Nina Wright - Whiskey Mattimoe 07 - Whiskey, Large (26 page)

“I thought you worked for Cassina, not Cassina Enterprises,” I snuffled.

“That is correct,” he said. “I’m her personal staff. We keep a stash of these in her vehicles, along with matching T-shirts and fanny pack, in case Cassina wants to toss them at fans. ‘Incentives,’ she calls them. Incentives to back the hell away so she can escape. Chester has some, too, but they’re monogrammed with his initials.”

He waited while I wiped my face and blew my nose.

Finally he said, “What do you need right now, Whiskey?”

“Besides Jeb, you mean? And getting all this behind me?” I said into the giant handkerchief.

“Everything will be fine,” he said. “In the end, all that matters is making yourself and the people you love as happy as you can.”

That did make sense. Fleetingly I thought it might even explain something about MacArthur’s attraction to Avery.

“Jeb adores you,” MacArthur added. “I know that for a fact.”

“What if I never get my figure back?” I cried as tears splashed on my enormous belly.

“You’ll always have your own kind of beauty.”

“Is that what you tell Avery?”

MacArthur grinned slyly.

“Avery doesn’t worry about things like that. She knows how to touch my heart.”

If hulking, sour-faced, tongue-flicking Avery Mattimoe felt secure in her love for a gorgeous man, what the hell was my problem? Jeb was good-looking and even a bit famous for his music in certain dog-loving circles, and back in the day when he played at bars and roadhouses, he had his fair share of groupies. Now, according to Chester, he was working with the “hottest girl duo” in the industry, yet Jeb possessed a folksinger’s earnestness in place of MacArthur’s exotic appeal. If Avery could hold the Cleaner’s love, who was I to doubt my husband’s straight-from-the heart commitment? I blew my nose again. This was my issue, not Jeb’s, as friends had pointed out to me as far back as our stormy first marriage. Nobody knew me better or loved me more than Jeb Halloran, and I had no doubt he totally adored Baby.

“So where the hell is Jeb?” I asked MacArthur.

The Cleaner leaned in close. “I don’t know, but I think he’s having a difficult day. Most likely he’s trying to fix something before Baby comes, and it’s taking longer than he thought.”

“Fix what?” I demanded.

“It doesn’t matter what, Whiskey. All you need to know is that Jeb is on it, and all will be well.”

I wished I could be sure MacArthur knew what he was talking about. He sounded sure, so I chose to believe he was.

As much as I appreciated his pep talk, I still had to deal with the difficult Dani Glancy. We both did now that MacArthur had smelled her dead sister in the woods.

Something suddenly occurred to me. Dani’s rant in my office had included no mention of losing Lisa. Zero. Zip.

“They weren’t close,” MacArthur said when I shared my observation.

“Apparently,” I quipped. “Did something go wrong?”

The Cleaner seemed to weigh his options before responding. “They were always jealous of each other, or so I’ve heard.”

Though not a gambler, I would have bet the farm MacArthur knew more about the sisters than he let on. In fact, I thought it downright likely Dani and Lisa had competed for him.

I hadn’t known Hamp Glancy beyond our professional association, but he seemed way too nice to have had Dani for a wife. She was a tad young for him, too, not that I was in a position to judge. Leo Mattimoe had, after all, been fifteen years my senior. I wasn’t stylish enough to be a “trophy wife.” Dani, however, had a hot body, gleaming hair, teeth and nails, and exquisite taste in clothes, shoes and other expensive accessories. Although I didn’t know what lay behind her Jackie O. sunglasses, I doubted she was hiding disfigurement. She probably had circles under her eyes from lack of sleep.

If so, was the lack of sleep due to shock over Hamp’s death or from logging late hours on social media as UberSpringer?

When we’d met in my office the previous day, Dani had been outraged by her hubby’s demise and the circumstances surrounding it. In fact, she seemed incapable of any other emotion.

I recalled the stages of my own grief when Leo suddenly died. For six months, I was nothing but numb. Anger came later, jumbled with a sense of staggering loss and confusion. Dani, however, seemed to have leapt straight into fury and vengeance.

People grieve differently or don’t grieve at all, I mused. Some just get even.

MacArthur chose
a back route to Sugar Grove I’d never taken before. Starting from way out on Wham Road, where I’d never been before, he turned the Mercedes down one unmarked gravel road onto another and then another. Within twenty minutes we were sailing into the next settlement east of Magnet Springs.

Like many small towns in Michigan, Sugar Grove was long on charm but short on jobs. It had once been a thriving sugar-beet processing center. Elderly residents still recalled the sweet dusty smell that used to coat the town and its inhabitants. Those days were long gone, however, leaving the village to struggle for survival.

Situated inland from, though still close to, Lake Michigan, Sugar Grove subsisted mainly as a peripheral tourist town, offering cheaper meals and lodgings than Magnet Springs. A handful of affluent citizens lived in magnificently restored Victorian homes along Broad Street while the rest hunkered down in bungalows that had seen better days.

Almost two years earlier an international biomedical company had acquired eighty acres of farmland for a major research center, offices, and production facilities on the east side of town. Given that Lanagan County is less than a hundred-mile drive from Chicagoland, a couple residential developers revved into action, buying nearby agricultural parcels for development into working-class and upscale subdivisions.

Hamp Glancy had been involved in it all. In fact, the planned biomed boom was to be the major coup of his long-established real estate career. Specialists in buying, selling, and renting tourist properties, Glancy Realty out-performed most firms in this region, even during the recent economic depression. Transitioning into high-end business real estate would be their crowning glory.

However, the biomed boom hadn’t gone quite as planned. Delay after delay in government approval stalled the whole machine, and formerly jubilant developers fumbled for financing. Could it all eventually work out as dreamed? I hoped so, and not just for the good people of Sugar Grove. The more money any developer pumped into any part of Lanagan County could only boost Magnet Springs, too.

Although I knew the location of Hamp’s office, I had never seen his home or heard him speak of it. MacArthur knew exactly where to drive us. As we rolled past the Sugar Grove Inn, a man wearing black pants and a white shirt was adjusting the board that proclaimed their daily specials. He looked about the same age, height, and build as Ben Fondgren. This guy’s hair was reddish brown, and he had a beard. He wore black-framed glasses.

“Is that Reagan Duffy?” I asked MacArthur.

“Where?” the Cleaner said, steering around a stalled vehicle.

“Back there. At the Sugar Grove Inn.”

MacArthur squinted into his right sideview mirror.

“Sorry, can’t tell from here.”

“Does Reagan have facial hair?” I said.

“Not the last time I saw him, no, but that was months ago.”

I thought about Anouk’s description of the guy in the black pick-up truck who had followed her and Napoleon to Vanderzee Park just before someone shot at them. There was also the guy in black pick-up truck that buzzed past Ben and me along the rural road where he liked to run. In both cases, the driver had a beard and glasses.

“There’s something about Ben and his boyfriend that bothers me,” I began.

“Really?” MacArthur said. “I never took you for a homophobe.”

“I’m not a homophobe. Did Avery tell you that?”

MacArthur didn’t respond. He was parking the car in front of the Glancy homestead, and quite a home it was.

Dani lived in one of downtown Sugar Grove’s “painted ladies”—an oversized Victorian whose color palette accentuated its architectural flourishes. Magenta shutters and teal trim complemented the pale gray wood siding. I shivered to think that the queen of rage lurked inside, ready to savage me the moment I entered her lair. At least I’d brought a bodyguard, and he had news for her that just might be bizarre enough to divert Dani from her real-estate grievances.

After MacArthur eased me from the vehicle, I let him lead me up the brick-paved path and ring the doorbell, which sounded like a carillon rendition of “O Canada.” I had forgotten that Hamp was born in Toronto.

Dani kept us waiting an inordinate amount of time, perhaps in the hope we’d hit the bell a second time and have to hear the anthem all over again. Maybe she was from Canada, too. Maybe she just liked to torment us.

The musical delay gave me time to check my phone for what was left of Bill Noury’s legal directive.

“Admit nothing. Offer nothing. Say almost nothing. Do not—”

If only I could recall what the last line had been before Sandra’s drool destroyed it. Do not bargain? Do not lose your cool? Do not make threats you can’t keep?

Dani flung open the door. Involuntarily, I shrank back, as much as any woman who’s six-foot-one and thirty nine weeks pregnant can. In my pre-preggo days, sliding behind MacArthur was possible because I am slightly shorter than he is, but now there was no way to hide my girth.

“Dani.” MacArthur spoke first, and all he said was her name.

“Hello,” she replied in a voice I didn’t recognize. For starters, it was not a shrill screech. In fact, it was downright seductive, kind of like Lauren Bacall flirting with Bogie.

“Good to see you again,” my driver said.

“It’s always good to see you, Mac,” she purred.

She stepped aside so that he could enter.

I lingered uncertainly on the porch. Because her gaze was fixed on the Cleaner, I half-expected the door to slam in my face.

“Whiskey,” she said flatly.

Was she inviting me in, or did she want a drink? I realized she was holding the door open.

“Thank you so much,” I said with excessive enthusiasm.

I tend to be pathetically grateful when nervous. It’s a Midwestern thing.

I studied our hostess. Her straight ash-blonde hair was as sleek as Abra’s after a day at the doggie spa. Dani wore a maroon linen suit, a starched écru blouse and a pearl choker. On her delicate feet were peep-toed black patent leather heels I might have been able to squeeze into back in fifth grade.

“Come in, come in,” she snapped, barely glancing my way.

Still wearing her oversized designer sunglasses, Dani appeared to follow MacArthur’s every move. Why shouldn’t she enjoy the view? It was sensational, especially from the rear.

Dani’s perfume was another matter. As soon as I stepped indoors, its pungent odor assaulted my nose. I wondered if the scent of overripe fruit turned Hamp on, or if Dani reserved this “special” scent for someone else.

The house was as dark as a pit. How she could navigate while wearing sunglasses was a mystery. My late husband Leo had taught me about architecture and interior design, so I knew that many Victorian-style homes owed their traditional dimness to a combination of low light and murky colors. Dani had closed the heavy gold drapes, and only one sixty-watt bulb burned in the front room. I discerned mustardy yellow walls, richly woven aubergine carpets, and uncomfortable-looking furniture upholstered in shiny sage green.

Reality invaded my internal realtor’s assessment. I needed to sit, and I needed to sit now. But where? I did not need the humiliation of an antique chair cracking under my weight, or worse, my larger-than-average ass getting stuck in one.

As if harboring the same fears, Dani indicated an ornately carved sofa still swallowed in shadows.

“Sit over there, Whiskey. It’s the most comfortable seat in the house.”

“Comfortable” had to be code for reinforced. Victorian furniture was about as cushy as a park bench.

Dani emitted a choked sob. I froze, thinking I had already broken something, but the new widow had flung herself into MacArthur’s ready arms.

“How can she be dead?” Dani wailed. “I’m going to miss her more than I can bear!”

“I’ll miss her, too,” MacArthur replied.

One of them sounded like he meant it. The other one sounded like a character in a soap opera, and not a well-written soap opera. Dani buried herself in MacArthur’s embrace, still sobbing. I suspected she hadn’t put half that much energy into grieving for Hamp.

“Lisa was always so full of life,” Dani said. “Now she’s so … so …”

“Dead?” I suggested.

I waited for her to add, “and so is Hamp,” but her husband’s name never came up.

“There, there,” MacArthur crooned, rolling his Rs to comforting effect. “Surely Lisa died so fast she felt no pain.”

“We can only hope,” Dani said.

Now that my eyes had adjusted to the low lighting, I could clearly make out the décor. Dani and Hamp had observed the four elements of Victorian design: saturated colors, complex patterns, opulence, and romance. Which led to a fifth element: claustrophobia.

In my humble opinion, Victorian-themed homes were all about excess. Too much fancy furniture and sentimental wall art. Too many needlepoint pillows, doilies, mirrors, and figurines. If Dani’s décor items were original and valuable, I could do a lot of damage here just by turning around.

“What will I do?” Dani whimpered into MacArthur’s chest. “Lisa was my sunshine.”

I was tempted to point out that if she drew the drapes, real sunshine could stream in.

“Lisa would want you to carry on,” MacArthur said. “By the way, I brought you something that may give you closure.”

From the hip pocket of his just-right tight black pants, MacArthur extracted a folded piece of maroon cloth, which he unwound by cracking like a whip. A deliciously erotic fragrance wafted from it, magically overcoming Dani’s own sorry scent.

If Lisa really smelled like that, I might have gone for her myself. However, I recalled no scent at all when she’d signed the listing papers.