Nina Wright - Whiskey Mattimoe 06 - Whiskey and Soda (27 page)

She ignored that remark, turning instead to Howard. “We’ll get our clothes, and I’ll go to the office. Odette will be there. She’s always on time.”

“Mom,” I tried again. “You’re more than welcome to stay here.”

My mother gave me the look she’d always given me when I lied to her.

“I’m not lying,” I cried.

“Whitney, I love you, but parents shouldn’t live with their adult children. It’s unnatural. Besides, Howard is allergic to dogs, and you don’t even know how many dogs you have.”

Howard said, “No problem last night. I took an antihistamine. Good thing it didn’t interfere with that little blue pill.”

“It sure didn’t,” Irene cooed.

Jeb asked Howard how he planned to spend the day while Irene was at work.

“Sightseeing, I guess, unless you got a better idea.”

“I just might,” Jeb said.

When I excused myself to get ready for work, Mom reminded me that I needed to set a date for my bridal shower. In response, I kept walking.

My day promised to be more hectic than usual. I had a real estate deal to seal and a murder to solve, or at least help solve. As I showered, I made a mental list of the nagging questions that, when answered, might point us toward Vreelander’s killer. In no particular order, these sprang to mind:

• Who made the Blitzen poster, and why did he or she put Mark Vreelander’s cell phone number on it? Who has that phone, anyway? Pauline Vreelander said she would produce it, but so far she hasn’t. Was it the same person who left the note on my windshield?

• What was Loralee Lowe doing at the Fresno Avenue property? And how did she get in? Did Pauline Vreelander know that she was there?

• What is on the encrypted flash drive recovered from the headmaster’s home office?

• If Anouk is correct that the inscribed gold bangle bracelet belongs to one of Bentwood’s lovers, who is that person, and did she in fact drop the bracelet while shooting Vreelander?

Fresh from my shower, I stepped into fuzzy slippers and wrapped myself in an oversized towel. To my surprise, the bed was made. For an instant, I suspected my mother of making it, either out of nostalgia or as a silent rebuke of my housekeeping skills, but I spotted a note on the bed. Inside a folded piece of notepaper, Jeb had printed: Check the closet. Curvy Mommy delivers again.

On the inside of the closet door hung my third brand-new beige maternity ensemble this week, a bulky turtleneck sweater with darker skinny-leg pants. A brown and ivory checked silk scarf was draped gracefully across the sweater. It gave me pause. I loved Jeb and his shopping muse, Chester, but how could either of them expect me, in my second trimester, to undertake accessorizing? It was a concept as foreign to me as, well, weekly grocery shopping, and yet reflecting on how good Avery had looked in her scarf, I knew I probably ought to give it a try.

Howard and Mom were on their way to Peg’s to retrieve their clothes by the time I kissed Jeb good-bye. He had already fed and watered Abra. She was out running laps around the front-yard, courtesy of Camo-Mom’s flexible “containment system.”

Once again our weather was better suited to April than December, a bane to anyone who stood to profit from Christmas spirit. The continuing mild temperatures would work in Howard and Mom’s favor, however, since Magnet Springs had a surplus of cabins and condos for wintertime tourists who couldn’t find winter here.

Grabbing my leather jacket, shoulder bag and briefcase, I headed toward my car, parked overnight in the driveway. Abra zoomed past me in an apparently happy lap around the yard. As if she just loved to be contained. Sure she did.

Jeb waved from the porch, and I backed out. I had barely shifted into drive when my cell rang.

“A good morning to you, Volunteer Deputy,” Jenx began.

The cheery greeting was so out of character that I applied the brake.

“What happened?” I said.

“Aside from your mom and her boyfriend starting an altercation at the mayor’s house, you mean?”

“That’s not the way I heard it,” I said.

“Well, if you’d actually heard it, you would know how loud it got. Peg’s neighbors thought they were listening to domestic violence. A three-way tryst gone terribly wrong.”

“Yeesh.”

“When I got there, Irene and her beau were drivin’ away, but Peg was still swingin’ her broom. I never knew she had a temper like that. She said they disrespected her and her house. But, as consenting adults, they didn’t break any laws.”

“You didn’t see my mom’s negligee.”

“And you didn’t see how whacked-out Peg was. Our mayor is seriously overstressed. The bad economy is tanking both her businesses. Says she can’t sell enough coffee or tattoos to pay the rent. On top of that, she has to listen to all the other Main Street merchants whine.”

“Should I have a talk with her?” I said.

“She’ll think you’re there to take your mom’s side. Better wait a few days, then buy everybody you know gift certificates for coffee and tattoos. They sell some tats that wash off, ya know.”

Changing the subject, I asked Jenx if she’d heard any news about the encrypted flash drive from her favorite volunteer deputy.

“Chester called this morning. He’s got study hall third period, and he thinks he can knock it out before math class.”

I proceeded to inform Jenx about Anouk’s discovery of the engraved gold bangle bracelet and her theory about the shooter.

“Did you know that ‘Yale’ is Bentwood’s nickname, and he lives on Yale Road?” I added.

“Everybody knows that,” Jenx said.

I declined to mention that I didn’t or that I hadn’t even known there was a Yale Road.

“This morning the State Boys sent me their forensics update. Just a courtesy,” she growled, “since they took my case away. No fingerprints on the arrow that killed Vreelander. That’s not a surprise. Serious archers wear gloves. But the trajectory report is interesting.”

“Why?”

“It would seem to confirm Anouk’s theory about where the killer fired the arrow.”

“Near the spot where she found the bracelet?” I said.

“Bingo. The arrow was fired with maximum force and precision.”

I urged Jenx to talk with Anouk if she wanted more details. No way was I going to pass along her tale of Bentwood, his spawn, his disgruntled wife, and MacArthur.

Jenx said, “After I interview Anouk, I’m gonna talk to the PTO moms again.”

I thought about the chief’s history with Camo-Mom but decided not to mention any part of that, either. Instead I said, “What are you hoping to hear that they haven’t already told you?”

“Second interviews are always a good idea. People remember things they forgot to tell you the first time around. Plus, if they change their story, you know they were lying.”

“Somebody must be lying,” I said.

“Everybody lies about something,” she said. “Especially about how they feel, like whether they hated somebody enough to kill ’em. I’m still trying to figure out what happened to the headmaster’s phone. By the way, using a disposable cell that we confiscated in another case, I called the number that was on your note and the Blitzen poster. It went straight to default voicemail. Either somebody’s just watching the calls come in, or that phone is lost.”

“If it’s lost,” I said, “the note and poster must be some kind of joke.”

“Maybe,” Jenx said. “Or maybe somebody’s trying to rattle you.”

“Me? Why?”

“Maybe they don’t like you, Whiskey, or maybe they’re trying to deflect attention away from themselves. Anyhow, I gotta see Vreelander’s home office for myself.”

“You won’t tell Pauline that I borrowed anything, will you?”

“Hell, no. That’s your crime.”

I winced at her word choice. Fortunately, I had a plan to replant the first flash drive, the X-rated one, in Mark’s home office. My strategy was to convince Pauline to walk me through the whole house one more time. While we were in the office, I would distract her just long to drop it somewhere. Anywhere. She or the movers would find it when the house was packed up, and it would be back in her possession where it belonged. Karma restored.

By the time Jenx and I concluded our call, I was turning left onto Fresno Avenue. A silver PT Cruiser pulled away from the curb in front of the Vreelanders’ home. Although only the back of the driver’s head was visible, I could have sworn I saw Loralee Lowe’s golden waves. I didn’t know her license plate, but this looked like the car she’d been driving the day the PTO reconnoitered on Broken Arrow Highway before heading off the headmaster. Shouldn’t she be at work? I supposed that even teachers got a break during the day, one that lasted long enough for her to drive the short distance from The Bentwood School to speak with Pauline. Was she delivering a message on behalf of “Yale”?

I made up my mind to ask Pauline why Loralee Lowe was here in the middle of a school day. Depending on her reaction, I might reveal that I’d seen Loralee in the window of Mark’s office when I left the last time. Had Pauline known she was in the house? What the heck was going on that day? This time I wouldn’t let her lie to me.

Note to self: Get Pauline’s signature on all listing documents first, just in case I ticked her off.

As it turned out, I didn’t have an opportunity to do any of those things. I rang and rang the doorbell, but nobody answered. I switched to pounding my fist on the door, and I rang the bell a few more times. No reply. The knob wouldn’t turn when I tried it.

Given that Pauline’s husband had been murdered three days ago, and I had just seen one of the suspects leaving the scene, my senses shot into overdrive. Everything here looked normal, but quiet. Too quiet.

I picked my way around the house, hoping to find a window that I could peer into. Unfortunately, every first-floor shade was down, as had been the case on my previous visit.

At the back door I pounded repeatedly. It was also locked. The detached garage had no windows, making it impossible to know whether a vehicle was parked inside.

After I completed the circle, I rang the bell and knocked again, just in case Pauline had been indisposed. No result.

Time to try the telephone. First, I dialed their landline. Mark Vreelander’s energetic voice lived on, inviting me to leave a message after the beep. I declined. Next, I tried Pauline’s cell. It rang a few times and went to voicemail.

“Pauline? Whiskey Mattimoe. We had an appointment at ten this morning. It’s a few minutes after that now. I’m at your door, but you’re not answering. I’m a little concerned. Is everything all right? Please give me a call back. Thanks.”

I forced myself to breathe deeply. Pauline was expecting me. She hadn’t phoned or texted about any delay, but before I jumped to full alarm mode and called the cops, I would try my Classic Card Trick. Credit card, that is. Using plastic from my wallet, I did my best to slip the front and back locks. No go.

Holding my phone, I stood in the front yard and studied my options. Ordinarily I would chock this scenario up to either a client scheduling conflict or a client “blow-off.” However, Pauline wasn’t the type to miss appointments, and a cold-blooded killer had recently whacked her man. If Mark Vreelander never changed the locks, Loralee might still have a key. For all I knew, the PTO mom had just met with Pauline, and now Pauline wasn’t answering the door.

I was ready to dial Jenx when the phone jangled in my hand. The caller ID said Pauline Vreelander.

I clicked to answer and heard a low sustained moan, the kind of sound I imagined a dying lion might make.

“Pauline? Pauline! Is that you?”

The moan turned into a series of whimpers.

“Pauline, this is Whiskey Mattimoe. Can you hear me?”

“Help … me. Help me.”

“Where are you?” I said, my heart rattling my whole body.

“Help me.” The moaning began anew.

“Pauline? Can you hear me? Are you in your house? Pauline?”

“Uhhhhhh,” the moan was almost a word.

I was sure she meant yes.

Keeping that line open while I dialed the police, I thanked the demigods of technology for giving us smart phones. Jenx took so long to answer her desk phone that I was almost ready to try her cell.

“Yo, Whiskey. Kinda busy here. Can you call back?”

“No! Listen, this is an emergency!”

I proceeded to explain, as succinctly as possible, that I believed Pauline Vreelander was seriously injured inside her own home.

“Gotcha. I’ll dispatch EMTs, the State Boys, and Brady. You stay there. Keep her talking.”

More like moaning and whimpering, but I vowed to do my best. Returning to Pauline’s line I heard only silence.

“Pauline? Pauline, are you there?”

Nothing. I repeated her name but got no response. Fighting panic and realizing that I had turned clammy all over, I scanned the windows again. It had been too long since my last first aid class, and I had an unfortunate tendency to puke or faint at the sight of gore. However, if I could get inside, I might be able to help or comfort Pauline. At the very least, I could open the front door for the arriving emergency crew. That would free up a few life-saving moments.

I rushed around the house, checking every first-floor window. All were locked. I would have to break one. That may sound like a simple task, but it requires an appropriate window-smashing tool, which I didn’t have. The Vreelanders’ yard boasted no rocks or small statuary suitable to the task, but in the backyard garden I spotted a lone plaster urn less than a foot tall. Fortunately, it was empty and easy to wield.

Next, I did what any self-respecting former high school volleyball star would do. With all my might, I spiked it through a side window and used my briefcase to whack away remaining shards of glass for a clear passage.

I had chosen a low side window that looked small enough to shatter yet large enough to climb through. When I imagined the climbing-through part, I pictured myself at my normal weight and shape. Now I glanced down at my baby bump. Of course, the hips and thighs were wider, too, and I was generally less limber. For a split second, I wasn’t sure whether this strange new version of me could slip through the allotted space. No time to waste wondering. I did have one thought, though, as I hoisted myself up and through. Jeb, your gift timing is impeccable. Loved the jumpers, but so glad I got pants today.