Whiskey on the Rocks (20 page)

I hoped he hadn’t heard about Abra’s latest vanishing act. When I arrived, Wells greeted me by laying a finger across his lips and leading me to the guest room. Sprawled across a chenille bedspread lay Abra.

“Dead?” I gasped. She opened one eye and thumped her tail twice. Then she fell back to sleep.

The Judge said, “Did you ever notice how, in profile, she looks like Sarah Jessica Parker?”

He was right. Wells explained that Abra leapt into his car at the Coastal Strip Mall, where Chester had taken her for a makeover. She looked good—despite the pink bows in her hair. The girly-dog look doesn’t suit her.

“It was the strangest thing,” Wells said. “My secretary had just stepped out of the car when Abra jumped in.”

“Your secretary?” Tina had failed to mention a rival for the Judge’s affection.

“Edith Davies. She’ll retire at the end of the year. Her husband had a stroke, so I chauffeur her to appointments. She was getting her hair done.”

I imagined a wizened woman with a headful of pink bows.

“Why are you smiling?” he said.

“Because you drive a midnight-blue Beamer!” At last, a revelation that made sense. Since Jenx had come clean with the MSP, I felt at liberty to share what I knew with Wells. Over a fine bottle of Chardonnay and some excellent fresh fish, I recounted my day—the visit from the West MichiganRealtors Board, the return of Avery, the shooting on my terrace, the drive to Angola, the brush with Mrs. Santy, and the tales of Darrin Keogh. Plus I told him all about Abra.

Wells began explaining how attorneys exist to protect people’s rights, and I tuned out. It had been a long day. But I perked up when I heard him say something about a bodyguard.

“You mean like in that movie? Starring the other Whitney Houston?”

I imagined living 24/7 with Kevin Costner as he looked in 1990. Maybe my luck was changing.

“You still need a good attorney to protect you from potential lawsuits, including—though I hate to say it—problems with Leo’s daughter. She may be planning to contest his will.”

“Let’s go back to the part about the bodyguard. Where do I get one?”

I had preferred Kevin Costner in Bull Durham and Field of Dreams, so I was wondering if I could request a ball-playing bodyguard. Wells interrupted that train of thought.

What I saw, quite honestly, was the ugliest dog on earth: a large, thickly built black and tan canine with a broad head, floppy ears, sunken eyes, and a square jaw oozing drool. His chest was deep, his legs muscular, his paws wide, and his tail improbably thick and long.

“Mooney’s mother’s handlers hadn’t spayed her yet. With her talent and temperament, they wanted to breed her. But on assignment one day, she got in trouble. The handlers hadn’t noticed she was in heat.”

“You mean--?”

“She fraternized with the male officers: Retrievers and Rottweilers. I think there was also a beagle.” Wells shuddered. “They may all have had their way with her—we’ll never know—but only the Rottie left his mark.”

“Yes. But you should see them with a Frisbee. They’ve got a professional act. They’ve been on David Letterman and The Today Show.”

Wells opened the kennel door, and Mooney emerged. They demonstrated a series of commands and responses, all of which involved smelling, finding, jumping, and drooling. Mostly drooling. I was mesmerized by Mooney’s continuous saliva output.

“True,” Wells said. “That’s where the Rottweiler kicks in. This dog would die for you. First he sniffs ’em out, then he snuffs ’em out. If necessary.”

So it was that Mooney came to live at Vestige on loan. Since Abra was sleeping deeply, Wells suggested I let her stay with him. After all, she’d been on the lam since Saturday and needed her beauty rest. What better safe house than the home of the local jurist? I knew Chester would approve.

In the driveway Mooney and I bid Wells good night. The Judge took my hand.

“Whiskey, I didn’t say much when you told me about your day, but now I’d like to ask a question: Why would Ellianna Santy, who wants people to think she’s dead, open the door of Darrin Keogh’s store?”

He made it sound like a riddle, so I played along. “Because I knocked?”

Wells shook his head. “Because she was expecting someone. Someone who looks like you. Didn’t you say that you could see through the panels by the door?”

Suddenly I realized that I didn’t know Mooney’s vocabulary. If living with Chester and Abra had taught me anything, it was that you’d better know the language.

“How will I tell him what to do?” I asked.

“First thing in the morning, go online. Print out the Guard Dog Commands at Dogs-Train-You-dot-com. Mooney knows ’em all.”

Back at Vestige, everything seemed normal. Brady had not posted crime scene tape, and Avery had left a typically curt phone message. She’d be staying for a while with Peg “because she cares,” the implication being that I didn’t. What could she expect from her heartless shrew of a stepmother? I wondered if I could consider myself her former stepmother since her father was dead. Probably not. Probably being a stepmother was like being a Catholic: you’d always be one, whether you practiced or not.

Mooney paced around the house until I guessed the command for “go to bed.” It was “Go to bed.” He settled on the Berber rug by the front door. At least it was absorbent.

My bedside phone woke me out of a blissfully dreamless sleep. The room was still black, so I knew it was nowhere near time to get up. I blinked at my digital clock, which blinked back 3:14.

“What is it?” I mumbled into the phone.

I couldn’t believe what I heard even though I wanted to. It was my husband.

“This is Leo Mattimoe. Thanks for calling. You’ve reached my cell phone, but I can’t talk right now, so leave a message. Or feel free to call my wife and partner, Whiskey Mattimoe, at the following number. Anything I can do, she can do better.”

I sat up in bed, gasping. The message repeated. I should have disconnected at once. But I couldn’t even though I realized that someone was playing a cruel joke on me. Someone had recorded Leo’s voice-mail message. Someone who knew his cell-phone number and also that I had never cancelled the account.

It was one of my most shameful self-pitying secrets following Leo’s death: I’d saved everything with his voice on it. Almost six months after I’d lost him, I could still conjure up his sound. All I had to do was stay up late enough, feel sad enough and drink enough wine. Then I would lie on our bed in the dark and dial up his voicemail messages, again and again and again.

An inhuman, spine-tingling moan erupted from downstairs. I shrieked and dropped the phone. Then I remembered Mooney. He was barking, baying, and snarling like one of the hounds of the Baskerville. If only I had downloaded the Dogs-Train-You-dot-com command sheet. How the hell was I going to shut him up?

Glass shattered at the back of the house. Damn that alarm system. Damn me for forgetting to activate it. I heard Mooney shift into killer mode as “the Rottweiler kicked in.” He scrambled across my hardwood floors, roaring as he flew. Then came a couple thuds, another crash, more guttural yowls. I thought I caught a human voice—make that a human scream—amid the chaos, but I wasn’t sure, and I wasn’t about to go downstairs. I fumbled on the floor for the phone. Leo’s voice was still droning.

“Sorry, darling,” I whispered. “Gotta go.”

I pressed the “end” button and held my breath till I heard a dial tone. Then I punched 9-1-1.

Within seconds I’d reached the off-hours county-wide emergency services dispatcher. She took my name and other information and promised to have an officer on the scene within ten minutes. Neither Jenx nor Brady was on duty that night, so a sheriff’s deputy would respond.

“Stay where you are, and be as quiet as possible. Can you lock yourself in?”

I assured her I could. Crawling toward the open door, I wasn’t sure why I needed to be quiet. The racket from downstairs was deafening. I thought I heard someone begging for mercy.

The dispatcher asked whether there was more than one intruder. I said I couldn’t tell, but she should probably advise the responding officer that I had an attack dog.

“What kind?” she asked.

“He’s a cross between a Rottweiler and a Bloodhound.”

“Oh! Mooney’s there!” she exclaimed. “I thought that sounded like him. Well, you’re in good hands—or should I say ‘paws.’ That dog has a reputation.”

I was about to ask for what when a bloodcurdling scream sliced the air.

“I heard that!” the dispatcher said. “Mooney’s in top form. I’ll send over two officers, just in case.”

In case of what, I didn’t want to speculate. The intruder screamed again, and it occurred to me that men don’t scream although I supposed that meeting Mooney might have that effect.

With all the commotion, I wasn’t sure how close the sirens were when I first heard them. My bedroom window faces north, toward Cassina’s Castle, so I couldn’t see the cruisers arrive. Suddenly I heard footsteps racing up the stairs toward my room.

“Sheriff’s Department,” a male voice boomed. “Mrs. Mattimoe? Are you all right in there?”

I unlocked the door to find a tall, macho man in his late twenties.