal fold. I got inside and read the short note inside before fastening my seatbelt.

I have information about what you saw on the bike trail last night.

I would prefer to share it with you before I call the police.

Phone me at

The writer had provided a local cell phone number but no name.

I locked my doors and clicked off the dome light. I scanned the parking lot, which was devoid of people, or at least people I could see. My headache was gone, replaced by a scalp to sole jolt of fear. I glanced down to see that my left hand, the one not holding the note, covered my bump. While the stress of recent events couldn’t be good for my baby, I now believed I had maternal instincts.

Suddenly, Baby kicked hard. No question, there was ferocious life in there and a fearsome killer out there. Whoever left that note had come looking for me. Granted, my personalized license plate MI HOME may have simplified the search, but the note-leaver knew where to look. I shivered and not from the cold. We didn’t have any of that. What we did have in Magnet Springs was a murderer who knew I had witnessed his—or her—crime.

Dialing Jenx’s direct line, my hand didn’t tremble as much as it had the previous night. Now there was no fresh body in front of me, just an alarming anonymous note.

“Yo,” Jenx answered, sounding annoyed, and also like she knew who was calling.

“Do you have Caller ID on this line?” I said.

“What do you think, Whiskey?”

“I think you should know about the note I just found on my windshield.”

I read it to her, complete with phone number.

“Can you find out whose phone that is?” I said. “It’s the same exchange as Jeb’s.”

I remembered something.

“It’s the same exchange as the cell number on the Blitzen poster.”

“It’s the same number,” Jenx replied. “At least I think it is.”

“Yeah? Pauline Vreelander said that was her husband’s cell, and she said she’d give it to you as soon as she found it.”

“She hasn’t got around to that yet,” Jenx said. “But I got the number here somewhere.”

I pictured Jenx’s desk, a mini-version of the Grand Canyon, steep stacks of manila folders with scattered scraps of paper floating between them.

“If it is the same number, what’s going on?” I wondered aloud.

“It could be a prank, or maybe somebody involved in this mess got hold of Vreelander’s cell phone. Or—third possibility—Pauline was wrong about her husband’s number,” Jenx said. “If she speed-dialed him every day, she might have forgotten it or been a digit off. Hang on, I got a call.”

Back on the line a minute later, Jenx huffed in my ear.

“Damn. Another report of vandalism. That makes three tonight.”

“You think it’s the same person who was in my basement and Leo’s workshop?”

“Yup. Tonight they’re messing with security lamps north of town. Brady and Roscoe were supposed to be off duty, but they’re out investigating. Brady doesn’t mind. He’s got a car payment due.”

Jenx said she’d run the phone number on my note as soon as she could, and tomorrow she’d remind Pauline Vreelander to show her Mark’s cell. I asked what I should do about the note.

“What do you wanna do?” she said.

“Give it to you so you can use it to catch the killer.”

Jenx pointed out that by now my fingerprints were all over it.

“How do you know that?” I said.

“Cuz you never correctly handle evidence.”

“If the weather was cold like it’s supposed to be in December, I’d have gloves on,” I muttered.

“Speaking of evidence,” Jenx said, “how about telling me what you found in Vreelander’s house?”

“Good news. I stole something from his desk.”

“You might wanna rephrase that, Whiskey. You’re talking to the chief of police.”

“Okay. I ‘borrowed’ a couple flash drives. Interested? Or should I put them back?”

“Bring ’em to the station. I’m working late.”

“I’m going home first. You wanted me to bond with Jeb, remember? By the way, Vreelander’s home office is a mess. According to Pauline, that’s how he liked to work.”

“Not at school, he didn’t,” Jenx said and hung up.

Surveying the parking lot one more time, I started my car and pulled out. All the way home to Vestige, I made frequent checks in my mirrors. Nothing and nobody the least bit suspicious appeared. To calm myself, I found a Christmas music station on the radio. I had to click it off, though, when they played Jingle Bells performed by barking dogs. It only spiked my annoyance at Jeb for letting Sandra Bullock bully Abra out of her own lodgings. That little flat-faced thespian had better not be in costume when I got home.

Even before I reached my driveway, I sensed that something was off. The security lights. All three of my mercury vapor lamps were out. Had Jeb even noticed? Or was he too busy changing Sandra’s outfit? I thought of Jenx’s report of new vandalism north of Magnet Springs. As I swung my car into the driveway, my headlights caught a slight black-clad figure dashing behind the clump of tall white spruces in the far corner of my front yard. I hit the brakes and my horn. If I couldn’t catch the bastard, at least I’d scare the shit out of him. Was it a “him”? The vandal wore a hoodie and gloves and moved fast. I’d never heard of girls doing this kind of damage, but what did I know? I never used to fear the PTO, either.

I honked again with my left hand as my right hand pawed the contents of my purse for my phone. Got it. I would call Jeb first, then Jenx. Maybe Jeb and Sandra could run out and corner the creep. If I had any luck, the snorting, farting little Frenchie might keep on running and never come back. Nah. That was a sight hound thing.

Before I could dial, the front door flew open, and Jeb emerged with his pooch. Apparently my porch light was broken, too. Both figures stood in silhouette against the warm glow of my living room. I could see that Sandra wore a big hat. It looked like a sombrero.

“Somebody broke my outdoor lights. He’s over there, behind the spruce trees!”

Jeb didn’t wait for me to finish before he broke into a run. Although Sandra’s stubby legs couldn’t match his stride, she took off after him, barking energetically. I could almost forgive the sombrero because her voice meant business. That was no high-pitched little-dog yip. There was a distinct trace of English bulldog.

Jenx sounded more alert on this call. She said she’d dispatch Brady and Roscoe, who were two miles away. I was okay with their using the siren this time, not that she asked my permission. I wanted to scare the perp silly. Also, I was tired of honking.

The chief wasn’t thrilled when I told her that Jeb was chasing the bad guy.

“Did it occur to you he might have a weapon?” she said.

“I didn’t see a weapon. The guy’s all in black.”

“Lots of dangerous things are black. Guns and crowbars, for starters. Did you think he broke your lights with his bare hands?”

“He’s wearing gloves,” I mumbled, but sweat bloomed on my forehead and the nape of my neck.

Jenx disconnected to summon Brady and Roscoe. Although Jeb had disappeared into the trees, I could still see Sandra in my headlights as she bounded clumsily after him. The wail of Brady’s siren was so sudden and close that it made me jump, and I had known it was coming. Sandra stopped dead, tipped her head back and yowled. Though not as eerie a sound as a sight hound’s howl, it was a big enough noise to scare somebody.

Between the siren and Sandra, the vandal must have had enough. A figure in black bolted from the trees toward the road. My headlights caught him, hoodie down, short light hair exposed.

Several things happened fast. Jeb appeared and tackled the vandal before he could cross the road. Brady pulled his screaming squad car in behind my vehicle, cutting the siren but leaving flasher and headlights on. Sandra Bullock landed on top of the prone intruder, barking her hatted head off. She also displayed a menacing underbite.

I approached the action as soon as Brady and Roscoe had secured the scene. In my opinion, Sandra’s threatening act was strictly for Roscoe’s benefit. She intended to sexually excite him, this time by showing that she could subdue anybody, even while wearing a sombrero. Her routine had the desired doggie effect, which was not what any human requiring police assistance would desire. Whining, Roscoe danced on his hind legs. He demonstrated a form of ardency not relevant to his profession. Brady led his disabled partner back to the squad car.

Although I never saw Sandra look directly at Roscoe, that didn’t mean she’d missed one second of his response. It dawned on me that the little Frenchie might be an amazingly accomplished canine tease.

Jeb had knocked the vandal on his stomach, and Sandra had landed on his back. Thanks to Roscoe’s psycho-sexual break, nobody got around to rolling the guy over until Brady returned from the car. While we waited, Jeb and I didn’t talk. We studied what appeared to be a delinquent teen-ager. His back heaved under Sandra’s wide stance as he tried to catch his breath, but he said nothing and kept his face covered.

When Brady returned, Sandra automatically jumped down on solid ground, seeking Jeb’s approval. She got that in the form of a big hug and, gag me, a kiss on her flat muzzle. Hell, Jeb hadn’t even gotten around to kissing me yet tonight, and I was carrying his baby. Needless to say, there would be no romance tonight until somebody brushed his teeth.

“Roll over,” Brady commanded the kid on the ground.

Nothing happened. The vandal in black continued to lie on his stomach, panting, arms shielding his face.

“I said, roll over!”

As if on cue, Sandra Bullock growled from her perch in Jeb’s arms.

“Okay, okay,” the kid muttered. “Just keep that creepy little dog with the hat away from me.”

He rolled over, like an obedient criminal. Brady shone his magnum torch straight into the kid’s face.

“Hey, I can’t see,” he whined.

I caught a flash of pale skin and bright blue eyes before the kid covered his face again.

“That would be because you broke all the lights, Genius. So now I have to use this,” Brady said, fixing the beam in place.

The kid swore, but it was a mild epithet. Even as he tried to shield himself from the glare, I recognized him. It was the obnoxious middle-school agitator from the morning assembly.

“How old are you?” I asked even though it probably wasn’t my turn.

“Old enough,” the kid snapped, peering at me through his fingers. “Hey, I know you. You’re the drunk who pushed Vreelander off his bike.”

“Am not. Did not,” I said.

“Shut up,” Brady snarled. “Not you, Whiskey, but you might want to step back.”

I did. Brady moved a little closer to the sneering kid on the ground.

“What’s your name?”

“I know my rights. I don’t have to say anything. I wanna lawyer up.”

“You can do that,” Brady said reverting to his standard relaxed manner. “But you look like a minor, and in that case, we need to call your parents first.”

“He’s a student at The Bentwood School,” I told Brady.

“I’m not just a student there,” the kid said. “I’m president of the Student Council.”

I recalled Chester’s comment about the spiraling quality of The Bentwood School graduates. They seemed to be on a par with the current PTO. Probably there was a correlation.

“You’re the president?” I repeated. “Is that why you hijacked the assembly this morning?”

He grinned. “I hijack every assembly. The kids expect it.”

“Mr. Vreelander let you do that?”

“Not so much, but he didn’t last long, did he?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Brady said.

“He’s dead, dude. You’re a cop. You should know that.”

“Stand up,” Brady said. “Nice and slow.”

“What if I don’t feel like it?”

“Cops don’t much care what you feel like, dude.”

Sandra Bullock, who was ominously close to the kid, chose that moment to let loose another Frenchie howl. He scrambled to his feet.

“You gonna cuff me?”

He was talking to Brady, but his nervous gaze was on Sandra.

“It’s what cops do.”

Brady told the kid to put his wrists together just so, and he snapped plastic restraints in place. To me, they looked like a garbage bag tie, apt for this piece of trash.

“You work alone?” Brady asked.

“It’s hard to get good help,” the kid said.

“What are you, twelve?” I interjected.

“Twelve, my ass. I’m fifteen.”

“Fifteen’s a little old for middle school. What’s the matter, can’t ya read?”