Nina Wright - Whiskey Mattimoe 06 - Whiskey and Soda (4 page)

Brady had barely screeched to a stop behind my car when Roscoe leapt out the passenger side window and bolted past me, slipping neatly through the spot where my basement window pane had been. Brady took his time exiting the vehicle. Lots of time. When, three minutes later, he hadn’t yet appeared, I got out of my car and walked back to his.

I found him chatting on his cell phone. Catching my hostile gaze, he raised a hand to signal that he was nearly finished. I reached in through the open window and seized his phone.

“Officer Swancott is on duty now,” I told the caller. “He’ll have to get back to you after he responds to my B&E.”

“We don’t know that this is a B&E,” Brady said calmly.

“Then why the siren?”

“I need to test it once in a while.”

He motioned for me to step back so that he could open his door and perform his official duties. Brady unfolded his gangly form from the cruiser.

“Who was on the phone?” I said, handing it back to him.

“My wife. She wanted to know what’s for dinner.”

When not on police duty, Brady functioned as a stay-at-home dad and an online grad student. On the days when he donned a uniform, he often started dinner in the police station kitchen so that he could bring it home hot to his family.

“What’s for dinner?” I asked, as we both walked up my driveway.

“I’ve got chicken and saffron rice in the station crockpot and a lemon pound cake in the oven.” He checked his watch. “The cake is my wife’s favorite. Let’s hope we can wrap this up fast.”

As we approached my front porch, the door flew open. Jenx appeared with her sidearm resting in its holster. She was accompanied by Roscoe, who cleared the doorway and stood at attention.

“Hey, Brady,” she said, ignoring me. “Think the siren is set loud enough? I couldn’t hear it ’til you got real close.”

“Want me to test it again?” he said.

“No,” I said. “Test it on your own time and property. We’re here about my B&E.”

“There was no B&E,” Jenx said. “Or, if there was, I didn’t notice anything missing. Except your dog, and we know nobody took her. You’ll have to check for yourself, Whiskey, but it looks status quo to me. Whoever came in left the window pane on the basement floor.”

“Broken?” I asked.

“Nope,” Jenx said.

“You’re saying nothing was stolen? Or broken? That’s weird.”

“Shit happens. Or doesn’t,” Jenx said, yawning.

“Maybe you should get more sleep,” I commented.

“That won’t happen tonight unless Abra comes home. How long has she been gone?”

“Just since this morning. Why?”

“There are Abra sightings all along Uphill and Downhill Roads.”

“Really? People called the police just to report seeing my dog? I didn’t think anybody cared.”

“Nobody ‘cares,’ Whiskey. People are scared she’ll steal their shit.”

Abra did have a reputation. She had been known to steal anything from designer purses to priceless jewels to fellow four-legged creatures.

Jenx shook her head in disgust. “Half the calls are coming from folks who think they saw a crazed long-haired goat.”

That would have been Abra. Afghan hounds are a fairly rare breed. From a distance, most people wouldn’t know what they were looking at, especially if they saw one running free in the countryside, unless, of course, they’d already had a traumatic encounter with mine. When Abra ran amok, she teased farm animals. Or worse.

“What’s she done so far?” I asked with dread.

“Mr. Venable, the dairy farmer, says she startled his cows so bad they didn’t make milk today. And Mr. Anderson, the chicken farmer, says his chickens won’t lay. Apparently Abra got in the coop this morning and traumatized ’em all.”

I closed my eyes, imagining the mayhem.

“On the bright side,” Jenx said, “she didn’t eat any chickens.”

“No worries,” Brady piped up. “Cows and chickens have short memories. By the next milking and laying cycles, they’ll forget they ever saw a ‘goat.’”

“Assuming the ‘goat’ doesn’t intrude again,” I said.

“She probably won’t,” Jenx said. “The last reported sighting had her heading toward town.”

“Where she can harass humans,” I said.

“She probably won’t,” Jenx repeated. “We got no tourists and our locals know enough to run when they see Abra coming.”

K9 Officer Roscoe sighed. Although he maintained his military bearing, no doubt the mere mention of Abra’s name tested his resolve. My dog was a wanton hussy who never tired of trying to seduce Roscoe. He had successfully resisted her advances so far.

Brady offered to walk around my yard with Roscoe, just in case the trained member of their team could pick up any clues. Since it hadn’t rained lately, the intruder’s scent might remain.

“We have time to check it out,” Brady assured me. “My lemon pound cake needs to bake another thirty-five minutes.”

Roscoe put his nose to the ground, and the human officer followed.

“Making any progress with Noonan?” Jenx asked.

“What do you mean?” I said.

“Seven Suns of Solace counseling. Hey, it worked for Hen and me.”

“I’m not doing Seven Suns of Solace. I’m just asking Noonan for advice.”

Seven Suns of Solace was a New Age belief system invented by Noonan’s estranged husband and “permanent spouse,” Fenton Flagg. It was way too full of mumbo jumbo for me. I reminded Jenx of that.

“Whatever. Everybody in town knows you need all the help you can get. Things will be better when Jeb comes home.”

“Home? You mean, here?”

“This is where you live, isn’t it?” Jenx said.

“This is where I live. I’m not sure where Jeb calls home.”

Jenx rolled her eyes. “What the hell is your problem? And don’t start that crap about how Jeb likes to stray.”

“If he hadn’t strayed, we never would have got divorced.”

“Yeah, you would have. You both had lessons to learn.”

“Now you sound like Noonan.”

“Thanks.” Jenx beamed at me. “Anyhow, we all know you and Jeb are permanent spouses.”

I cringed at the Seven Suns of Solace jargon referring to soul mates stuck together forever.

Jenx continued, “Like Noonan and Fenton—and Hen and me.”

“Yeah, well the jury’s still out on Jeb and me,” I said. “It didn’t work the first time we tried it, and I can’t go through that mess again.”

“Hell, Whiskey, you were kids back then. Now you’re gonna have a kid, so this time you gotta get it right.”

I sighed. “It feels like I’m in this all alone.”

“Try checking your voicemail. Jeb texted me this morning, said you won’t take his calls or return his messages. So I’m delivering this one. He’s coming home tonight.”

“What?”

“You heard me. And don’t try changing the locks. You know Larry the Locksmith doesn’t like you.”

She was right. About Larry.

“Jeb’s on the road hawking his new CD,” I protested. “Last I heard he was in California.”

“He canceled the rest of his concert dates,” Jenx said. “You and the baby are way more important than
Canine Christmas Carols.
”

That wasn’t as weird as it sounded. Okay, maybe it was. Jeb, whose singing career had gone in every direction except toward success, recently stumbled into an untapped market, crooning tunes to soothe four-legged creatures. Now Jeb was a star, at least in select circles. Overpaid people with over-bred pets eagerly shelled out their shekels for a few hours of peace. But I couldn’t quite picture his concert venues. Dog parks? Animal shelters? Pet Smart?

“Where does Fleggers send him?” I asked Jenx, referring to Four Legs Good, the radical animal-rights advocacy that had discovered and underwritten Jeb’s special talent.

“Ask him yourself tonight. Speaking as local law enforcement, I’m relieved he’s coming home. Jeb locks the doors.”

Jeb even remembered to set the alarm system, but I didn’t mention that.

“He should have asked me if I wanted him to come home,” I groused.

“Check your voicemail,” Jenx said.

After she left, I did. My voicemail box was full and probably had been for days. Almost every single message was from Jeb. I didn’t bother to play more than nine or ten of them because they all said basically the same thing. “Whiskey, I love you. We need to talk. In person. Please.”

I was sitting on my favorite sofa clearing my voicemail cache when the doorbell rang. Officers Swancott and Roscoe, whom I had completely forgotten, were ready to report the results of their search so that one of them could get back to his pound cake.

“Roscoe definitely smelled something,” Brady said.

“Yeah? Something like wildlife? Or something like a human?”

“Wildlife, for sure. You live in the country. But Roscoe gave an indication of smelling humans, too. I just can’t tell who. Or how many.”

“That’s helpful.”

“Speaking professionally,” Brady said although we both knew this was not his profession, “I’d say we’re looking at one person working alone, probably a prankster. But we can’t be sure because we don’t have footprints. The ground’s too dry. So it could have been one guy or a few guys.”

For the first time since Jenx had shown me the missing window, I felt a wave of fear. Automatically my hand covered my belly. I looked down and back up at Brady.

“That’s normal,” he said.

“What is?”

“Protecting your child. You’re becoming maternal, Whiskey.”

“I’m not the least bit maternal.”

Brady sighed, and I could have sworn that Roscoe did, too. They headed back to the station to retrieve a pound cake.

Moments later my doorbell rang again. This time it was my jogging neighbor and his dog, one sweating, the other panting.

“I’ll get you water,” I offered, heading to the kitchen for a glass and a bowl.

“That would be nice,” Chester said, “but we have bigger issues. We need you to ride your bike.”

I indicated where my waistline used to be.

“If this is a fitness intervention, I already told you, that’s a baby and not body fat.”

Chester jumped in frustration. Prince Harry did the same.

“This is not about fitness,” Chester cried. “The headmaster’s in trouble and we need to warn him!”

“Warn him about what?”

“I got a text from Kimmi’s son, Raphael Ramirez,” Chester said. “The PTO set up a blockade at the end of the Rail Trail. They’re going to mob Mr. Vreelander!”

“Doesn’t he have a cell phone?”

“He never takes it with him when he rides. Mr. Vreelander says he’s ‘in the zone’ when he’s on his bike.”

“I’m sure he can handle anything that happens. Didn’t you say he was ex-Army?”

“That’s no match for the PTO!”

“Chester—they’re mothers.”

“Yes. Mothers like Kimmi. Do you have any idea what they’re capable of?”

Instinctively my hand had moved to cover my belly again.

“All right. We’ll put Blitzen in my car and drive to the access point closest to the trail end.”

Blitzen was my nickname for the deluxe touring bicycle Leo had given me for my thirty-third birthday, just a few weeks before he died. I rode it to relax, to keep in shape, and—just once—to kill a man. In self-defense. I had no intention of using Blitzen as a weapon again. Truth be told, I hadn’t even ridden since I’d figured out I was pregnant.

Now duty called. Sure, my center of gravity was lower, but I was pretty sure I could make the adjustment. Especially if it would calm Chester and his Golden-Af, both of whom were now whirling like dervishes. I asked them nicely to stop.

“We can’t,” Chester gasped. “When I get excited the pedometer gets cheesy. When that happens, Prince Harry starts licking my ankle and I’ve got nowhere to run!”

Fortunately, I was wearing bootcut chinos and loafers, acceptable cycle wear for anyone not into Spandex. Grabbing my car keys and my phone, I motioned for Chester and his dog to follow me into the garage. The spinning duo was no help heaving Blitzen into my car. I managed on my own, however. Moments later we were headed toward town, boy in front seat and dog in back, at least until the cheese factor eased.

“Mr. Vreelander must be close to the trail end by now,” Chester said. “Better use the parking lot off Orion Road.”

Having ridden the Rail Trail myself, I knew the location he meant. I also knew I had to hurry if I hoped to head off the demon moms.

Attempting to lighten the moment, I said, “So Kimmi’s son texted you? That was nice.”

“Ha,” Chester said. “Raphael is as mean as his mom. He was trying to torture me.”

“Torture you? Let’s cut the drama.”

“Raphael and his buddies are bullies. They cause me pain every day.”

“So does my mother, Chester, but I know, deep down, she loves me.”

“Did your mother steal your blazer and stuff you in a trashcan?”

“No. But she sang ‘Born Free’ until her voice gave out.”

“‘Born Free’? I love that song.”

Whereupon Chester commenced to sing it. He didn’t know the lyrics any better than Mom did, but that didn’t stop him, either. Blessedly, we soon arrived at Orion Road, where I quickly found the Rail Trail access and parked my car.

“Listen,” I said, signaling for the song to stop. “I don’t like leaving you alone here, but—”

“We’re not staying in the car,” Chester said. “Prince Harry and I are going to jog alongside you.”

“No, you’re not. I’m the adult and I’m going to handle this. You are going to wait here with the doors locked.”

I marveled at how sure my voice sounded. Boy and dog immediately sat down. I reminded Chester that I had my cell phone.

“But don’t call unless it’s an emergency. I’m too out of shape to talk while I pedal.”

Allowing ten minutes to intercept Vreelander before he reached the trail end, five minutes to speak with him, and ten minutes to pedal back, I expected to be gone no more than a half-hour. Chester would pass the time reading a book on his smartphone, and Prince Harry, like any dog, would sleep.

Built of super-light alloy, Blitzen required almost no muscle to hoist out my hatchback. I was soon flying along the paved Rail Trail, marveling at my bike’s favorable gear ratio and the fact that nobody else was out riding on this mild December late afternoon. As much as I had griped about our un-Christmassy weather, I had to admit that it gave the gift of easy cycling.