Whiskey on the Rocks (24 page)

“The same way I get in: through the window over your kitchen sink.” Mooney groaned admiringly. Stretched out at Chester’s feet, Abra gave the Rott Hound a seductive, sideways glance. Her Sarah Jessica Parker look.

Judge Verbelow agreed at once to prepare the warrant Jenx would need to dig up the Schlegels’ Prayer Garden. Abra’s alleged activities near the murder scene seemed like further proof of my deficiencies as a dog owner.

“That’s why I’m on the case!” Chester piped up. “By the time I’m done, all Whiskey will need is a handy wallet-sized print-out of the commands from Dogs-Train-You-dot-com.”

A voice as feathery as the bed I had sat upon floated through the open doorway. We all turned toward Cassina in her trademark gauzy white gown. I wondered if the woman owned a single piece of clothing with pigment. Her magnificent mane of hair flowed around her shoulders like a scarlet curtain.

Chester produced a kid’s beach pail on a plastic collar. Deftly, he slipped it over Mooney’s head. The dog promptly made a deposit. Kerplunk.

“How about that,” said Wells. “Now he’ll be welcome everywhere.”

Cassina didn’t look so sure.

That’s how I ended up spending the night in Cassina’s Cloud Room with two big dogs asleep at my side. Notice I said nothing about getting any sleep myself. I tossed and turned. Or tried to. It’s not easy to change positions when sharing your mattress with four-legged beings, one of whom didn’t wear his drool bucket. Yes, there was a wet spot. I won’t even mention the snoring.

As for Abra being in heat—Mooney, thankfully, was neutered. All I could do for the next few days was what I’d never been able to do: contain Abra. And hope that no males had already visited.

Just before four o’clock I managed to slide over the side of the bed and under the layers of netting without waking my roommates. Maybe I should have taken Mooney along as bodyguard. His credentials were impressive, and the drool bucket did help. But I had no time to retrieve my laptop from the office. And without going online, I couldn’t talk to him.

I left a note reminding Chester to keep Abra indoors. Then I wandered on tiptoe through Cassina’s Castle, seeking a door to the outside world. When I finally found one, I listened breathlessly for an alarm system to activate. None did. I flung the door wide and fled, sprinting like the high-school athlete I used to be.

Dashing across Cassina’s broad lawn toward Vestige, I could smell the now-dead fire: charred wood and melted rubber. My heart fluttered as I realized that one of Leo’s last gifts to me must have perished in the flames. Then I skidded on a muddy patch near the ash pile that had been my garage and landed on my ass. That’s when I saw it—propped against my front steps, gleaming in the light from my still functioning security lamp. Damn if Blitzen didn’t look as fine as the last time I’d fallen off her. Some firefighter had made a heroic rescue.

Briefly I considered letting myself into the house for a change of clothes. But, no doubt courtesy of Brady Swancott, a yellow crime scene tape stretched across the door. I keep a change of clothes in my car. Huddled in the shadows between the vehicle and a hedgerow, I slipped into clean underwear, a Magnet Springs High sweatshirt, and a pair of jeans. On impulse I strode up to the house, grabbed the bike, which is made of some lightweight alloy, and tossed it into the back of my Lexus. What the hell. Blitzen was valuable, and crime was on the rise in Magnet Springs.

The sun was still new in the sky when I rolled in to Angola, Indiana. For Art’s Sake wasn’t open yet, but I cruised around the block once just to check it out. No midnight-blue Beamer was parked anywhere in the vicinity. So I drove on over to Keogh’s house on Superior Street.

With few exceptions, I’ve always had the gift of good timing. My mother gets a little credit in that department since she gave birth to me at a high point in women’s history. I went to school after Title Nine, which allowed me to excel in sports, develop lots of self-confidence, and learn that I could always take care of myself. I got into real estate just as the market was taking off. Then I met and married Leo Mattimoe. We had only five years together, but we made them count.

My excellent timing landed me in front of Darrin Keogh’s Victorian home just as he was concluding an early walk with his dogs. All six Afghan hounds trotted regally on leashes. Walking six Abras would pull a person apart at the joints. Involuntarily, I looked at Pashtoon, the dog that was supposed to have been Leo’s. The dog that Cloud Man had injured, or so Keogh claimed. She looked queenly in the morning light, her masked face held high as the sun made her golden coat blaze. I was facing them from the opposite side of the street, parked between a minivan and a pick-up truck four doors down. Suddenly Pashtoon froze in her tracks. Cocking her head exactly as Abra does, she trained her one good eye on me. I slid down behind the wheel, praying that Keogh wouldn’t follow her gaze. My heart thudded. What was I doing here, anyway, playing amateur sleuth when I had a business to run and a garage to rebuild?

Breathlessly I counted to thirty before daring to peek over the dashboard again. When I let myself look, the sidewalk was empty, and so were Keogh’s yard and porch. I checked my mirrors. Nothing. The entire street was still.

Then tires squealed behind me. In my sideview mirror I saw a midnight-blue Beamer careening around the corner. It screeched to a stop in front of Keogh’s house. Although I couldn’t see who was driving, I knew the license plate. My revving heart shifted into overdrive. Almost instantly, Keogh’s front door flew open, and he dashed out. Maybe he wanted to leave before his sick mother had time to detain him. If he had a sick mother.

The Beamer peeled away from the curb. I waited one beat and then followed, my trembling hands clamped on the wheel. We were heading north out of town at a rate significantly higher than the local law allowed. For better or for worse, no cops appeared. Traffic at that hour was extremely light. In minutes we were in the country, still northbound. Concerned that someone in the Beamer might identify me, I kept a healthy distance between us and prayed that no one would check their mirrors.

We had traveled five miles on a two-lane road when the Beamer turned west. I slowed and took the turn, too. Our new way was narrow, still paved but less than two lanes. In minutes the surface degenerated into gravel. I gave the Beamer more headway, knowing I’d be doomed if anyone looked back. After a few minutes, the road got rougher. Clouds of dust obscured my view. I couldn’t see the Beamer, so I assumed the Beamer couldn’t see me. I slowed, hoping not to miss anything. Like a rear bumper or the grill of an oncoming truck. I lowered my window and listened; I thought I heard a car ahead of me, maintaining more or less the same speed. The road wound and undulated; I could make out a dense woods and slowed again for safety’s sake. When I nearly missed a turn—and narrowly missed a tree—I stomped on the brake. Gradually the dust settled, and so did my pulse rate.

Trees arched over the road, the morning sun leaking like liquid gold between their interlaced boughs. Birds sang. Leaves drifted down. It was a lovely fall morning, and I was lost in Indiana.

Then I heard an engine. A new dust cloud appeared down the road, shrouding the oncoming vehicle. I tried to pull off, but there was nowhere to go. The cloud rolled noisily toward me. Whatever was inside was approaching fast, and I knew they couldn’t see me. Survival instincts took hold: I squeezed my eyes shut and leaned into the horn.

Brakes shrieked. The cloud cleared. It did not contain a Beamer. But I didn’t know that yet. I didn’t open my eyes till I heard the voice at my window. The voice said, “You all right?” I screamed in response. Then I opened my eyes and instantly felt better. The man was no one I knew, and his vehicle was a pick-up truck that looked older than I was.

“Uh—well—uh—” That was a tough one. I took a deep breath and decided to try the truth: “Actually, I was following someone, and we got separated.”

“That resort development—on Lake James.” He spat a wad of tobacco clear across the road. “Damned real-estate vultures. They’re wrecking this state. I ain’t selling my farm, no matter how much they offer me.”

I nodded sympathetically. “About that BMW—”

“Turn right at the next road. It’ll take you clear out there. ‘Lost Fog’ or something, they call it. Used to be Fred Swenson’s farm, now it’s all condos. Oughta call it Lost Farm. Only nobody gives a damn.”

I thanked him, and he waved me on. The road didn’t seem wide enough for his old truck and my SUV. Inching past, I cringed, expecting the grate of metal on metal.

“Keep going!” he roared. “You’re all right!”

In my rear view mirror I saw him spit again. Who could blame him? Proceeding slowly enough not to kick up much dust—and noting that a resort area needs better access—I turned at Archer Road. This was a scenic region of low hills, patchy woods and rocky streams. No wonder my fellow vultures had seized it. Ahead a tasteful sign announced that I had arrived at “Lost Mists—The Resort Overlooking Lake James.” Beyond, three high-rise condos, one still under construction, framed a shimmering expanse of blue water. That was all I could see from my side of the guard house. Next task: getting past security.

“Good morning,” I said cheerily to the uniformed man at the gate.

He returned my smile, expecting more information. I handed him my business card.

“I’m here to see Management. On behalf of the Chicago investors.” My voice rose just a tad at the end, as if to remind him that I had an appointment. He studied the card a little longer than necessary. That didn’t alarm me, but his reaching for the phone did.

“I called ahead on my car phone,” I said. “They’re in a meeting and won’t appreciate another interruption.”

He replaced the receiver. “First building on your left. Park in the back.” He raised the gate for me to enter.

I noticed at once that each condo had its own garage, and most of them were closed. Finding the Beamer might be harder than expected. I circled the development twice without success. My next idea was to park by the unfinished building and investigate on foot. I pulled on a baggy cotton jacket, a broad-rimmed hat, and oversized sunglasses. Then I surveyed the scene. The air was crisp and invigorating, the fall colors stunning. I really should spend more time outdoors.