Nina Wright - Whiskey Mattimoe 07 - Whiskey, Large (21 page)

“When could she and Diggs have met?” I said. “Abra has been with Napoleon for almost a year. Before that, she was with Norman the Golden, mostly.”

“You make it sound like she’s a serial monogamist,” Chester offered from his position on all fours.

I wasn’t sure I knew what a serial monogamist was. Fortunately, my young neighbor explained.

“Abra doesn’t get engaged or ‘go steady.’ She enjoys multiple partners.”

I didn’t care to comment, and I didn’t have to because my cell buzzed with a call from Odette.

“I thought you were spending money to improve your business image, not trash it,” she said without preamble.

Odette was the straightest shooter I’d ever hired, and also the best salesperson.

“I don’t know what you mean,” I said, “but I’m going to guess it involves tweets.”

“Tweets that have me bailing you out of jail. Tell me that won’t be necessary.”

“That won’t be necessary, but I think UberSpringer is out of control. How’s Ben handling it? What is Mattimoe Realty tweeting?”

“Nothing,” Odette said, “except complaints from previous clients and anyone who’s ever been offended by Abra. It’s as if malcontents have taken over your account. You’re retweeting UberSpringer.”

“I don’t even tweet.”

“Well, someone’s tweeting for Mattimoe Realty, and you need to stop them. Using your password, I can edit what’s there, but I can’t monitor the account. I’m scheduled to show our best properties to a high-profile prospect from Chicago in less than an hour. I’m sure the man tweets, so let’s get this mess fixed.”

She clicked off. My maternity leave was a business nightmare. Within seconds, I had speed-dialed Ben Fondgren, social media guru. My call went straight to voicemail, where he collected messages using his mellifluous persona.

“Hey, Ben here, ready to help you build your brand. Just tell me what you need. I’ll get right back to you. Thanks.”

The system beeped, and I let him have it. No more nice mama-to-be trusting the man who promised social media miracles.

“Ben, it’s Whiskey Mattimoe. Who’s minding the store, dude? UberSpringer has taken over Mattimoe Realty’s tweets. Get on it and get it fixed! I expect a call from you within 30 minutes, and you’re going to tell me exactly how you’re making everything right.”

When I ended the call, I was shaking, and that was bad for Baby.

“You’d better take some deep breaths, Miss Whiskey,” Helen said.

I almost told her to back off, but one glance at her strained expression convinced me she cared. Also, she was probably right. I nodded and focused on my breathing.

“That’s good,” Chester chimed in. “Controlled breathing is essential to a successful delivery.”

“Don’t tell me you took an online seminar in childbirth,” I quipped.

Chester’s face seemed to fold in on itself.

“Oh my God,” I gasped. “You did take an online seminar in childbirth.”

“From Johns Hopkins,” he admitted. “Just in case you needed me to know what to do. You won’t need me because Jeb will be here, and he’ll take you to the hospital in plenty of time.”

I pointed out that I hadn’t heard a peep from Jeb, and we had good reason to believe Baby would arrive sooner rather than later.

“Jeb’s probably at a phone store right now getting a replacement so he can call you,” Chester said brightly.

“He should have gone to the studio, borrowed another musician’s phone, and called me.”

“Maybe, but I choose to believe he’s at a phone store.”

Jenx interrupted our conversation to point out that the black velvet leash in her left hand was no longer attached to anything, least of all my libido-bound hound.

“She’s gone again?” I said.

“She’s in the backseat of the squad car,” Jenx said, “exhausted after reliving her adventures with Diggs.”

Suddenly, I wondered, “Does she know he’s dead?”

Chester shrugged. “I couldn’t get as many details as usual. Abra was really excited. Sorry about that.”

“That’s not on you, buddy,” Jenx said, patting him on the shoulder. “That’s on Abra the cougar.”

The chief turned away to take a quick call on her cell. When she finished she asked, “Whiskey, you talked to fire investigator Randy Dupper this morning?”

Her tone was accusing.

“I told you that,” I said.

“Except there is no Randy Dupper. I just got confirmation from my source in Lansing.”

“Source for what?”

“Everything worth knowing in Michigan. There’s no Randy Dupper.”

Chester coughed softly. “In all probability there is a Randy Dupper somewhere. Maybe more than one.”

“Point taken,” Jenx said. “But he’s not a fire investigator.”

“Not a fire investigator known by your source,” Chester said.

Jenx shot her shortest deputy the evil eye. “Whose side are you on?”

“The side of truth, justice, and the American way,” he said, tapping the shiny badge she’d given him. “If Whiskey says the guy who called her told her his name was Randy Dupper and he was a fire investigator, I believe her, but she could be confused. We know she has pregnancy brain.”

“Maybe he’s an insurance investigator,” I suggested.

“Is that what he told you?” Jenx demanded.

I considered her question. “No. He just asked questions about the fire.”

“If the phone number you gave me for him is right, it’s a cell,” Jenx said. “It went straight to automated voicemail when I called.”

Chester and the chief both studied me, no doubt gauging the level of my mental impairment.

“Maybe it was UberSpringer,” Chester theorized.

“You think UberSpringer’s a guy?” I asked.

“Maybe. Your mother calls him Mr. Uber. She thinks there’s something inherently masculine in his tweets.”

“My mother’s not always right, you know.”

“She’s right a lot,” Chester said.

“Think hard, Whiskey,” Jenx said. “The guy who called himself Randy Dupper—ever heard his voice before?”

I didn’t think so, and I didn’t think he was trying to disguise his voice.

“He sounded like he was from southern Ohio or Kentucky, or maybe West Virginia.”

“UberSpringer could have come from anywhere,” Jenx said. “Can you think of a guy who hates your guts?”

Chester said, “Guys don’t generally hate Whiskey. They just don’t get her, except for Jeb.”

“Let’s be clear about this,” I said. “UberSpringer is targeting Mattimoe Realty, not Whiskey Mattimoe.”

“They’re one and the same to UberSpringer,” Chester mused.

“Face it, you have a knack for pissing people off,” Jenx told me. “I recommend making a list of everybody you’ve offended.”

“I’m due to have a baby. I don’t have that kind of time.”

“We’ll start with the men,” Chester said helpfully.

Producing a spiral notebook and Mont Blanc pen from his official blue and yellow Bentwood School backpack, he wrote “Todd Mullen.”

“His lawyer has not contacted me,” I pointed out.

“But he could be UberSpringer.”

Chester underlined Todd’s name.

Jenx said, “Don’t forget Nash Grant.”

“Nash Grant doesn’t hate me,” I said. “Avery does.”

Chester wrote his name anyway. Nash Grant was Avery’s ex-boyfriend, whom I had lusted after once upon a time.

“Add Avery’s name,” Jenx said.

“I thought we were doing the guys first,” I said.

Chester was writing fast. “It’s probably more efficient if I jot down everyone I can think of who isn’t a Whiskey Mattimoe fan. We can narrow the list later.”

Jenx said, “You’re gonna get writers’ cramp.”

I needed air. Even the Town Car’s spacious backseat felt cramped in the presence of a hate list.

“If you get stumped, ask me,” I sniped.

“If I get stumped, I’ll just check your Twitter account,” Chester said. “People don’t hold back when they tweet.”

“Why would people dislike me?”

Chester paused his writing to peer at me above the round wire frames of his glasses.

“Because you’re kind of brusque and your dog acts crazy, but they don’t know you the way Jenx and I do,” he said.

True, I had never been popular in school, although I was far from the goat of the class. If I were to ask my mother—and why on earth would I do that?—she would say I had failed to “master the social graces,” whatever those were. Okay, I knew what they were. I didn’t always think before I spoke. I didn’t care much about things like fashion, children, or general pleasantries, I sure did love Chester, and he knew it.

I didn’t want to contemplate people hating me because I didn’t hate anybody. Truth be told, I did kind of hate Avery, or at least I hated the way she acted around me. I tried to avoid her at all costs, then I thought about how much Leo had loved her, and that softened my heart a little. But let’s face it. Avery was mean.

Thinking of Leo made me think about Jeb. Why hadn’t he phoned or texted me yet? He should have arrived at the recording studio more than thirty minutes ago. I dialed the number stored in my phone.

“Ocean Audio,” a sex kitten purred. “We make beautiful music.”

“I’m sure you do,” I said, rather coldly. “Jeb Halloran, please. This is his wife.”

I resisted adding “the woman about to deliver his first and only child.”

Sex Kitten paused. “Jeb isn’t here. We’re all, like, waiting for him. Do you, like, know where he is?”

That stunned me silent.

“Uh, didn’t he call you to say he misplaced his cell?” I said.

“Uh, no,” she said. “So you don’t know where he is, either?”

“No,” I said. “I was hoping you did.”

All my vital signs had spiked. Baby’s, too. I tried like crazy to remember the names of Jeb’s studio musicians and couldn’t come up with a single one.

“Look,” I said, struggling to keep my voice even. “Could I talk with one of the session musicians?”

“You are talking with one,” Sex Kitten meowed. “This is Rusha.”

“Like the country?” I asked.

She laughed, sounding exactly seventeen. “No! That would be, like, weird. My name is R-U-S-H-A.”

Right. Nothing weird about that. I was absolutely sure Jeb had never mentioned a musician named Rusha, possibly because she was seventeen and sexy.

“Interesting,” I said for lack of a better word. “What instrument do you play?”

“My voice is my instrument. Jeb just loves it.”

“I’m sure he does.” Now my voice sounded feline, not sex-kittenish but catty. “Rusha, it’s so great chatting with you, but I, like, need to talk with the person in charge. Who would that be?”

“That would be Jeb,” she said. “These are Jeb’s sessions. I thought you, like, knew that.”

I rolled my eyes.

“Yes, actually, I do know that. What I don’t know is who’s in charge when Jeb’s not there. Who’s the producer?”

“Jeb.”

I had begun to hyperventilate, and I wasn’t completely sure why. Frustration? Worry? Imminent labor?

“Okay, Rusha, you need to listen to me a minute.”

“I am listening. All your questions have, like, the same answer.”

I closed my eyes and concentrated on speaking calmly.

“Of all the people in the studio right now, who’s the one most likely to make decisions?”

“Well, that would like depend on what kind of decision you want. Like if we were going out to lunch, it would probably be me because I have like a lot of really good ideas when it comes to eating lunch. See, I’ve worked in like twenty restaurants and—”

“Would you please just shut up!” I bellowed.

That was a mistake. I knew it as soon as I spoke, but honest to God, if I’d had to listen to Rusha the lunch genius with the kitty-cat vocal instrument for one more second, I was sure I would lose my mucus plug.

“Sorry,” I said. “Really. I’m very sorry, but I’m about to go into labor here, and I just need to talk with somebody in a position of authority who can help me figure out where my husband might be.”

Silence.

“Rusha? Are you there?”

I heard some shuffling and mumbling but nothing that sounded like Rusha.

“Hello? I said I was sorry! Oh, come on, Rusha,” I begged. “Put on your big-girl pants and help me deal with this!”

“My ‘big-girl pants’?” A grown woman with a resonant voice was now on the line. “Well, I guess if you’re about to have a baby, you know all about big-girl pants.”

“Who’s this?” I said.

“This would be Keyarra. Miss Keyarra to you.”

“Okay. Listen, Miss Keyarra, I apologize for upsetting Rusha.”

“Do you now? Because if you’re gonna do that, you need to talk to Rusha, and she’s not talking to you. I don’t think Rusha ever wants to talk to your sorry self again.”

Suddenly, Chester appeared in the open doorway of the Town Car.

“Trouble, Whiskey?” he whispered.

I nodded desperately.

“One moment, please, Miss Keyarra,” I said and muted the call.

Before I could tell Chester anything, he blurted, “You’re talking with Keyarra?”

“She says that’s her name,” I replied with a shrug.

Chester’s pale eyes had widened to twice their size.

“Keyarra used to sing back-up for Cassina!” he exclaimed. “She’s awesome! Is she in Jeb’s studio?”

I nodded. “Along with some chick named Rusha who wants to talk about lunch.”

Chester gasped. “Rusha’s there, too? You didn’t tell me Jeb was recording with Diva Ocean!”

“Devotion?” I echoed.

“Diva Ocean,” he said slowly. “Only the best up-and-coming girl duo in North America. Their calendar is packed because they’re so hot. I can’t believe Jeb nailed them.”

I winced, hoping he didn’t mean that the way it sounded to my overly-adrenalized brain.

“Jeb has Diva Ocean,” he reflected. “Wow. The new Fleggers CD is going to go platinum for sure!”

“Provided we find Jeb,” I said. “Diva Ocean wants him to make music. I want him to show up before Baby does.”

“He will, Whiskey,” Chester said. “Let me talk with Keyarra.”

I was only too glad to pass him my cell.

He whispered, “I speak ‘musician,’ you know. It’s a lot less complicated than canine.”

Although Chester deeply loved
music, which was, after all, in his blood, he loved helping people even more. Without missing a beat, he unmuted my phone and set about convincing Diva Ocean that I was on their side even though I was married to Jeb.