Nina Wright - Whiskey Mattimoe 07 - Whiskey, Large (11 page)

Anouk was almost always right
about dogs although I questioned her judgment in most other matters.

The woman lived for standard poodles and archery. In fact, she was a former Olympic trainer and current instructor who owned her own archery range in addition to her dog training and grooming biz.

Which brings me to her third passion—being French. Despite having resided in the U.S. for at least three decades, middle-aged Anouk spoke English with a thick accent. I suspected her of preserving it on purpose. Once upon a time, Anouk had been as sexually uninhibited as my dog. Her children were not her husband’s but rather the result of a long-running affair. When I had admitted that I couldn’t imagine the arrangement, Anouk blamed my Midwestern roots.

These days she seemed to live for yet a fourth passion. As Anouk approached her vehicle, her fingers flew across the screen of her smart phone. Texting or tweeting? I thought again about UberSpringer, wondering what, if anything, that negative cyber-voice was saying about Mattimoe Realty. I couldn’t be certain that UberSpringer wasn’t Anouk.

For the first time ever I briefly considered opening a Twitter account. Even if I didn’t want to play the social media game, I should probably know the score; that is, whether UberSpringer was trying to destroy my business. Before I could start the long climb back upstairs to retrieve my phone, the doorbell rang. My watch read 12:40, no doubt signaling the early arrival of Helen Kaminski, my new driver. She had changed from the civilian clothes worn to our earlier meeting. Now Helen sported her chauffeur’s uniform: a black blazer, white Oxford shirt, black pants and highly polished black loafers. She beamed up at me, ever eager to please. If I asked her to wear a rep tie, I figured she’d pull one out of her pocket.

“Good afternoon, Whitney! Oh my, don’t you look lovely.”

I didn’t look lovely. I looked dumpy and rumpled, not to mention extremely uncomfortable, and we both knew it. Yet Helen projected the breathless enthusiasm of a teenage fan. She babbled on about how excited she was to drive me places and how grateful she was for the opportunity to serve at my discretion. When I mentioned that my phone was upstairs, she hurried up the steps to fetch it.

That was sweet, but I would have preferred a placid, detached driver who could wield a goat prod without apology while remaining ever vigilant for the next public rest room. Better yet, a driver I could fantasize about as he fought crime and flirted audaciously. Yup. I wanted MacArthur.

What I had was Helen, a petite gray-haired grandma spurned by my father and fired by my mother.

“Let’s get one thing straight before we start,” I said. “Only the law, the IRS, and the woman who gave me life call me Whitney. To everyone else, I’m Whiskey. Got it?”

“Oh, yes. May I ask why?”

“Jeb gave me the nickname when we were twelve.”

“I see.” She considered the information. “You’re not still drinking, I hope. It’s so bad for the baby.”

“I wasn’t drinking when I was twelve, Helen, and, no, I’m not drinking now. I didn’t get the nickname because I drank. I got it because I’ve always had a husky voice.”

“Then why didn’t Jeb call you Husky?”

I blinked. “Because I was a twelve-year-old girl, not a dog. Why the hell would Jeb have called me Husky?”

Helen looked confused. “Because you’ve always had a husky voice. You said so yourself.”

I hoped we’d never have to discuss anything this complicated again.

“You brought the Town Car, right?”

“Yes,” she said. “I got your message, but I want you to know that I’m good to go with the goat prod. I grew up on a farm.”

“I’ll bear that in mind. Today, though, we’re going to my office, where people might see us, people I need to impress. So I want to exit and enter the vehicle without farm implements.”

She winked. “Understood. We’ll save the farm implements for people you’ve already impressed.”

I stopped talking and shambled to the car, Helen right behind me. The Lincoln was a stunner, sleek and black, with all glass including the windshield tinted nearly opaque. The paint job gleamed like a mirror, horrifying me with my immense reflection. I focused on the good news. No one would be able to see inside. I could fill the whole backseat. Hell, I could sleep and even drool while Helen drove.

She darted ahead like an eager elderly elf, popping open my door and extending a wrinkled hand to steady me. Fearing that I might topple her with my weight, I grabbed the door frame instead and, with a groan, lowered myself inside.

Very dark, very plush, very private. Such an elegant ride. Thank you, Chester! Sighing as I ran my hand over leather as soft as you’d find in the finest kid gloves, I forgave my young neighbor for withholding MacArthur. The point was I had a driver. So what if she used to be my babysitter?

My phone beeped to indicate that I had a text message. Then it beeped again. And again. With effort, I pried it from my pocket. Recognizing Mom’s new number, which Jeb had programmed into my phone before leaving, I read:

learning 2 text

how r u? c u later

lol

In response I texted:

kmn

Mom replied:

lmao

ttyl

I sighed and closed my phone.

“Ready to go, Miss Whiskey?” Helen asked brightly.

“This isn’t
Driving Miss Daisy.
You don’t have to be formal, okay?”

“Okay! Thank you so much.”

She smiled warmly into the rear view mirror but didn’t move. After a long moment, I got it.

“Let’s go, Helen.”

Still smiling, she started the engine as well as a new conversation. Suddenly, I wished Chester had lent me a car with a partition between driver and passenger. At least I was skilled in denial. I could pretend she wasn’t talking to me.

Traveling the short distance from Vestige to my office in a Town Car was like a lullaby. The ride was so smooth and soothing that Helen had to wake me when we arrived. I stopped her before she wiped the drool off my chin. Happily, I had the presence of mind to exit the vehicle on the street side, out of plain view. With the Lincoln strategically placed between me and my office’s large front window, Dani Glancy couldn’t witness my struggle to get out and upright.

Stepping up onto the curb, I replayed Bill Noury’s legal advice: “Admit nothing. Offer nothing. Say almost nothing. Do not sound defensive.”

I could do that. I could do almost anything. Ten months ago I wouldn’t have believed I could get married and pregnant, not in that order, yet here I was.

I breathed deeply and pasted a sweet smile on my face. Then I opened my office door, ready to take on a pissed-off widow.

Compared to the bright spring afternoon outdoors, my lobby was basement-dim.

“Whiskey Mattimoe, how the hell dare you?”

I didn’t recognize the voice, and I couldn’t see her face, but her tropical cologne and negative vibe slapped me like a wet towel. Seconds later, my eyes focused on Danielle Glancy. She stood in the middle of my waiting room, hands on hips, glossy lips torqued in rage.

I extended my hand for a shake even though I wasn’t sure she’d take it. To my surprise she smacked it away.

“No more games,” she said.

“Excuse me?” I asked, forcing down an urge to play nasty back. If I was going to follow Noury’s advice, I’d best keep breathing and keep the ball in her court.

Odette spoke from the shadows beyond the hand-slapper.

“Whiskey Mattimoe, meet Danielle Glancy. I suggest we all move into the conference room. Dani, after you.”

When Mrs. Glancy turned in the direction Odette indicated, my sales agent handed me a pink memo slip. Printed in block letters I read:

YOU ARE GOING TO GET A PHONE CALL IN FIVE MINUTES.

STAY CALM. TAKE THE CALL. I’LL HANDLE THE REST.

I knew better than to doubt Odette when it came to business. She wasn’t a multimillion-dollar seller by accident. Between her plan and the advice in my bra, we were cool.

Once in the conference room, I had a chance to study Dani Glancy. Fine boned and well dressed, she had ash blonde hair, shoulder length and straight, the sort of silky mane I used to wish I had. Now I had a dog with that hair, and lots of it. My own mane was the unruly kind, thick and clotted with curls. I didn’t so much brush my hair as attempt to tame it.

Dani wore a black suit that surely had a designer label. Later Odette would doubtless tell me what it was. Dani also wore jewelry, all of it the good stuff, as in diamonds and gold. Plus, she sported a pair of glitzy black sunglasses. I recognized the designer label on those. The new widow had probably been crying all night.

We settled in our seats, and I waited for her to begin. Nothing happened. It was hard to tell because of her sunglasses, but I finally suspected that she was staring at me. I cleared my throat and spoke.

“I’m very sorry about Hamp.”

“Are you?” Her voice was as sharp as the thumbtacks I’d avoided at Chester’s party. “Well, you should be sorry, shouldn’t you? Only ‘sorry’ doesn’t cut it. My question is what the hell are you going to do about it?”

“Excuse me?”

Not a phrase I used often, it had already sprung twice from my lips.

“You heard me,” she said. “You know full well that Hamp only went to see the Mullens because he had to. Nice work trying to pull off your little illegal maneuver.”

I would have said “excuse me” for the third time, but I was speechless.

After a beat, Odette said, “Dani, you need to tell Whiskey what you’re talking about. She has no idea.”

“I find that hard to believe,” Dani retorted. To me she said, “You knew Hamp was the Mullens’ agent when you listed their house. You stole his clients, you bitch!”

I opened my mouth to protest but paused to run my reply through the filter of Bill Noury’s advice. If I understood the good lawyer, I could deny anything as long as I offered no solution, didn’t sound defensive and didn’t say much.

“No I didn’t,” I said.

“Yes, you did!” Dani smacked the oak conference table with the flat of her hand. The woman liked to hit things.

“I didn’t,” I repeated.

We could go on like this all day.

“You stole his clients, and then he had to go see them, and then he died in their house,” Dani fumed. “You as good as killed him yourself.”

“No, I didn’t.” This time I sounded defensive.

Odette laid a perfectly manicured hand on my arm.

“What Whiskey is trying to say is that she had no way of knowing that Hamp had a professional relationship with the Mullens, if indeed he did. Isn’t that correct, Whiskey? Nod if you agree.”

The way she said it, and the way she sank her claws into my arm, I knew nodding was my only choice. I did it enthusiastically, and then my cell phone rang.

“Excuse me,” I said, fumbling for the device.

Chester was on the other end.

“Hi, Whiskey. Odette texted me at school and told me to phone you in five minutes, so here I am. You must be in some kind of trouble. Does it involve Abra?”

“Good to hear from you,” I said into the phone as Dani’s eyes drilled me from behind her shades. “Fortunately, no, this issue does not involve that particular party, but I do appreciate your input.”

“That’s a relief,” Chester said. “I knew Abra just got home, so I hoped you hadn’t lost her again already. That would be some kind of record.”

“Who told you she was home?” I said.

“Anouk tweets, remember? By the way, UberSpringer is trashing you big time today. You really should pay attention.”

He had to go because MacArthur would be picking him up at school any minute. They planned to swing by the Magnet Springs police station to collect Chester’s belated birthday gift. He was still wishing for a better badge.

When I disconnected, I saw that Odette had slid her chair closer to Dani’s. The two were speaking in low voices, probably not out of consideration for me.

“Very well,” Dani announced, standing. Without so much as a nod in my direction, she strode stiffly from the room.

I waited until I heard our front door open and close, then I asked Odette, “‘Very well’ what?”

“Dani says Todd and Lisa Mullen signed an exclusive listing agreement with Hamp an hour before they signed with you, but he hadn’t yet posted the listing on the MLS, and then he saw yours. Hamp was also acting as a buyer’s agent for them.”

I stared. “Then why would they list with me? It makes no sense.”

“Perhaps Todd Mullen can explain,” Odette said. “Now any listing agreement is null and void because the deed lists both names, and one party is dead. The property will have to go through probate.”

She was right.

“What does Dani want from me?” I said.

“She wants to extract some kind of punishment, but she’s not thinking clearly. She claims that Hamp was furious with you for trying to ‘cheat’ him. He was going to confront you as soon as he spoke with Todd and Lisa. Only he didn’t get that far.”

If I’d been in Hamp’s shoes, I would have phoned the offending agent first and dealt directly with the clients later. Stroking my temples, I willed the sudden ache in my head to stop.

Odette wasn’t finished. “I explained that the Mullens did not inform you of any prior listing agreement, and Hamp hadn’t publicly listed the property, if indeed it was his to list, so you couldn’t possibly know of a conflict.”

I nodded. “But what did Dani mean when she said ‘very well’?”

Odette smiled for the first time since my arrival. “After I told her what I just told you, she said, ‘Well, in that case, I’ll sue Todd Mullen.’”

I stared at the most capable person I had ever had the good fortune to employ.

“It doesn’t make sense for Dani to sue Todd,” I said.

Odette offered her trademark shrug, a quick lift and drop of her thin shoulders.

“Unlike an alarming percentage of Magnet Springs citizens, I don’t claim to predict the future,” she said. “I can, however, read people well. Dani Glancy loves to make trouble. She’s also an emotional wreck. I doubt she will waste time on you if she can wreak more havoc elsewhere. Did you consult your attorney?”