Nina Wright - Whiskey Mattimoe 07 - Whiskey, Large (3 page)

“Do you plan to manage the rescue center?” I asked, selfishly hoping she’d say no.

She shook her head, exchanging sly smiles with Dr. David. Relief surged through me. Although I hadn’t yet inquired about her availability, I intended to entice Deely back to one or more of her former positions. In the past, I had employed her as my personal assistant and Abra’s personal trainer, as well as nanny for Avery’s twins. Now I wanted her to be my baby’s nanny.

“David and I will both be on the rescue center board,” Deely said, “but I’m assisting him full-time in his veterinary practice until our baby is born.”

Gasps all round. Deely wasn’t showing yet, so this was news. Disappointing news to me although, of course, I was happy for her. I knew that some people got pregnant on purpose.

The announcement even got Avery’s attention.

“Wow,” she said, straightening herself on MacArthur’s lap. “I can’t believe you want to take care of a kid for free. Plus, pregnancy sucks. You could end up looking as bad as Whiskey.”

Deely positively beamed. “I’ve never felt better, and I can’t wait to be a mother.”

That elicited lots of “awwws” and even a few hugs. It also brought a question to mind. I turned to Avery. “Who’s watching the twins?”

“You mean right now?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“One of Chester’s personal assistants. Obviously, he isn’t using her now.”

Chester’s mother hired a cadre of assistants to “manage” her son in her absence, and also in her presence. Although Cassina regularly hired, fired and sometimes forgot to re-hire help, Chester thrived without supervision. Since sneaking two dogs into the Castle, he had finally found a family. Prince Harry the Pee Master was devoted to the boy, and Velcro the teacup shitzapoo never veered far from Chester’s ankles.

The nine-and-a-half-year-old piped up, “That particular personal assistant is my driver and go-fer.”

“Gopher?” Mom asked. In the process of clearing the table, she was only half-following the conversation. “Will you rescue wild rodents, too?”

“Go-fer as in errand-runner,” I said.

“Chester, I’ll be your driver and errand-runner once more,” MacArthur vowed, adding a warm burr to every R. So help me, his accent made him sexier still even though nasty Avery occupied his lap.

My husband steered the conversation back on track. “So, who’s going to manage your rescue center, Chester?”

“We’ve got a lot to do before we hire,” Chester replied, “but my board and I will choose someone devoted to saving animals and building community. We hope to hire someone local.”

“I’m channeling the energies of local animal-lovers right now,” Noonan Starr offered. She had been quiet for so long that I hadn’t noticed she’d slipped to the floor and assumed the lotus posture. All four dogs sat in a circle around her, watching closely.

“That is so weird,” Avery observed. “It’s like the dogs are reading her mind.”

“We’re communicating on a higher plane,” Noonan whispered. “No words required.”

“I thought only pet psychics could do stuff like that,” I remarked to no one in particular.

Suddenly, Noonan’s pale eyes opened wide. “A pet psychic just replied!”

The doorbell rang, again. This time the chime was followed by a gunshot as a bullet shattered the leaded glass in my front door.

Dogs howled and humans screamed.
That is, we female humans screamed, except for Deely, who pulled out her cell phone and dialed 9-1-1. I’m sure that Jeb would have dialed 9-1-1, but he chose instead to attend to me because I had screamed louder than anybody. Also, I was thirty-nine weeks pregnant with his child.

My husband calmly helped me into an overstuffed chair in the corner of the dining room, far from the front door and away from all windows. Meanwhile Dr. David herded humans and dogs into the kitchen. We would wait for the authorities to come save the day.

“Somebody rang the doorbell,” I panted, “and then they got shot!”

“We don’t know they got shot,” Jeb said. “Nobody’s ringing the bell now.”

“Probably because they got shot! What if somebody’s bleeding to death on our front porch?”

“Help is on the way,” he reminded me. “Emergency services know where you live.”

Indeed. This was the umpteenth time cops and EMTs had responded to a call at this address, but this was the first time anybody had attracted a bullet while ringing my bell. Sirens sounded in the distance.

“That’s what I call rapid response,” our mayor declared proudly.

I said, “That’s what I call repeat business.”

From the kitchen, nobody had a view of the porch or driveway. Like any curious kid, Chester insisted on moving to the front of the house to peer out a window. The adults argued that one of them should do it first, for safety’s sake. MacArthur volunteered to risk his life, and I watched with interest as his muscular form jogged past.

Don’t get me wrong, Jeb is handsome—tall and lean—built the way I’ve preferred men since I noticed them as sexual beings, but MacArthur is a hard-bodied hottie, built like a male model who lives at the gym and gets paid to take his shirt off.

“Woman down!” he reported from the front window.

“Anyone we know?” Jeb asked.

“Can’t tell. She’s face down.”

“Oh God!” I cried. “Is she … dead?”

“No, she’s texting.”

With that, everyone except me, including the four-leggers, raced into the living room for a closer look. I couldn’t see the group once they reached the front window, but I heard someone draw back the drapes.

“Good news, Whiskey,” Chester yelled. “There’s not much blood. You won’t need to repaint the porch.”

“I know that woman,” Noonan’s ever-serene voice announced. “We all do.”

“We do?” In my safe corner of the dining room, I leaned as far forward as I could without rolling onto the floor.

“Like I said earlier,” Noonan continued, “a pet psychic replied to my message.”

“You mean…” Recent memories lit up my brain.

“It’s that crazy French bitch,” Avery said, “but I don’t see her poodle.”

“I do,” Chester said.

Apparently, all the dogs did, too, for they set up a chorus of howls, topped by Abra’s “roo-roo.” Of course, she would be happy to see Napoleon. She was his girlfriend-for-hire.

Anouk Gagné and her black standard poodle Napoleon had come into our lives last winter through the murder of a mutual acquaintance. Like many folks in Magnet Springs, Anouk made ends meet by working several jobs. She was an archery instructor, a dog groomer and a pet psychic, the last of which mattered most to me. Thanks to Anouk’s doggie-hypnotherapy, Abra and Sandra Bullock, French bulldog, were learning to cautiously co-exist.

“Napoleon looks fine,” Chester announced, “but he’s acting frantic. He’s running around in circles on your front lawn.”

“A typicaw stwess weaction,” Dr. David said, and we all knew what he meant. We were stressed, too.

“Anouk is definitely texting,” Jeb said, no doubt to reassure me.

Oddly enough, the first time I’d seen her she was texting—next to a corpse. I shuddered.

“Not texting. She’s tweeting,” Avery said.

“Tweeting?” I repeated. Of course, I had heard the term, but I couldn’t make it fit this context.

“Using a social media site to broadcast a personal statement,” Chester translated. “She’s telling her tweeps what just happened.”

“She’s telling her what?
” I said.

“Tweeps. Her Twitter friends,” Avery snapped. “How out of it are you, Whiskey? Do you even have a Twitter account?”

“I talk to people in person or on the phone,” I said. “That’s how I sell real estate.”

“Bravo, boss! I like your style,” MacArthur said, stepping into the dining room to flash me a flirty grin.

“Whiskey’s married now, you know,” Avery reminded him. “In addition to bloated.”

Sirens grew louder, and the commotion in my living room intensified as everyone vied for a better view of tweeting, bleeding Anouk and her spinning dog.

“‘Shot in my right shoulder at Whiskey Mattimoe’s house,’” I heard Noonan say.

“Are you still channeling Anouk’s psychic vibes?” I called out.

“I’m reading her tweets,” Noonan said. “Here’s the next one: ‘Came to see Whiskey and Abra. Got shot. Nobody here cares.’”

“That’s not true,” I said. “Nobody here cares to get shot. The bad guy might still be out there. We’ve called for help.”

“I’m tweeting that to her right now,” Noonan said.

“Why not send psychic vibes?” I asked.

“Tweeting’s more fun. Here’s her reply: ‘Napoleon risked his life to see his one true love.’”

“That’s not true,” I said. “Anouk hires Abra by the hour.”

Napoleon had been depressed before he met my dog, or rather, before my dog got loose and seduced him. Abra escaped whenever she could and never failed to get into trouble. She was widely known as a wanton hussy and felon.

The sirens, which had grown painfully loud, suddenly cut out.

“Jenx is here, and so are the EMTs,” Chester informed me.

Magnet Springs is a tourist town, famous for its beaches, bistros, and B&Bs. Our police force is minimal, to put it nicely. Chief Judy “Jenx” Jenkins, my former classmate, responded to most calls, but when violence occurred, a Lanagan County sheriff’s deputy or Michigan State Police officer wouldn’t be far behind. Jenx liked to get the facts before anybody could wrestle the case away from her. She had control issues, not to mention an earth-shaking temper.

When I heard someone unlatch the front door, I called, “Jeb, don’t let Abra—”

“Too late,” my guests responded in unison.

I
f she hadn’t just been shot,
Anouk Gagné surely would have stopped Abra from running away, but the French woman was sprawled, bloody and tweeting, on my front porch. Nobody else had the presence of mind to block the Affie, except maybe Deely Smarr, but she’s pregnant. I understood how that condition changes everything.

Unbound, Abra loped gracefully toward Napoleon, who leapt with joy at the sight of her. The two large dogs dashed off together, my hound leading the escape. Canine poetry in motion, Abra caught the afternoon sunlight in her golden coat. Lean, dark Napoleon flew like an arrow fired hard and straight. Their vanishing act was complete within seconds. Chester ran back inside to give me the full report.

“On the bright side, all the other dogs are accounted for,” he concluded, “and Anouk’s wound is superficial. I doubt she’ll sue you, Whiskey.”

I doubted it, too. A shooter was responsible for Anouk’s injury. Even if I could have convinced Jeb to open the front door sooner, I was in no condition to help. Any juror viewing a photo of me would agree. If I could have reached my cell phone, I would have taken a selfie, just in case.

Fortunately, professional help was now in place. Well, as professional as it gets in Magnet Springs. Although Lanagan County EMTs were topnotch, our local police force was mentioned more often in punch lines than headlines. We had one full-time officer, one part-time officer, and one German shepherd. The dog was highly trained.

Built like a barely female fireplug, Chief Jenkins wore a buzz cut and non-regulation steel-toe boots. Her only jewelry was a chunky man’s watch on her right wrist. Her unpolished fingernails were clipped so short they looked chewed. Maybe they were chewed, although I’d never seen Jenx bite them. The chief consistently solved tough cases with minimal assistance from larger law enforcement agencies. She preferred it that way.

Imagine my shock when Jenx strode into my living room, pointed at a shell casing amid the shards of glass on my hardwood floor and announced, “Don’t touch that. We’re gonna need the State Boys.”

“Why?” I said. “You hate the State Boys.”

“True. But Magnet Springs doesn’t have a ballistics expert.”

I thought about that.

“Canine Officer Roscoe can’t help?”

“Nope. He can bring down bad guys with his teeth, but he lacks training in bullet trajectory.”

“How about Officer Swancott?” I said, referring to her part-time cop.

“Not good with teeth or ballistics,” Jenx conceded, “but he can find stuff on the internet.”

Brady Swancott was a grad student enrolled in art history. Most of his courses were online, and he did his homework while on duty.

“Is Brady out there with Roscoe?” I said.

“Brady went home early. His kids are sick.” The chief sighed.

“But Roscoe’s out there?”

She nodded. “Sniffing for data.”

Grunting like a trapped bear, I struggled to rise from the wingback chair where Jeb had parked me.

“Relax,” Jenx said. “Roscoe’s used to working unsupervised.”

“But he’s not used to working around Sandra Bullock.”

Jenx’s eyes widened and she reflexively touched her service revolver. The gesture was less about self-defense than it was about Sandra being a threat to local security. We both heard a deep, atavistic moan from my front yard.

“That wasn’t Anouk,” I said, “or any human.”

“That was Roscoe,” Jenx said, sprinting toward the door. “Your damn Frenchie has undone him again.”

I wanted to say she wasn’t my Frenchie, but in every way that mattered she was. Historically, Sandra Bullock was Jeb’s dog because he had rescued her and brought her home. Technically, she now belonged to both of us thanks to a sneaky legal concept called “marital assets.” Abra was a marital asset, too. A giant pain in the asset.

For once my enormous girth proved convenient. By the time I could launch myself from the chair and lumber into the yard, Jenx had remanded Roscoe to the squad car, sparing me a glimpse of his unforgettable erection. He liked to display his excited self to his Lady Lust by dancing on his hind legs. Oddly, Roscoe had no interest in blonde-beauty Abra, no matter how hard she flirted. Yet the snorting, farting, square-bodied Frenchie drove him insane.

Today Sandra was wearing a flowered party frock that was much too tight. Honestly, how could anyone blame Roscoe when Jeb dressed his dog that way?

Holding the canine bimbo in one arm, Jeb lent me his other arm for support as I navigated the steep porch steps.

“Officer down,” he said, stifling a chuckle.