Whiskey on the Rocks (3 page)

“She won’t go in.” My voice held less conviction that time. I could hardly believe it, but Abra was bounding down the dock like a stunt diver making her approach.

Anyone who has seen an Afghan hound run knows they’re poetry in motion: the long ears trailing behind them like a woman’s sleek straight hair, their pom-pom feet barely touching the earth as they cover yards in a single stride. Now she was airborne. I felt my jaw drop as Abra arced over Lake Michigan, the surf crashing beneath her.

“You said she wouldn’t do that!” cried Chester.

The blasted animal lives to prove me wrong. No belly-flop for her. She entered the water as gracefully as she’d left dry land. From where we stood, she barely seemed to break the surface, and then she was swimming. That dog doesn’t paddle. She cruises. Holding her proud, pointed nose high, she moved determinedly away from us.

“Where is she going?” Chester said.

“Maybe she needs some exercise.”

“But it’s deep out there, and look how high those waves are!” His voice had taken on a querulous quality that set my teeth on edge.

Damn if he wasn’t right. The next thing I knew I was on the edge of the dock, calling frantically. Begging, really. Abra never glanced back. Since I was shouting into the wind, I doubt she even heard me. Chester was sobbing. Thank God it was a balmy evening, and I’d learned to swim before I’d learned to walk. In seconds, the Nikes were off, and I was in the water. The very cold water. Nobody swims in Lake Michigan in late September without a wetsuit. Unless they’re nuts—or goaded by an emotionally needy child.

Like Abra, I don’t dog paddle. I don’t cruise exactly, but I do have a powerful crawl. Arm over arm into the oncoming waves I went, cursing the Affie with each stroke. Catching up to her was a challenge. We were both panting hard by the time I seized her rhinestone-studded collar and yanked her drenched blonde head to my chest. She didn’t resist. She’d known I would follow and save her, so she had spent herself.

“She was challenging you to rise above your self-inflicted pain. Abra is a message from the Universe. You should meditate on that.”

I stared at Noonan over my steaming double-mocha-super-latte.

“You should sit on that,” I wanted to say. I didn’t, though. Noonan is not only Magnet Springs’ genius massage therapist, but she is also one of its sweetest citizens. And a dream tenant. So I nodded noncommittally and continued to sip my favorite wake-up beverage. The way my ribs ached, I knew I’d need another free massage soon.

After rescuing the dog who does not deserve to live, I had shivered all night. Two long soaks in a very hot tub did nothing to dispel my chill, which was surely due as much to fury as exposure. Odette stopped by around eight o’clock to report that her evening’s appointment had led to an offer. She found me blow-drying the bimbo, my own head still dripping. Leo used to insist that Abra had a delicate constitution. So, in deference to him, I made reviving her Job One. She was the perfect canine Camille, playing the scene as if she’d washed up on her own. In Abra’s eyes, I was merely doing what any human should.

Odette is my witness to the dog’s ingratitude. She is also the reason every Main Street merchant knew the story by morning. In the Goh Cup, our local coffeehouse, every customer greeted me with “How’s Abra doing?” Never mind that my eyes were red and swollen, my nose was leaking, and my naturally wavy hair was a mass of lumps. I hadn’t taken the time to blow-dry myself. I’d even forgotten about the carry-out spinach lasagna until I sat on it in my car that morning. But no one worried about me.

“Drink deeply from the well of truth” was Noonan’s exit line. What the hell did that mean? I glanced at Peg Goh, proprietor, who winked. Thank God, I thought. A fellow cynic. Then she said, “I’m just glad Abra’s okay.”

A few hours later, I was in my office at Mattimoe Realty, struggling with paperwork and a nonstop runny nose. Odette knocked and entered before I could discard the dozen dirty tissues spread before me.

“They’re here!” she announced, surveying the sticky landscape of my desk. “The grieving party from Canada. Well, the male portion. His sister is with Jenx.”

“Perhaps. But this Canadian is not.” Odette reached past me into my center desk drawer and extracted a small mirror. “He is, however, very handsome.”

Accepting the mirror, I shuddered at my red nose, rumpled hair and pouchy eyes.

Odette said, “He’s not patient, either, so work fast.” She paused at the door to evaluate me. “If the lights were out, you could almost get away with it.”

The Canadian proved to be beyond handsome. More like movie-star magnetic. Young, too—no more than thirty-five. I tamped down my hair as I approached, hoping to at least make the lumps symmetrical. Dressed in expensive though casual clothes, he was taller than I, which meant well over six feet. The word “strapping” sprang to mind. He cast cool blue-gray eyes in my direction.

“Ms. Mattimoe? I’m Edward Naylor, Ellianna Santy’s brother.” His manicured hand pressed mine lightly. “I understand you manage rental properties.”

“That’s part of what we do. We’re a full-service real estate agency.”

The gallon of Lake Michigan I’d swallowed last night had turned my usual contralto purr into a tenor growl. I cleared my throat and added, “I understand that Jenx—I mean, Chief Jenkins—referred you to us.”

“Yes. Ms. Mutombo said you have a property in mind. I’d like to see several.”

I glanced at Ms. Mutombo, who offered her lightning-quick shrug before disappearing into her cubicle.

“I’m sure Ms. Mutombo also explained that you’ve arrived during peak tourist season. Our inns and B&Bs have been booked for a year. To be honest, Mr. Naylor, it’s a fluke that we have even one unit to offer on such short notice.”

The woman had my complete sympathy. She also had a damn good-looking brother, who wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. This was the first time since marrying Leo that I’d had that reflex: to glance from a guy’s eyes to the third finger on his left hand. Why did it make me queasy? I knew I wasn’t ready to act on such an impulse, but was it too soon to have it? My ribs throbbed. God is punishing me, I thought. Till I realized I had collided with a file cabinet while reaching for my jacket without taking my eyes off the Canadian. Fortunately, he was checking his Rolex.

In the car, I savored something else about him: his scent. Edward Naylor smelled the way I thought Ralph Lauren would. Or Robert Redford before he got old: Woodsy. Manly. Rich. Edward wasn’t much of a conversationalist, but I didn’t hold it against him. He was here on a tragic errand, after all. His thoughts were probably with his sister, who was with Jenx at the county morgue.

At Shadow Play, my prospective client remained quiet. Reading people is my business. I could tell that Edward Naylor approved of the Reitbauers’ taste. He didn’t need to say so.

When I explained their rental terms, he replied, “Ellianna plans to stay no longer than a week. I’m sure this will be adequate.”

Then it was time to administer the rental entrance exam—i.e., the Security System Aptitude Test. Please don’t let him turn out to be a techno-boob, I prayed. It would be too embarrassing to watch this hunk fumble a keypad. As it turned out, I barely had to show him how it worked.

“You must have a system like this in your own house,” I said.

He didn’t reply. Or if he did, I didn’t hear him because I got lost in the dimple in his right cheek. When I recovered, I reminded him to fill out the rental application form so that I could contact references and run a credit check. “Blah, blah, blah,” I heard myself say; what I really wanted to talk about was him.

A restaurant? A law firm? A male escort service? I strained to imagine this gorgeous man doing anything besides acting or modeling. Maybe he’s a kept man, I thought, who turns the lights on and off for some fortunate older woman.

Edward Naylor was aloof, but I expect that of the supernaturally beautiful. His sister, on the other hand, turned out to be supernaturally bitchy. I retracted whatever sympathy or empathy I had felt for her as a fellow widow. Ellianna Santy didn’t play well with others. She saw herself as the star of the moment, the sun in the solar system, and so forth. As gorgeous as her brother, she lacked his ability to not piss people off.

Odette had correctly predicted Mrs. Santy’s general appearance: blonde, willowy, rich. Her uncertainty about whether the eyes were green or blue was justified since they turned out to be turquoise. Edward was darker. I didn’t see a family resemblance.

“What do you mean, you need to check my ‘references’?” Mrs. Santy said. “Chief Jenkins is my ‘reference,’ or have you forgotten?”

“It had better not. I have business to conduct. If everyone in this town is as dense as the people I’ve met so far, we’ll be here for weeks.”

Edward eased her toward the table where Odette had laid out the necessary documents and writing instruments.

“What does one have to do to be served a beverage in this establishment?” Mrs. Santy demanded.

Odette smiled helpfully, indicating the water cooler and coffeemaker. “One need only serve oneself,” she said and faded into her cubicle.

As soon as the Stunning Sibling Team had finished their paperwork and paid one week’s rent plus deposit, I gave them Shadow Play’s key and security code. According to the clause in our contract, I should have gotten Mrs. R’s written approval, but I figured these people were her kind of people. All about Money and Attitude. Besides, Mrs. R knew what I was doing.

Edward gave me a polite smile and handshake; Ellianna didn’t. I half-hoped she had bad credit so I could bust her. Then again I didn’t want to have to act ugly in front of her better-behaved brother. Given the circumstances of their visit, and the volume of my business, I doubted I would even check Ellianna’s background. Now if Edward were the client, I’d leap at the chance to investigate him. Is he single? Affluent? And what about this “small business” he runs in New Brunswick?

After they left, I phoned Mrs. R to make sure she approved the arrangement. She said she did, so I faxed her a copy of the signed contract.

“Mrs. Santy said I got him so excited he had a heart attack. I told her I don’t give that kind of massage!” She blew her nose angrily.

“He was dead in Jenx’s photo,” Odette reminded me. “His wife thinks he was having an affair here. Having met her, I can only hope it’s true.”