Whiskey on the Rocks (5 page)

“His boys are better at pursuit,” Brady explained. To Jenx he added, “Want me to do a look-around? Canine-Officer Roscoe could use the exercise.”

None of us knew Heather Nitschke. She was the leading suspect, the assumed owner of the leather bag. Hers was the name on the Michigan driver’s license brought to us by Abra.

The sheriff’s office ran her ID through the system and, like us, drew a blank. Ellianna Santy showed no interest in the recovered Matheney; neither she nor her brother had noticed it on the bathroom wall. Nor did Mrs. Santy seem grateful to see her Piaget again. She declared that the Reitbauers and I should give thanks that she didn’t plan to sue for emotional distress. Jenx volunteered Brady and Roscoe for overnight guard duty. I promised to notify the Reitbauers, make sure the back door was repaired or replaced, and dispatch a security technician to reprogram the alarm system. When Abra resumed howling, Mrs. Santy was still seething.

“Why can’t they stop that ungodly sound?” she asked her brother.

I took a long look at Edward Naylor and felt a fleeting kinship with Abra. We were both horny. And hopeless.

Back home, Abra and I tried to exit the vehicle at the same time through the same door. It wasn’t pretty. As I recovered my balance, a shadowy figure flew from the breezeway straight at me. I screamed. Abra yelped. Chester screamed back.

When the hysteria had subsided, he said, “I have a suggestion: Next time you remember to lock the door and turn on the alarm, don’t forget to check the windows.”

Unlike me, Chester’s mother always secures their house. Sometimes she secures it so well that her own son can’t get in. I guess she forgets which side of the door she left him on. In her defense, Chester’s mother is extremely busy. In fact, she’s a superstar. She’s Cassina—the sexy yet spiritual harpist-slash-singer frequently seen on TV and the covers of supermarket tabloids. Chester had mentioned that she was about to launch a world tour promoting her latest CD, Cumulus Love. At least I think that’s what it’s called. Chester left a copy of the CD here somewhere, but I haven’t played it. I’m not into harp music. Cassina has one of those ethereal voices that’s supposed to remind you of heaven.

She and her entourage are often on tour. Usually she leaves Chester behind in the care of some nanny. But live-in help is short-lived at their house, which locals call The Castle. I conclude that Chester’s mother, like her son, is VHM (Very High Maintenance). Rumor has it that Cassina wears out the hired help faster than most people wear out their socks.

Even when Cassina is in Michigan, she’s usually not home. She prefers to hang out at some kind of studio-slash-retreat near Traverse City. Occasionally Chester accompanies her, but more often she leaves him next door with one hired stranger or another. Chester has developed the habit of admitting himself to Vestige, whether I’m here or not, whether he’s locked out or not, whether I’ve locked up or not. Abra loves him. I . . . like him. But I sometimes wonder if his mother locks him out on purpose. He gets attention over here, and he craves attention.

Chester explained that Cassina and Company were in Traverse City, “laying down tracks.” He was sure they’d be back by Friday.

“I guess they forgot to call The Service,” he said. The Service is what Chester calls the army of nannies, maids, gardeners, cooks, and chauffeurs Cassina hires. Abra was cleaning his glasses without bothering to remove them from his nose. Most Afghan hounds aren’t into licking, but this one loves to taste Chester’s face.

I did. And I’m handy enough in the kitchen to reheat Jonny’s food the way he intended. The three of us sat around the kitchen table chewing contentedly. Then I cleaned up while Chester walked Abra, or, rather, while Abra dragged Chester in circles out back. I left a brief message on Cassina’s voice mail that her son was here; I didn’t expect a response.

Back inside, his face flushed from fresh air and exercise, Chester announced, “I have an offer for you, Whiskey. A business proposition.”

“Abra went to court-mandated therapy because she has criminal tendencies. Those purse-snatchings would have happened no matter what. The dog-shrink said so.”

Actually, the dog-shrink had said Abra was “acting out” her anger over Leo’s death. I believed she was “acting out” her anger over my survival.

That reminded me: I needed to call the Reitbauers and inform them of the break-in. I got the answering machine featuring a message from Robert Reitbauer, who sounded a good deal older than his wife. I explained what had happened, emphasizing that no one was hurt, and everything was recovered.

I had barely returned the phone to its cradle when it rang. Mrs. Reitbauer sounded like a teen-ager although she was almost thirty. We had never met face to face, but I knew people who had met her. No one I knew had met her husband, the cement baron.

I explained that our contract gave me the authority to act on her behalf in managing the property. However, I wanted to know her preferences regarding replacing the back door, repairing the closet safe, and so forth. She told me to do whatever I thought was right and send her the bill. Then she clicked off.

Something was wrong, and it had nothing to do with the break-in at Shadow Play. My house was silent. My house, whose current occupants included a rambunctious eight-year-old boy and a hyperactive Afghan hound. The great room was empty. Then I heard something outdoors. Something familiar yet foreign. What was it? I rushed to the nearest window overlooking the lake. Nothing there . . . except that faint sound again. Laughter. A child’s laughter.

He crossed into view then, strolling across the illuminated terrace with the dog at his side. They both looked at me. I waved. Chester smiled. Abra turned her back on me and took a shit.

The next day was the kind of hellish circus that only realtors in resort towns can understand. Leaf-Peeping Season arouses in visitors fantasies of living, at least part-time, in our part of the world. Thus, on that lovely fall day, Mattimoe Realty was overwhelmed with inquiries. Some walked in the door; others telephoned. All tried the patience of my very patient receptionist with questions like “Do you have anything with four bedrooms, a sundeck, a Jacuzzi, a fireplace, and—oh, yeah—lake frontage . . . for less than $200,000?”

We welcome inquiries. It’s how we make sales and eventually money. Since agents work on commission only, we try to separate Prospects from Dreamers, and we identified mostly Dreamers that day. Still, Odette and my other agents landed a few live ones. The earliest and likeliest were whisked away to view properties.

I had secured my house and dog and delivered my houseguest to his private school in town. Hunkered down in my back office by eight, I called my property manager about replacing or repairing Shadow Play’s door and reprogramming the alarm. He called back around noon to report that everything had been repaired, except the moods of the tenants. Oddly, he assumed that Edward and Ellianna were married. When I asked why, he couldn’t explain other than to say that they acted pissed off.

I worked right through lunch. The next time I checked my watch, it was almost three. Chester had assured me that he could get a ride back to Vestige from a classmate’s mother.

Now my stomach was growling, so I headed across the street to the Goh Cup. It was busy for a Thursday mid-afternoon. Most of the overstuffed chairs and sofas were occupied by pink-faced tourists enjoying a pick-me-up, probably before descending on our office. Owner-operator Peg Goh greeted me. She’s an unfailingly cheerful woman in her late fifties.

I raised Jenx on my cell phone. She was four blocks away and would pick me up in her patrol car. I ordered an extra iced coffee and waited in the alley.

“Something doesn’t make sense,” Jenx said in greeting. “Maybe you can explain it to me.” She took the paper cup I offered. “I hope that’s a Coke.”

Jenx continued. “According to her driver’s license, Heather Nitschke’s from Hillsdale. So I started checking motels. Third place I tried—jackpot! Desk clerk says Heather’s been there three days.”

“Desk clerk says Heather was real chatty. Told her she was trying to patch things up with an old boyfriend, but she didn’t want to stay with him.”