Whiskey on the Rocks (8 page)

“What’s this?” I said.

Still looking the other way, Mrs. R said, “Sorry, Whiskey, but this like isn’t working. Okay? That’s a letter of agreement to cancel this whole rental deal-thing. My husband and I don’t want to do this anymore.”

“You don’t want to rent Shadow Play? Or you don’t want me to manage the rental?”

“Both. The whole scene is like a downer. We just want it to be over.”

“I see. Then let’s talk about listing your property for sale. Mattimoe Realty sold another house in Shadow Point this year—for fifteen percent above appraisal.”

He looked stunned. “In your lobby? While she’s your client? Shame on you! I’m here purely as the mayor of this fine town. I just want to make sure our part-time resident gets the courteous treatment she deserves. Mrs. Reitbauer confided in me that you scare her a little.”

“What?!” I looked at the stylish, raven-haired Mrs. R, who wasn’t looking at me. She was studying her already perfect nails. “We’ll be more comfortable in my office,” I told her and started in that direction. Behind me, I heard a chair being dragged across my lobby floor.

“Sit yourself down, ma’am, while I expedite this on your behalf,” purred Gil. “I’m sure the cute little gal who answers Whiskey’s phones also makes a decent cup o’ joe—and will be happy to pour you one while I talk to her boss. Ain’t that right, Missy?”

I could feel my feminist receptionist’s wrath. It was almost as hot as my own.

I said, “Mr. Gruen, may I remind you that Mrs. Reitbauer is my client? I will personally make her a cup of coffee, a cappuccino, a cocktail, or whatever she prefers. But I shall do it in my office. Good day, sir.”

Mrs. R spoke up. “Whiskey, just sign the damn cancellation letter so I don’t have to sue you for negligent management.”

“Mattimoe Realty has not been negligent,” I said with exaggerated calm.

Gil interjected, “I’m not sure the West MichiganRealtors Board will see it that way. As Mayor of Magnet Springs, I’ve asked them to look into the string of violent crimes that has occurred under your management.”

“You win some, you lose some. Make sure you win more than you lose.”

That was Leo’s summary of how to stay in business. I needed to win one soon. Although I trusted Odette to close her deals and my other agents to do the same, I wanted a victory of my own. It hurt to watch Mrs. R fire us and then, one minute later, hire Gil Gruen on the sidewalk in front of our office. Through the open window we could hear the Mayor’s plan for turning a murder scene into a money-maker. He was confident that Mrs. Santy’s grisly death would add thirty percent to Shadow Play’s resale value.

“The newly rich get turned on by tragedy,” Gil told Mrs. R. “The more violent, the better. You might want to leave a couple bloody handprints on the wall. . . .”

I needed a drink but opted instead for a dose of caffeine and Peg Goh’s common sense. Plopping onto a stool at her counter I said, “Give me the strongest thing you got.”

She did and then listened to my tale of woe. Peg shook her head.

“Gil’s wrong. Nobody wants to live in a haunted house. They only want to gawk at it. And there will be a lot of that. I’ll bet the Reitbauers’ neighbors will think about selling once the new traffic pattern sets in.”

Why hadn’t I thought of that? People moved to Shadow Point because they craved privacy. Drive-by ghouls would drive them right out. I rushed back to the office and had my receptionist run a reverse look-up on the Reitbauers’ neighbors. Happy prospecting ahead.

Jenx called shortly after noon.

“Good news, for a change: Edward Naylor wants this nightmare to end. He’s going to take both bodies back to Canada as soon as Crouch releases them.”

“When will that be?”

“Maybe as early as the end of business today. Crouch is doing Mrs. Santy’s autopsy now. Her husband’s body is already cleared for departure.” I could hear Jenx shuffling papers. “I’m going to the coroner’s office later to get the report. Always a pleasure to witness his distaste for lesbians. But he prays for us.”

“He told you that?”

“Oh yes. When Crouch came to Noonan’s studio to see Santy’s body, he announced that he prays for all lost souls. And he looked my way.”

In any case, I agreed to bring Abra to the station. Always happy to be of public service, especially when it earns me a dog-free day. I felt a pang when I remembered that Chester had his own training program in progress. It wasn’t exactly guilt gnawing at me. After all, Chester is eight years old, and I’m an adult. An adult who’s going to end up paying him to be my houseguest. My real concern was how to amuse Chester if I couldn’t foist him off on Abra.

As the afternoon wore on, Mattimoe Realty hummed with tourists dazzled by fall colors and Lake Michigan’s broad sandy shore. Jenx called again at 4:30; I hadn’t yet taken a break.

Odette perched on the corner of my desk in that eager, bird-like way of hers. “I picked something up in his voice, Whiskey. . . .”

“First, he didn’t feel like Mrs. Reitbauer’s husband.” Odette cocked her head as if recalling some psychic vibration. “Second, I know the voice on their home answering machine, and it doesn’t match his. The taped voice is older.”

My desk phone buzzed again. Jenx said, “Do you or do you not want the scoop on how the wrong corpse left the country?”

Five minutes later I was sitting next to Jenx’s desk, peering at her through a manila canyon. She doesn’t like to file; she prefers to stack folders as high as gravity permits and then shuffle as needed.

“Check this out.” She passed me a Missing Person bulletin fresh off the wire. I studied the blurred black-and-white photo of a handsome, square-jawed thirty-four-year-old man named Daniel Gallagher, Jr., from Grand Rapids, Michigan. Missing since Tuesday.

“The state police. It’s their case now. This morning the Lanagan County prosecutor turned it over to them. Too big a crime for our small jurisdiction. Make that two crimes that are too big. And two bodies now on their way to Canada.”

Jenx fired a rubber band across the room.

I said, “The first corpse didn’t look like a homicide, but the second one sure did. Why did Crouch let both bodies go?”

“In both cases, next of kin identified the remains. Crouch was satisfied, and so was the MSP.” She added, “Mr. Naylor’s threats to involve the Canadian Consulate probably speeded things up.”

Before I left the station, Jenx reminded me that I’d have to feed Chester. So I picked up two dinners at Mother Tucker’s. When I arrived at Vestige, I found Cassina and eleven sulky people in my great room. They were watching Chester put Abra through a series of “pack moves,” none of which, fortunately, involved the oral exchange of chewed food. There was a lot of pushing and rolling and barking, however. Chester had mastered a convincing repertoire of howls and growls. At the end, Cassina’s black-clad entourage applauded uncertainly. Then one of her people approached me.

“You’re Whiskey Mattimoe?” the sallow young man asked. “Cassina would like a few words with you about her son. In private.”

I had expected him to call her The Great Cassina and was disappointed when he didn’t. I said, “Would she like a cup of coffee or a glass of wine?”

He regarded me sternly. “Cassina drinks only Tahitian shark-fin tea.”

I went off to the kitchen in search of a corkscrew and a bottle of Pinot Noir. I would imbibe even if the diva didn’t. A moment later, Cassina glided into the room. Her hip-length wavy hair was an unnatural flame red. Her translucent skin was alabaster, her immense almond eyes the deep moist green of a forest. This was my first face-to-face encounter with a genuine superstar. Although I had waved to Cassina as she climbed in and out of limos, we’d never met. Now here she was in my under-stocked kitchen. Draped in a flowing gauzy gown like the kind she wore in concert and barefoot with emerald rings on all ten toes, she didn’t look like a neighbor. Or an Earthling.

From behind her back Cassina produced a fifth of Glengoyne, arguably Scotland’s finest single malt whiskey. The Late Great Leo preferred bourbon, but my first husband Jeb Halloran loved Glengoyne; he called it “the cool burn.” Without smiling—without, in fact, showing any emotion—Cassina handed me the bottle.

I can’t say that the Great Cassina and I bonded over that bottle. She did, however, drink her fair share. By the time she would let her people take her home, they had to carry her. Fortunately, it was just across the lawn and into a first-floor bedroom. I, on the other hand, had but a wee sip of Glengoyne to honor my Scotch-drinking ex.

What Cassina wanted: It wasn’t to thank me for taking care of Chester. I must have been doing a decent job, though, since she tried to hire me to “keep him” during her upcoming World Tour. I was going to pay Chester to be Abra’s keeper, and his mom wanted to pay me to be his.

When I explained that I was a realtor, not a child-care provider, Cassina disagreed. Then I insisted that I was just plain unfit. She snorted and said, “You think you’re unfit?” When I confided that I couldn’t even stop my own dog from breaking the law, she cried, “We all break the law!”

In the end, I offered to help her find another sitter; she said that wouldn’t be necessary since I was her choice. Out of curiosity, I asked how long her World Tour would last. She replied, “Either six months or forever.”

Then she began blaspheming someone named Rupert—who might have been her agent, her manager, her lover, Chester’s father, or all four—and passed out. She briefly revived as her people slipped her through the back door like a pizza delivery in reverse. Cassina tried to sit up, cursed Rupert again, and fainted. The pale young man who had arranged our “meeting” pressed an envelope in my palm. Before I could speak, someone caught Cassina’s mile-long hair in the closing door, and she roared like a leopard with an arrow in its flank. Abra raced into the kitchen, made three rapid circles around me and then started bouncing like a pogo stick. Chester appeared. When he threw back his head and howled, she froze in mid-jump and sank to the floor, her tail thumping.