Whiskey on the Rocks (15 page)

I wasn't sure I did. This was the creep who had wanted to have sex with my dog, who was now missing. I made myself look at the printout Jenx unfolded.

“No. That ‘I’m-going-to-do-whatever-it-takes-to-fix-this’ look you get before doing something foolish. But I’m glad to hear you say the words ‘Leo died.’ Finally, you’re facing your loss and accepting your pain.”

“And you’re doing Seven Suns of Solace Tele-Counseling with Noonan! I’d know that lingo anywhere!”

Jenx deflected the accusation with a raised hand. “Hen’s doing the tele-counseling, not me. She thought one of us should explore our feelings.”

That night I had a dream that grabbed my heart so hard I woke up gasping. And that’s remarkable because I never dream.

I’m running along a shadowy road that snakes through a thick forest. Every time I round a bend, I catch a glimpse of Abra far ahead, but then she disappears around the next curve. Even though I keep calling to her, she never slows down or looks back. That part’s like real life.

Suddenly, I hear the roar of an engine behind me. I turn just in time to jump out of the way of a long black car.

“Abra! Watch out!” I cry as soon as I can catch my breath.

The words are barely out of my mouth before I hear a crash followed by the piercing cries of a wounded dog. When I round the next bend, I glimpse Abra dragging herself into the woods. To my horror, there’s a pool of blood on the road but no tire tracks. The damned car didn’t even try to stop. I follow Abra’s bloody trail, but it disappears in the dark forest. I realize I am lost.

Through the trees I see a patch of light, as if there’s a sunny clearing beyond. I stumble into it and find Leo sitting on the ground holding Abra like a baby. I know he’s been waiting for me. I rush toward him but stop when I see the blood on Abra’s body.

I say, “What am I supposed to do now? I wasn’t ready to lose you. And, believe it or not, I didn’t want to lose Abra. She’s the only living part of you I had left!”

“How profound is that,” Noonan sighed as she massaged my ankles the next morning. I’d had to tell her the dream; I couldn’t stop thinking about it. And she had sensed that something was up.

“It means everything about who you are and what you can be. You hold the key to knowing your heart and owning your future, if only you’d learn to look inward.”

“You’re trying to sell me,” I said. “I’m a salesperson, Noonan, and I know when I’m getting sold.”

“Seven Suns of Solace tele-counseling sells itself. It’s a spiritual service, and people partake of it when they’re ready. I’m merely the medium.”

“Technically, the telephone’s the medium,” I pointed out.

She said, “I’m the human medium. We do it by phone so that I’m available 24/7, as my clients’ souls evolve. Spiritual growth is not bound by office hours.”

It didn’t last, though. I knew as soon as I walked through the front door of Mattimoe Realty that this particular Monday would turn out worse than most.

My usually cool receptionist appeared on the verge of tears. Every phone line was lighted, and the lobby held more people than it did chairs. But that wasn’t the problem.

The problem introduced herself as soon as I reached my office. Jane VanDam, a Laura Bush look-alike, was waiting for me, her business card raised like a weapon. I couldn’t have been less pleased to meet her if she were employed by the IRS.

“Miz Mattimoe,” she began, “I oversee P.S.P. for the West MichiganRealtors Board.”

“P.S.P.?” I hoped it was nothing like ESP. Between Noonan and Odette, we seemed to have enough of that already.

“Professional Standards and Practices,” she explained coolly. “We’ve had complaints from some of your clients, and I’ll need to examine your files.”

“With all due respect,” I said in my most cordial tone, “aren’t you here because of a call from one of my competitors? It’s no secret that Gil Gruen and I have a healthy rivalry, which he may have carried a little too far.”

Jane VanDam removed a manila folder from her briefcase and scanned its contents. “Mr. Gruen’s name appears nowhere on this list of complaints.”

“This is the first I’ve heard of the matter,” I said, keeping my voice calm. “I need to know who in this office you’ve talked to.”

Jane VanDam checked her notes again. “On three separate occasions, I spoke with your office manager, Tina Breen. She returned the calls I left on your voicemail.”

I thought I returned the calls left on my voicemail. Apparently, Tina had been editing my messages. I excused myself and speed-dialed Tina’s home office. She answered on the fourth ring. Before she spoke, I heard Winston and/or Neville shrieking in the background.

“Tina Breen, Mattimoe Realty Office Manager. How may I help you?” Her phone voice was remarkably Chester-like.

“Tina, this is Whiskey. I’m sitting here in my office across from Jane VanDam, P.S.P. manager for the West MichiganRealtors Board.”

“But apparently you didn’t handle them. That’s why Mrs. VanDam is here.” I softened my tone. “Anything from the Realtors Board is my business, Tina, and I need to know about it. Immediately.”

Jane VanDam was staring at me. “I just made the connection: You were married to Leo Mattimoe. I knew him years ago, when he was married to his first wife, Georgia. I remember their little daughter. What was her name?”

“Avery.”

“Ah, yes. I heard she went to live with her mother when Georgia moved to Belize with that builder. I bet you’d love to have Avery around now.”

“Why?” I wanted to say, “Why on earth?”

“She’s Leo’s only daughter. A living reminder of your dear dead husband. It would be the next best thing to bringing him back, I imagine.”

I imagined not. Avery blamed me for her parents’ divorce when even Mrs. VanDam knew that Georgia had fallen in love with a contractor before I came on the scene.

I saw Martha at least twice a month when I patronized Town & Gown, located in one of my buildings. She had never complained although, as Peg observed, she was confused.

“—and Rico Anuncio, also of Magnet Springs.”

“What’s his beef?” I demanded. “I’ve never sold him real estate, and I don’t own or manage the building where he lives and has his gallery.”

She checked her notes. “He claims you’ve violated your contract. You’ve been negligent in your role as buyer’s broker.”

The charge was preposterous. I’d never made a contract with Rico Anuncio.

Laura Bush’s doppelganger disagreed. “He claims that he contracted with Mattimoe Realty to locate a property for purchase, and you have failed to represent his best interests. He says that you have repeatedly refused to follow instructions.”

I asked Mrs. VanDam to let me read Rico’s claim for myself. He alleged that we were “deliberately withholding suitable properties, including those listed by other realtors and those for sale by owner.”

“Piffle!” I fumed, wondering even as I said it where I’d heard such a wimpy expletive. Probably from Laura Bush.

“Piffle what?” Odette was in my office doorway. She had struck her usual irreverent pose, arms crossed over her chest, hip and head cocked.

I introduced her to Jane VanDam and then presented Rico’s complaint.

Odette sniffed. “What can Rico expect? He is most uncooperative.”

Apparently, we needed to talk. I invited Mrs. VanDam to sample some coffee and pastry in our conference room. She went willingly. I wheeled on Odette. She was checking her scarlet fingernails from her perch on the edge of my desk.

Tina again. As if on cue, our wayward office manager was at my door, darlings in tow. I don’t like children in the workplace, especially my workplace.

“You told me to bring them,” Tina said, reading my mood.

“Yes, well—can you put them somewhere?”

She gave them each a juice box and dispatched them, loudly sucking, to another room. As I read the phone log and registered letters, I could hear Tina sniffling and Odette filing her nails.