Nina Wright - Whiskey Mattimoe 07 - Whiskey, Large (34 page)

Speaking of which, Helen Kaminski would be locked away for a long, long time. A jury of her peers had convicted her of kidnapping, assault and battery, and fraud. Although urged by my attorney to sue her for libel, I chose to let it go, believing that whatever damage Helen had done to Mattimoe Realty while tweeting as UberSpringer would fade with the next wave of social media. In the meantime, I tried to tweet positive, business-building messages whenever I thought about it or got bored, neither of which happened often. Mattimoe Realty was doing well for one reason only: Odette Mutombo sold a whole lot of real estate.

Reagan Duffy was now doing time as an accessory to murder and kidnapping, plus car theft. That’s right. In addition to truly heinous offenses, he had stolen Jeb’s car and sold it after helping Helen grab my husband. Beyond shooting inaccurately at living things, he admitted igniting the propane tank on Swan Lane, for which Dani Glancy—via Ben Fondgren—had paid him a whopping one thousand dollars, random canine corpse included. For assisting Helen he had required no compensation because Helen was his great-aunt.

Dani, who hired a famous Chicago-based attorney skilled at stall tactics, still awaited trial. We didn’t know how she afforded him although she may have seduced him. Perhaps the lawyer liked her particular brand of cologne. The great state of Michigan hoped to prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that Dani had enlisted Ben to make her violent family fantasies a reality. He, in turn, recruited Reagan to execute the details.

Whether Ben had been Dani’s lover, her hire, or someone she blackmailed into doing her bidding would remain unclear until Dani stood trial. Convicted of paying Reagan to commit multiple murders, Ben now resided in Jackson at the state penitentiary. Dani, still free though under indictment, had eliminated the sister she resented and the husband she no longer loved. Many Magnet Springers doubted she would ever do time. Her attorney specialized in portraying twisted women as mentally “disabled” and hence not responsible for their crimes.

I turned my attention back to Dr. David’s wife, Deely. She seemed thoroughly content as a mother. I could only hope I looked that serene. For more than a year, I had worked mainly from home so that I could help Jeb care for April. I had also exercised and watched my diet, losing most of the weight I gained while pregnant…before I got pregnant again.

That’s right. Jeb and I were expecting. At thirty-eight weeks, I felt happily human because this time I had gained twenty-five pounds versus sixty. I could still slide nimbly in and out of any vehicle with nary a goat prod, and this time I actually looked forward to nursing.

Back home in Ft. Myers, Florida, Mom was married at last to her long-time fiancé, Howard. Although she had offered to come north to help me, I had declined. My second delivery promised to be so much simpler. I no longer feared mucus plugs, pushing, or the stages of labor, and I knew how to change a diaper. More important, Jeb wasn’t going anywhere for the next few months.

When Jeb’s set ended, the crowd literally went wild, which was only natural given the high percentage of critters in attendance. Dogs barked, birds screeched, and cats yowled. The humans also made their fair share of noise. To my relief, Abra and Sandra were on their best behavior. Freshly groomed, they looked elegant in matching rhinestone-studded collars. Jeb had been unable to resist dressing Sandra in a black satin evening gown. Fortunately, it was quite discreet.

I smiled at my hounds, and they wagged their tails. Abra’s was more a brief acknowledgment than a true wag, but I received it gratefully. The Affie was a beauty queen, a sex fiend, and a local legend. Despite her maddening antics, she had, through the years, saved several lives, including my husband’s and my own. Sandra Bullock, French bulldog, wagged her stub of a tail more often than she let it rest. Not quite hero material, she was the stuff of screwball comedy, making every day a little bit silly. Humans—including, finally, me—couldn’t help loving Sandra.

Jeb thanked the audience, lowered the height of his microphone and exited. Chester bounded to the stage. Now age twelve, he still looked a couple years younger and acted a generation older.

“Thank you for coming tonight,” he began, sounding like a seasoned emcee. “And thank you for making Magnet Springs the Pet Mecca it has become!”

In truth, the jury was out on our town’s re-branding as a pet-friendly destination. Tourism was up, but that was mainly due to the improved economy. A number of local inns and restaurants had quietly banned animals following an unfortunate incident involving a Chihuahua and a chimpanzee.

Abra chose that moment to turn her head away from Chester, whom she loved to watch, and gaze meaningfully into my eyes. She issued a low growl.

“What’s the matter, girl?”

She growled again, but not as if annoyed with me personally. I figured she disliked Chester’s topic.

“You’re not a fan of pet-tourists in Magnet Springs?” I asked.

“That’s not what’s bothering her,” Dr. David’s Deely intervened.

I hadn’t realized that the Fleggers co-founder was standing near enough to overhear me and my hound. Maybe her acute love of animals had heightened her senses to doggie level.

“I believe your dog needs to tell you something personal,” Deely said.

Anyone outside of Fleggers would have intended that remark as a joke, but Deely was dead earnest. In support, Sandra woofed and thumped her stubby tail.

“Did Chester teach you to speak canine?” I asked Deely.

“No, but I’m very good at body language. Abra is relating to you as a fellow mother. She has something urgent she wants to say.”

Deely narrowed her eyes. Even as she stared at Abra, I realized that Abra was staring at me, or, more precisely, at my belly.

“Abra and I have totally different views on motherhood,” I told Deely. “I raise my babies, whereas she gives hers away.”

“It’s not about that,” Deely murmured. “Lean down to her. I think she’s going to give you a message.”

Now Deely sounded more like Noonan Starr, psychic hippie. However, I complied, leaning forward until the Affie and I were eye to eye. That portion of my anatomy didn’t interest her. My hound wanted to sniff my belly, and she proceeded to do so for a long, extremely odd moment.

“Abra knows you’re pregnant,” Deely declared.

“Everybody knows I’m pregnant.”

“Mommy pregnant,” April confirmed.

“It’s more than that,” Deely insisted. “Abra senses something about your baby.”

That could have been creepy, except she winked at me. My dog, I mean. The bitch knew something, all right. Something I didn’t yet know, and she was giving me a sign, maybe even her blessing. I swear I felt what could only be called a maternal bond between us. We were both mothers, and sometimes mothers just know things they can’t explain, or don’t have to explain.

Just as suddenly as she’d sought my attention, Abra was done with me. She returned her gaze to the stage, where her beloved Chester was orating.

“I have an exciting announcement,” the kid continued. “In collaboration with Four Legs Good, the animal rights advocacy, our board of directors has approved for limited production and sale a new line of all-natural dog food, the profits from which will support animal protection agencies across the state of Michigan. I’m proud to say that the food is based on a recipe developed forty years ago by the parents of our own Whitney Houston Halloran Mattimoe Halloran. Come on up here, Whiskey!”

“Go,” Deely said, giving me a nudge with the hand that held Rex on the toddler leash.

Confident that she could manage Abra and Sandra, I passed her two more leashes. April and I moved slowly through the cheering crowd. Jeb had returned to the stage so that he could lend us a hand as we climbed the steps. He kissed us both.

Beaming, Chester presented me with a three-pound bag of dog food. The label read ROSIE. The package design featured a faded family photograph of a woman and her golden retriever. I had seen that picture before.

Stretching on his tiptoes, Chester extended the microphone stand for me.

“This is about family,” I began, my voice thick with emotion. “Before I was born, my dad rescued a dog that my mom called Rosie. Mom came to love Rosie more than she had ever thought possible. When Rosie died, a little bit of Mom’s heart died, too, but then I was born, and her heart healed.”

I gazed out over the crowd, my eyes brimming with tears. Damn those third-trimester hormones. Baby gave a little belly kick.

“I’m blessed to know some wonderful people,” I said, “and some pretty amazing dogs.”

Raising the bag of food, I added, “Long live Rosie!”

“Long live Rosie!” Chester said, and the crowd chimed in.

Abra pierced the air with her distinct sight hound howl. Sandra barked next. Soon every canine in attendance was woofing, but Abra was the loudest of all.

And then my water broke.

~The End~

Nina Wright is the author of seven books in the humorous Whiskey Mattimoe mystery series as well as the paranormal novels
Homefree
and
Sensitive
. She also writes plays. Raised in the Land of the Great Lakes, she now lives in Dallas and visits big water whenever she can. Nina writes and teaches, and loves to laugh. Look for her books online in trade paperback and digital formats.