Nina Wright - Whiskey Mattimoe 06 - Whiskey and Soda (25 page)

Restarting her van, Anouk continued along the unpaved, unnamed and extremely dark rural road. I had a vague idea where we were—east of the lake (Lake Michigan, that is) and north of County Road H—but there was nary a yard light in sight. This was wine country; that much I knew. What could Anouk plan to show me at night among acres and acres of dormant grapevines?

The road turned right and switched back on itself before curving left and dipping sharply into a grove of tall trees that appeared from nowhere I could imagine. We slowed at an intersection enclosed by pines. Anouk turned the wheel left and braked, clicking off her headlights. Before us a Tudor-style home glowed gracefully, outlined in thousands of tiny blue and white lights. The same Christmas illumination shone on leafless trees and evergreens that edged the expansive lawn. If there had been snow on the ground, the scene would have been perfect.

“Yale lives here,” Anouk said.

I thought about the countryside that lay beyond this cozy enclave.

“Is he a vintner?”

“No. Although his family once owned much of the land we passed by, they were never in that business. Little by little, Yale sold off all but this parcel. It makes for a lovely, secluded home, don’t you think?”

“‘Secluded’ is one word for it. Who is this guy?”

“You have no idea?”

“Absolutely none.”

Although we sat in darkness, I felt Anouk’s eyes boring into me. Was I in the company of a crazy person? A criminal? Or just someone French?

“I don’t know who Yale is,” I said keeping my voice even, “or why you made me come here, or why you think a bracelet found by my dog has something to do with a murder, but I have a very bad feeling about this. Please don’t take me hostage.”

At that point, I pulled out the only weapon I carried, my smart phone. I noticed in consternation that it had no signal.

“You think I would kidnap you?” Anouk asked, dismayed.

“I have no idea what you would do.”

Without explaining anything—or even turning her headlights back on—Anouk shifted the van into reverse. She made a ninety-degree left turn, flipped her high beams on, and roared forward. We were leaving much faster than we had come, too fast for road conditions. I covered my bump with one hand and gripped the door handle with the other.

“Please slow down.”

“Pardon,” she murmured in French, easing her foot off the accelerator. “Sometimes I get so

angry—”

I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear the end of that sentence, so I started one of my own.

“What road are we on?”

“Yale.”

“Yale Road? Never heard of it.”

“The road is named for a proud family tradition.”

“Tradition? You mean like going to Yale University?”

She nodded. I couldn’t think of a single local family with that tradition, and then, suddenly, I did.

“The Bentwoods?” I asked.

“Yes. Three generations of Bentwoods attended Yale.”

“So, that was George Bentwood’s house?”

“One of them. His wife prefers a milder climate. She is rarely at home on Yale Road although she is due back for Christmas, so Georgie bought the lights.”

I wanted to laugh at Anouk’s use of the nickname until I recalled how she and Bentwood had kissed when they met in the school hallway. Far too enthusiastically for casual acquaintances, even if one them were French.

“Are you Bentwood’s lover?”

The question flew from my mouth before I could edit it. Her response was a small laugh.

“Am I one of his lovers, you mean? No, I am not.”

“Then what does any of—”

“I used to be one of his lovers, long ago. I know where the bodies are buried, as Americans like to say.”

That intriguing comment, combined with an invitation, was how I ended up drinking at Anouk’s house. Pouring Bordeaux wine for herself and soda for me, she shared her own local history. Napoleon, sans Abra, arrived at the archery range only moments after we did, courtesy of Camo-Mom, who had already delivered Abra to Vestige. I let Anouk handle that transaction while I did the right thing by making a couple quick calls.

First, I phoned Jeb to make sure that he, Chester, and the dogs were all right. They were fine though weary from Abra’s wild chase. Next, I did exactly what my mother didn’t want me to do. I took a deep breath and asked Jeb to postpone our dinner. Specifically, I requested a two-hour delay to pursue my work as a volunteer deputy. He asked me no questions, just gave me his blessing. What a guy.

Next, I called Pauline Vreelander and arranged to come by her house at ten A. M. She wasn’t thrilled with the delay, but she accepted it. Although I couldn’t tell her so, my hope was that by morning I would have more to offer than a real estate contract. I hoped to be able to point her toward the person who had killed her husband.

I considered phoning Jenx to say I might be on to something huge, but she would have asked a whole lot of questions, and I didn’t have any answers. Yet. Besides, if that bracelet turned out to belong to the killer, I had accidentally put my fingerprints all over it.

Anouk had a dim galley-style kitchen and no breakfast nook. I noticed that the dented off-white appliances were old, circa 1980. The brown cabinets were made of faux walnut veneer, and the green laminate countertop was chipped. While she poured our beverages, she parked me in the living room in front of a gas fireplace that appeared long disused. A scarred oak coffee table was made level courtesy of three poker chips under one leg. The sofa and two stuffed chairs matched, but their striped upholstery was faded and badly worn. The carpet, mottled with dark stains, needed replacing, too. A gnawed nylar bone lay on the tattered hearth rug, the only sign of Napoleon, who had retired for the night to his “poodle man-cave” in the basement.

The living room boasted no photos of humans or hounds. I knew that Anouk had a son and daughter, both graduates of The Bentwood School. A professional recycler and a manicurist, she had said, lending credence to Chester’s claim that recent alumni were not going into more pricey professions. Certainly, this house was modest compared to the homes of Chester’s peers. I wondered how Anouk had afforded her children’s education. Was the solution linked to her affair with “Yale”?

“Sorry I have no lemon for this,” Anouk said, presenting a plastic glass filled with ice and soda. She settled into the chair on my right.

“Not a problem,” I said. “Do your children still live with you?”

“They are grown. My son lives in Paw-Paw with his girlfriend. My daughter has an apartment in Sugar Grove, but sometimes she spends the night here. She gets nervous.”

I recalled that Anouk’s daughter had phoned the police the evening when Abra seduced Napoleon.

“My daughter is suggestible,” Anouk said. “She heard there was a long-haired goat on the loose, so she thought that was what she saw when she spotted Abra.”

“Abra is hard to explain,” I conceded. “Please. Tell me about George Bentwood and the bracelet.”

Anouk sipped her Bordeaux, a label I recognized from my many hours at Mother Tucker’s bar.

“It’s a long story. I married a man who loved archery the way I did. The way Mark Vreelander also did. We three met during the ’84 Olympics. My husband was a trainer, like me. After we married, we bought this rundown little archery club and changed its name to
Tir à l’Arc
.”

“Did you keep in touch with Vreelander?” I said.

Anouk nodded. “Always. We three remained friends. When Mark was in the Army, we exchanged letters. A few times over the years, we managed to get together face-to-face. Once he came here and saw our range. He liked it very much. Of course, he was hopeful last summer when he applied for the position at The Bentwood School.”

“Did you and your ex-husband also know Pauline?”

“My ex never met her. I met her only once, when Mark interviewed for the job. She was pleasant, but … ”

“But what?” I prompted.

“I thought she seemed a little jealous of Mark and me, because we shared a passion. For archery.”

I waited while Anouk drank more wine.

“What can you tell me about George Bentwood? And the bracelet?” I said.

“I will get to the bracelet. As for Georgie, he is who he seems to be.”

When I didn’t comment, Anouk added, “A spoiled, rich boy.”

“George Bentwood’s a little old to be called a boy.”

“Exactly. Georgie never grew up because he didn’t have to. When he was young, Georgie married a woman who required little of him. She wanted a husband from her own social class who would mostly leave her alone. She did, however, insist that he never embarrass her.”

“Has he embarrassed her?” I said.

Anouk smiled. “To be embarrassed, one must be aware. Georgie’s wife has mostly not been aware. She is seldom with him, and they have few friends in common.”

“Which is why she doesn’t know about Loralee Lowe’s daughter, Gigi,” I surmised.

“Oh, but she does know about Gigi. Now.”

“Because of Loralee?”

“Because of someone named MacArthur.”

I nearly choked on my soda.

“Mrs. Bentwood hired him as an investigator,” Anouk said. “Georgie had become careless.”

I hadn’t known that MacArthur’s services were available for hire. This might explain his temporary absence and his imminent return.

“How do you know about MacArthur?” I said.

“He investigated me. A pleasant Scotsman and so handsome, he inquired about Georgie as a father.”

“Why would MacArthur ask you?”

She smiled and raised her glass. “Two of Georgie’s children are mine.”

“Bentwood is the father of your children?” I asked Anouk Gagné.

Although I tried to keep my tone judgment-free, it didn’t come out that way.

“Yes. But my ex-husband raised them as his own.”

“Does he know?”

Anouk crossed to what looked like an antique hope chest in one corner of her living room. She raised the lid and reached inside. Straightening, she turned back to me, a thick black scrapbook in her hands. She opened it, flipped through a few pages, and smiled at what she saw. She brought the book to me.

“You asked if my ex knew the children were not his. Here they are, when they were much younger. Do you still wonder?”

I peered at a close-up color photo of two beautiful smiling children, their arms around each other’s shoulders. The dark-haired boy looked about eight; the sandy-haired girl, about six. Despite the differences in their hair color, they bore a strong resemblance not only to each other but also to George Bentwood. They had his winning smile and his distinctly handsome face.

“Good-looking children,” I said although that was obvious. “Do they know who their father is?”

“My ex-husband is their father, legally and emotionally.”

I nodded although I wasn’t sure what I was agreeing with. “Did your husband know George Bentwood?”

“He met him at the archery range. Georgie was taking lessons from me. That was how we fell in love. Later Pierre and I sent the children to The Bentwood School. A strong private education was important to us.”

Her story was so confusing, and so French.

“Did your husband ever confront you or Bentwood?”

“Never. The children could have been Pierre’s in that we had a passionate marriage, especially in the early years.”

She peered into her wine glass. “Pierre did leave me, eventually, but not because he resented Georgie or the children. He left when he met a woman he truly loved.”

“Were you attracted to Bentwood’s money?” I ventured.

“Not at all. You must understand that money means little to me. What I loved about Georgie was his playful spirit, the little bad boy in him.”

Anouk smiled at memories playing in her head.

“While we were lovers, he gave me jewelry, but I don’t wear jewelry, so I pawned it to pay my bills.”

After an awkward pause—awkward for me, that is—I said, “I’m sorry. I just … I guess I don’t know the right thing to say.”

“You are uncomfortable, of course, and so Midwestern.” I couldn’t miss the pity in her voice. “We French are both passionate and casual about affairs of the heart. May I get you more soda?”

I declined her offer, trying not to think about how much I missed my daily dose of Pinot Noir.

“Will you tell me about the bracelet?”

“I’m coming to that part,” Anouk said. “First, you need to know that Georgie was a wonderful lover. Still is, I am sure, although I foreswore that pleasure years ago.”

“Why stop seeing him now, when you’re no longer married?”

“Married, not married. It’s irrelevant.” She waved her left hand distractedly. “What matters is what the heart desires. Georgie wanted younger, fresher lovers. I wanted not to care what he wanted.”

“He wanted Loralee Lowe?” I asked.

“Oh, there were many before Loralee. As for the bracelet, Georgie likes to give gifts of gold to the women he loves. Engraved with his nickname, Yale.”

“His alma mater,” I said.

“His family tradition, yes.” She sniffed. “However, one cannot wear a bangle bracelet when firing an arrow. I am certain that someone involved with Georgie dropped that bracelet, while preparing to fire at Mark.”

“Kimmi Kellum-Ramirez wears bangle bracelets,” I said. “Is she Georgie’s—George’s—lover? Or an archer?”

Anouk was sipping her wine, so I bumbled on. “We know that Loralee Lowe is the mother of his daughter. Is Loralee an archer?”

“No, no, and, I don’t know,” Anouk said finally. “Kimmi cannot shoot an arrow, and she’s not involved with Georgie. Trust me, she’s not his type. Loralee is his type. I watched her with the children on the range today. She seems to know something about archery. How much, I cannot say.”

“So whose bracelet is it? It can’t be Robin Wardrip’s. She’s an accomplished archer, but she doesn’t like men and she wears camouflage gear, not gold.”

Anouk raised both palms to signal either that she didn’t know or that it didn’t matter.

“You are on the hunt, Whiskey. You will need to follow the trail all the way to the killer.”

I rolled my eyes in exasperation. “Just give me one good clue.”

“I have given you every clue that is mine to give, but here’s a thought. You are looking for someone whom Georgie helps in return for the help she gives him. It is a circular relationship, I think.”