Whiskey on the Rocks (14 page)
Read Whiskey on the Rocks Online
Authors: Nina Wright
Tags: #Mystery & Detective, #Women real estate agents, #Michigan, #General, #Mattimoe; Whiskey (Fictitious character), #Mystery fiction, #Women Sleuths, #Fiction
The Judge didn’t mind that I wore beige. In fact, he complimented me on my ensemble. Our brunch went well enough, considering it involved my revisiting an old haunt with a new man. After a couple hours, it felt almost natural to call him Wells rather than Your Honor.
I assumed that he’d suggested the Sugar Grove Inn as much for its privacy as for its menu. The former stagecoach stop is a half-hour drive from Magnet Springs. Wells was recognized the moment he stepped out of his car. As the only judge in rural Lanagan County, he’s familiar to any resident who’s ever been in court. And, as owner of the area’s largest real estate company, I’m hardly anonymous. Three former clients found their way to our table. I had the uneasy feeling that word of our “date” would arrive back in Magnet Springs before we did.
Over English trifle with poached pears and raspberries, Wells said casually, “Any trouble lately containing Abra?”
My spoon clattered against my bowl.
“Oh, I wouldn’t say I’ve had trouble.” More like total failure, I thought. “Why do you ask?”
Wells smiled. “I feel awkward telling you this, but I had a call this morning from Emma Hartzell. My bailiff?”
He allowed me a moment to summon up the memory of a scowling woman straining to keep order in a courtroom-turned-tourist attraction. Mrs. Hartzell had not appreciated the circus that Abra brought to town.
Wells continued. “Emma lives out your way—on Dunhill Road. She swore she saw Abra in her backyard around sunrise. But by the time she got outside, the dog was gone.”
“Did the dog do any damage?”
“Emma said she left only the usual doggie souvenir.”
I began to choke. Wells offered me water.
“Perhaps I should dispose of that for her,” I rasped.
Wells looked amused. “I’m sure Emma managed. So you think it might have been Abra?”
It might have been Cloud Man’s finger.
Coolly I said, “I suppose it’s possible although I was pretty sure she was home this morning.”
“I didn’t notice her,” Wells said.
“She likes to curl up in Leo’s den. Sometimes days go by without my seeing her—except, of course, when I feed and walk her.”
I offered the Judge my warmest, most innocent smile, the one usually reserved for traffic cops and IRS auditors.
“Not to worry,” Wells replied. “It’s a simple enough matter to settle when you get home.”
That might have ended the matter if the next guest had never arrived at our table.
“Whiskey!” Tina Breen squealed. “What a surprise to see you two together! I’ve been meaning to call you. Last night I saw Abra running down Main Street!”
The Judge said, “What time was that?”
“Oh, gosh, around seven. I was coming out of Whiz Kids with my boys—the oldest just turned three, you know—and this long-haired yellow dog flies past us down the sidewalk. I don’t think the boys had ever seen an animal like that. I said, ‘Don’t be scared! That’s Whiskey’s doggie, Abra!’ She had something in her mouth, but I couldn’t tell what it was.”
I smiled lamely at the Judge.
Tina added, “She was followed by that harpist’s son. That odd little boy with the funny name.”
“Chester,” I offered.
“Yes! By the time I calmed Winston and Neville down, Abra was gone. I would have phoned you last night, Whiskey, but the in-laws came over and—”
“Tina, we need to go!” a male voice boomed.
Two noisy balls of energy ricocheted around our small dining room chased by Tina’s frazzled husband Tim. We exchanged hasty pleasantries, and then they were gone. And then I had to meet the Judge’s eyes. They were kind.
“I know Abra is a challenge, Whiskey. Is there any way I can help?”
Can you keep a severed finger to yourself?
I said, “She’s not a bad dog. She just has some bad habits.”
“What happened last night?”
Lying to a judge is hard. It’s even harder when he’s holding your hand.
“Well, Chester took Abra with him to Bake-The-Steak, and she got away. I thought maybe she came home this morning.”
“Why?”
“I thought I saw her while I was out riding my bike. She was in my peripheral vision running along the edge of the woods.” When someone in a car like yours tried to kill me.
After the waitress had refilled our coffee cups, Wells said, “Whiskey, I want you to think of me as your friend. The way we met is history. I’ll never judge Abra—or you—again.”
“But what if—what if she got in trouble again? Hypothetically, I mean.”
“She won’t. You’re making sure of that.”
I swallowed. “But, just for the sake of argument, what if?”
“Then I’d withdraw from the case. Let another judge hear it. We won’t worry about that.” He grinned. “Abra’s stayed out of trouble for three whole months. That’s nearly two years in Dog Time. And she’s accrued some public-service credits. I hear she’s working with Officers Swancott and Roscoe.”
True. They gave her a refresher course in purse-snatching.
“Perhaps you didn’t know this about me, Whiskey, but I love dogs. I’ve never been without one.”
“Has your dog ever been arrested?”
“I’ve never had one as clever as yours. Most canines live to please humans. Abra has a mind of her own.”
“She lived to please Leo,” I said. “Now she feels lost, I think.”
“That only makes her more human.”
Scary thought. I insisted we split the check. On the drive back to Magnet Springs, Wells said, “Your office manager is extremely stressed.”
“What makes you say that?”
“She can’t even remember working last night.”
By four o’clock I had made brief appearances at two Mattimoe Realty Open Houses and was en route to a third—Odette’s listing and our Featured Home: a stunning contemporary mini-castle overlooking Lake Michigan with five thousand square feet of living space plus an indoor pool and wine cellar. Since such a property requires a special buyer, Odette and I had tried to dissuade the owner from holding an Open House. But the heiress-cum-interior-designer wanted the world to see what she was offering. I worried that we’d attract a legion of Leaf-Peepers, none qualified to do more than gawk. On my way over, I called Odette.
“Not now, darling,” she hissed. “I’ve got two hotties in the next room. They’re falling in love!”
In Odette’s parlance “hotties” are rich prospects who look ready to buy. When I entered the cavernous great room, she was shaking hands with an expensively turned-out couple in their twenties. Odette cast a shining smile on me. I knew that expression and loved it a lot. It meant we were about to make Major Money.
“Were those the hotties?” I asked after they’d left.
“Two of them. There are more upstairs.”
“Will we get an offer?”
“The hotties who just left will call me tomorrow. We discussed some numbers, and they’re very interested.”
“Who’s upstairs?” I asked.
“Another couple with a trust fund or two. And someone you know.”
“Who?”
I followed Odette’s gaze to the curving staircase. A familiar figure was descending.
Under my breath I said, “Rico Anuncio doesn’t have this kind of money. Is he window-shopping?”
Odette replied, “Let him tell you himself. I’m taking a break.”
“Good to see you, Whiskey,” said Rico Anuncio, not sounding as if he meant it. He proffered a satiny hand.
I’m direct, even brutal, when it makes financial sense to be.
“Rico, I thought you liked living above your store. I had no idea you wanted a coastal property.”
He smiled. “I love downtown. But I’m coming into some money soon and thought I’d see what it could buy.”
Rico Anuncio made me uneasy. It was probably because his persona seemed calculated. His name, for starters. I suppose his ancestors could have come from extreme northern Spain, but Rico had a Nordic look. Then there was the in-your-face sexuality. I was acutely aware of his cropped shirt with the scoop neckline. His taut hairless chest and washboard abs. As well as the nipple rings under the fabric. And I couldn’t ignore his low-slung ultra-tight pants, which revealed a pierced navel and the outline of something else.
“Congratulations,” I said. “Business must be good.”
“Very. And I’m going to inherit some money. There was a death in the family.”
“I’m sorry.” I’d heard that line often enough to make it sound sincere.
Rico tucked a strand of sun-streaked hair behind a diamond-studded ear. “How are you, Whiskey? You haven’t looked good since Leo died.”
I thought I looked good enough. Before I could reply, the “hottie” couple from upstairs approached seeking Odette. I excused myself to find her, no easy task in a large house whose floor plan I hadn’t memorized. Fortunately, I ran into her in the curved hallway leading to the indoor pool.
“Hottie alert!”
“You can’t mean Rico,” she said.
“He pissed me off. Told me I haven’t looked good since Leo died.”
“You haven’t. Though you do look better today. Must be brunch with the Judge." Odette winked.
"How did you know about that?"
"Oh, Whiskey, please! Let me go sell this place.”
As she floated away, I caught the glint of a gilded antique wall mirror. Though it seemed out of place in this ultra-modern estate, I studied my face in it. A little plain, a little pale—but not bad. I’d never worried about not being beautiful, so how I looked since Leo died hadn’t really registered. I had too many other concerns. Like running a business. And running after an Affie.
Odette had everything here under control. Rather than interrupt her meeting or risk encountering Rico again, I headed for the indoor pool. Odette had told me there was an exit from there to a terrace in the dunes, and a stairway from the dunes down to the street. I cringed at the owner's taste in floating pool toys: a life-size coupling couple, made of resin and tinted blood red, shivered on the surface.
From the terrace, I savored the view. It captured what we love about our West Coast: rolling dunes, dusky pines and shimmering sapphire water under a cloudless sky. It occurred to me that Warren Matheney would not have been moved to paint today.
“Not the kind of weather our favorite watercolorist could appreciate,” said a voice behind me. I whirled around to find Rico lounging on an upholstered chaise longue.
“Sorry if I scared you.” But I knew he wasn’t. “You missed Matheney’s show, didn’t you? And now he’ll never grace another canvas with his heavenly vision. Luckily, I obtained a piece before he passed.”
“Nimbostratus, Cirrus, or Cumulus?”
Rico looked surprised. “You’re in the loop, after all! I hit the jackpot: Cumulus.”
“Congrats. His earliest period.”
Rico smiled. “Also his most valuable.”
“What about the Cumulonimbus? Aren't those even rarer?”
“Matheney never offered any Cumulonimbus paintings for sale.”
“None?”
“He claimed he was painting Cumulonimbus, but I heard he was working on something else.”
“What?”
Rico’s face darkened. “Dogs. Nobody saw any of those, either.”
“Maybe they look like clouds,” I suggested.
We turned toward the sound of heavy shoes pounding up the stone stairway.
“Mm-mm, steel toes," Rico crooned. "Love the macho footwear, Jenx!”
“Thanks, sweetie. Love the bulge.”
“Everyone does.” Rico produced a business card from I-couldn’t-imagine-where. “Tell Odette I’m a hottie, too. She really should call me.”
After he left, I told Jenx that he’d bragged about owning a Cumulus.
“Same period as the painting missing from Shadow Play,” I reminded her. “How could he afford that?”
“Well, he had Cloud Man’s show at his gallery. Maybe it was a hostess gift.” “What are you doing here?” I said.
"I was on patrol and saw your car out front. I figured you’d want to know the latest: our corpses have gone missing.”
“What?”
“Gordon Santy, alias Edward Naylor, never took the flight he booked from Detroit. Neither did his cargo."
I said, "How could that happen? Weren't the remains in the care of a local funeral home?"