Nina Wright - Whiskey Mattimoe 07 - Whiskey, Large (20 page)

“Showing people I’m innocent.” My face hurt from strenuous smiling.

“You look more insane than innocent.”

Jenx might have had a point. Drivers honked in response to my waves. Two rolled down their windows and wished me luck.

I dialed down my enthusiasm. I was exhausted already, anyway, and we’d only driven four blocks.

At a traffic light I recognized the vehicle alongside us: Hamp Glancy’s ice-blue Mercedes coupe. The vanity plate read HAMP 2. Dani Glancy was at the wheel, sporting the big sunglasses she had worn yesterday. Same lipstick, same hair, same scowl. She directed the scowl at me. The instant the light changed, she roared away, disappearing around the corner.

Moments later my cell rang.

“Whitney—”

I cut Mom off.

“I already know about Jeb losing his phone.”

“That’s not why I’m calling. You need to check your Twitter account. UberSpringer claims you’re under arrest. You’re not, are you?”

“Of course not.”

“I hope not.” Mom sounded unconvinced. “We both know you lie to your mother.”

“Not since high school,” I fibbed.

“Well, I can’t help wondering where UberSpringer gets this stuff,” she said. “Uh-oh. Mr. Uber just tweeted: ‘Whiskey Mattimoe sighted at Main and Wickley trying to escape from a patrol car but she’s too fat.’”

“I didn’t try to escape,” I said, “and I’m nine months pregnant, not fat. Gotta go, Mom. Call you later.”

“If you are under arrest, Whitney, phone your lawyer, not your mother. You only get one call, you know.”

Jenx floored the accelerator and switched on the siren. I assumed the flasher was going, too.

“You know how I hate it when you use that thing,” I reminded her.

“The faster I go, the sooner I can get you out of trouble.”

“Everyone will think you’re rushing me to County Jail,” I protested.

Jenx cut the siren and eased off the accelerator. “You might be right.”

My phone rang again, Avery this time. I wasn’t sure I had the strength to answer, but since my ex-step was a social media professional maybe she had something helpful to say.

“You are so screwed,” Avery announced. “UberSpringer says you’re being booked into County Jail. Worse yet, there are like five hundred retweets already.”

“Worse yet, I’m talking to you,” I said. “Why, oh, why would I do that?”

When I disconnected, I got a text from Chester.

Need bail?

“Arrrrrrgh.” I pitched my phone onto the front seat.

“Settle down back there,” Jenx said. “Don’t make me handcuff you.”

“I’m already in a cell at County.”

By now we were just northwest of town on a paved rural road. Jenx pulled onto the gravel berm and parked.

“Is the flasher off?” I said through gritted teeth.

“I didn’t have the flasher on.” Jenx paused. “Okay, I had it on, but only for a minute.”

My phone, which had landed next to Jenx, beeped three times. She scooped it up.

Squinting at the screen, she said, “Do you even wanna know who’s texting you?”

I probably could have guessed, but I held out my hand for the phone. There were texts from Avery, Mom and Chester, in that order.

Avery:
u might as well b in jail. everyone thinks u r

Mom:
call ur lawyer

Chester:
call my lawyer ~ he’s the best in the state

I turned off the phone. It wasn’t as if my husband would be trying to call me. He didn’t have a phone.

“Let’s go,” I told Jenx. “We got things to do, and UberSpringer’s going to need a little time to come up with the next big story.”

The chief pulled back out on the road.

“Any idea who UberSpringer is?” she asked.

“It could be Avery,” I said.

“It could be Anouk,” Jenx said.

I had considered that theory and discarded it. During a murder investigation last year I had suspected Anouk of planning to kill me, until I realized she was just being French.

“Does it make sense for Anouk to want to destroy you or your business?” Jenx mused.

I couldn’t see how. My Affie provided income for Anouk’s pet psychic therapy biz as well as sex for her dog. On the other hand, I could see Avery taking pleasure in any pain I might have.

“Avery and Anouk both know their way around social media,” Jenx observed. “More than that, they know some pretty embarrassing stuff about you.”

“Most of Magnet Springs knows that stuff,” I said.

Jenx pulled over and cut the engine. We were once again parked alongside the field the chief and her deputies had explored last night. Jenx unbuckled her seatbelt.

“Somebody spots you in the back of this vehicle and—wham!—UberSpringer tweets it. What does that tell you?”

“Either UberSpringer saw me him- or herself, or somebody who spies for UberSpringer did.”

Suddenly, I remembered Dani Glancy’s glare from the driver’s seat and wondered if she could be UberSpringer. Given her hostility in my office the other day, she might well be determined to destroy Mattimoe Realty. Did she tweet? I asked Jenx.

“Even your mother tweets. The question is how long has Dani Glancy hated you? UberSpringer’s been around a while. You only noticed the tweets when they started messing with your business.”

“I noticed the tweets when somebody on my front porch got shot. That was Anouk, and she was tweeting.”

Jenx nodded toward the meadow. “Ever been here before last night?”

I frowned in concentration. The field didn’t seem familiar, but I could have chased Abra through it during one of her many previous escapades. The Affie’s serial misadventures seemed like one big blur.

“Two questions,” I said. “Does this have anything to do with my dog’s earlier crimes? And if so, am I going to need a lawyer?”

“Not if we can get you an all-purpose retroactive waiver.”

I was pretty sure Jenx was joking. If there were such a thing, I should have gotten one years ago.

“My lawyer is extra expensive when it comes to defending a dog in court,” I explained. “I think he thinks it’s humiliating.”

Jenx snorted. “Most lawyers don’t find anything humiliating as long as it pays.”

“What does this field have to do with Abra?” I said. “Don’t tell me she buried something here.”

The possibilities made me shudder. Abra had buried a number of “treasures” ranging from priceless jewels to a severed finger.

“More like Abra lost something here,” Jenx said.

From the glove compartment she extracted a sealed plastic sandwich bag that didn’t contain a sandwich. The contents appeared to be a disk made of rusted, dirt-encrusted metal.

“Is that a dog license?” I said.

“From almost two years ago,” Jenx confirmed. “MacArthur found it here last night.”

“Don’t tell me he smelled that,” I protested.

“Nope. His flashlight picked up something shiny on the ground. I ran the numbers. Guess whose?”

I shrugged.

Jenx said, “Here’s a clue. She lives at your house when she’s not on the lam.”

“What can I say? Abra has lost a few collars in her day.”

“Quite a few,” Jenx agreed. “But she led us to something here last night.”

“Something she’d stolen?”

“We can’t be sure.”

I sighed. “If it’s either shiny or expensive, you can be sure.”

From the glove compartment, Jenx fished out a second sandwich bag containing a similar metal disk in much better condition. Again she held it out for me, but I didn’t bother to look closely.

“I doubt that belonged to Abra. I gave up replacing her tag a long time ago, and she wouldn’t steal one unless it were gold or platinum.”

“This belonged to Diggs, the Mullens’ Labradoodle,” Jenx said.

I blinked. “You think Abra stole—I mean, dognapped—Diggs?”

“More like seduced him. That’s her usual
modus operandi.
”

Reluctantly, I took the baggie and read the tag inside: DIGGS 269-486-4833 12-18-11

“What do you think those numbers mean?” Jenx said.

“Probably a phone number for the Mullens and maybe Diggs’ date of birth. He was two years old, right?”

Jenx nodded. I handed back the baggie.

“So why am I here?”

“MacArthur and I believe this field is a popular destination for dogs on the loose,” she said. “We think they tend to rendezvous here.”

“Rendezvous?”

Jenx ignored my sarcasm. “Dogs are social creatures. MacArthur detected old dog shit all over the place.”

“We know Abra gets around,” I conceded. “Diggs has been here, too, apparently. What’s your point?”

Jenx slipped the two baggies into an evidence case.

“We believe Abra knew Diggs. In the carnal sense.”

“Diggs was two years old,” I said. “Are you calling my dog a cougar?”

“Does the paw fit? We think Abra knows something about Diggs that’s connected to the shooter and maybe the fire. Deputy Chester is gonna help me interview her.”

Moments later Helen delivered
Deputies Chester and Abra in the Lincoln Town Car. My neighbor wore his school uniform accessorized with his Texas Ranger badge. My dog sported a new black velvet leash. Chester opened the door to the backseat of Jenx’s squad car, but I didn’t try to get out.

“Don’t you have school until three?” I asked. It was just past one-thirty.

“My teacher releases me for police business. Besides, I was worried about you going to jail.”

“That was UberSpringer libeling me again,” I said. “Since when do you believe the crap she, or he, tweets?”

Chester looked hurt. “I have only your best interests at heart.”

That brought tears to my eyes, probably because I was pregnant. In regular human form, I don’t cry.

Today Abra was performing the role of good dog for Chester’s benefit. She heeled perfectly while choosing to totally ignore me. I didn’t mind. It’s not like I could chase her if she suddenly, typically decided to bolt.

Still, I couldn’t help noticing that she looked even more aristocratic than usual, and not just because of her new velvet lead. Abra was maturing into a grand dame of dogs. Lots of breeds are stunning in their own ways, but only one projects the elegant detachment of an Afghan hound. I didn’t have to stand Abra next to Sandra Bullock, French bulldog, to draw that conclusion.

“What a nice day to be out here on canine duty,” Chester remarked.

In fact, it was a lovely April afternoon, which I had almost failed to notice. The sun was shining, and that’s less common in our state than in many. Within a couple miles of Lake Michigan, we were close enough to smell its freshness. I took as deep a breath as my bulk would allow. Baby would have an early spring birthday. In Michigan that often means cold rain and mud or even snow, but this weather was proof of glorious exceptions. Jeb would be quick to point that out.

I remembered that my husband was not only absent but also out of touch. I turned my phone back on, and felt a flutter in my gut.

“Are you okay?” Chester regarded me with real concern. “Your face is all twisted and you’re holding your belly with both hands.”

“You moaned again, like you did at the station,” Jenx pointed out.

“Probably another practice contraction,” I said, “or gas.”

“Maybe we need to call your doctor,” Helen piped up. She had been hanging back by the Town Car, but now she was by my side.

“I’m fine,” I lied.

“You’re worried because Jeb lost his phone,” Chester observed.

“Did Helen tell you?”

“I didn’t say a word,” my driver said.

“Don’t tell me UberSpringer tweeted it… . ”

“Not UberSpringer,” Chester said. “Your mother.”

Now I moaned for real. “Why would she feel the need to do that?”

“You don’t tweet because you feel the need,” Chester explained. “You tweet because you can.”

Bored by our chatter, Abra whimpered and twitched hopefully as she scanned the horizon for shiny objects.

“The native is restless,” I remarked. “Better do what we’re here to do. That one has the attention span of a flea.”

“Unless sex is involved,” Chester noted.

“I really wish you hadn’t said that. It reminds me you’re not eight years old anymore.”

Chester shrugged. “I knew about sex before I got my first Legos.”

That opened the door for Jenx to outline her theory of Abra as cougar and suggest interview questions that Chester might pose. I tried to recline in the police cruiser. Regrettably, it lacked rich Corinthian leather, or comfort.

“I wish I was in the Town Car,” I muttered.

“So sorry I didn’t bring the goat prod, Miss Whiskey,” Helen said, “but we can transfer you.”

Chester nodded. “We’ll work like a team of mighty ants to move the mountain.”

I hated the analogy, but I let them move this mountain. Getting me out of the squad car was easy since police vehicles are designed to accommodate larger-than-average adults. The Town Car felt like a tight fit, but I was able to release my breath long enough for the team to slide me inside.

“It wasn’t this hard getting in two hours ago,” I declared.

“Scary, isn’t it?” said Jenx.

That buttery Town Car upholstery was worth all the fuss. As I searched for a semi-comfy position on the luxurious leather, Chester said, “You’ll miss the excitement if you nod off.”

I yawned. “Nodding off is the plan. I don’t need to know about Abra ‘doing’ Diggs.”

To which Abra responded,
“Roo-roo!”

“We have name recognition,” Jenx said.

Abra spun around as if expecting the Labradoodle. When Chester dropped to the ground with Diggs’ tag in his mouth, my dog shoved her hind end in his face. My cue to close my eyes.

“Clearly they had a sexual relationship,”

“You don’t know that,” I said even though we all knew that.

“Sexual relationships are the only kind your dog has,” Jenx said.

“Abra has platonic relationships,” I protested.

“Name one.”

I named the only one I knew: Velcro the teacup shitzapoo.

Jenx laughed. “Velcro doesn’t count. He’s the size of my coffee mug, and he never stops shaking. Abra probably doesn’t even think he’s a dog.”

I half-opened one eye in time to see Abra snatch the dead Labradoodle’s tag from Chester’s teeth and execute a perfect back flip. After nearly inhaling the metal disk, she whined and moaned obscenely.