Whiskey on the Rocks (13 page)

I swallowed a shard of guilt. Would brunch with another man at the Sugar Grove Inn betray Leo? Then I grasped the preposterous logistics: Leo and I had played up and down the west coast of Michigan. If I ruled out every place we’d been together, I’d go nowhere. Which is precisely where I’d been for five and a half months.

I asked the Judge if he knew where I lived.

“Next door to Cassina’s Castle. And, Whiskey, please stop calling me ‘Your Honor’.”

That would be difficult given my memories of Abra’s trial, but I said I’d work on it. We chatted a bit more about nothing much. I was aware of an unfamiliar tingle near my heart. Not my ribs this time. And not the lust I’d felt for the fake Edward Naylor. More like a reminder that I was still alive, after all.

I dashed up the stairs and executed a leap in the hall outside my bedroom. Fifteen years had passed since I led my high-school volleyball team, but I was still in good shape. And I like getting physical.

I also like sleeping in on Sundays. But my conversation with the Judge had infused me with rare energy. I woke an hour before my alarm was set to go off, ready for a run. When Leo was alive, I ran every morning before going to the office. But this would be my first run in five and a half months. I had several legitimate excuses for laying off so long. I’d been in Leo’s accident, too; for the first couple months afterwards I was healing. Then there were the Troubles with Abra—her serial purse-snatchings and the hearings and the court-mandated counseling. Next came sultry August; excuses for not running are not required. That brings us to September, which brings Leaf-Peepers. And what do Leaf-Peepers bring? If we’re lucky, lots of business.

This was the morning to start turning my life around. Before seven, I had splashed cold water on my face, slipped into my long-neglected running shorts and running shoes, and started my warm-up stretches. But I got a little zealous with my right hamstring. It didn’t rip, but it sure did scream. I screamed, too. Fortunately, I didn’t wake Chester. As soon as I could, I limped back into the house to ice my strain. And curse myself for not having fixed the icemaker.

From my jock days, I recalled that freshly injured soft tissue should be worked a little. After a few minutes, I tried moving the leg. Not bad, but not up to a pounding run. That’s when I remembered Blitzen, my touring bike, hanging in the garage. Blitzen was Leo’s gift on my last birthday. Leo’s last birthday gift to me. It’s a serious machine, too ambitiously equipped for my dilettante ways. Nobody in Magnet Springs needs a temperature-compensated handlebar altimeter. But I appreciate the anatomically correct gel-padded saddle. I vowed then and there to use that bike as God intended: for firming my thighs.

I couldn’t help but think of the Judge as I pedaled down my curving driveway into the bright new day. The truth was that I’d never thought of him as anything but a jurist until the previous night. Wells Verbelow may not have had the estrogen-accelerating gorgeousness of George Clooney or the fake Edward Naylor, but he was attractive: slim and straight of spine with thick brown hair going gray, a firm jaw, and deep-set brown eyes. Although he wore a sober face at work, I had seen his eyes crinkle at the corners. They did the day Abra’s trial concluded and I thanked him for his leniency in sending her to counseling instead of jail.

“Ms. Mattimoe,” he replied, “the Court does not sentence animals to prison. If we did, given Miss Abracadabra’s history, I doubt that we could keep her there.”

Giggles from the gallery. I expected him to strike his gavel and bellow, “Order in the Court!” That didn’t happen. Instead, he leaned forward in his throne—I mean chair—and said, “The Court understands that you, Abra’s owner, are a responsible citizen. Frankly, her threat to public safety is probably negligible. We are concerned about her impact on community pride. On the tourist industry, to be candid. Are you confident that you can control her?”

I looked at him directly. “Not at all, Your Honor.” More giggles.

He nodded. “Then the Court advises you to consult a therapist. On behalf of your dog.”

Still more laughter. Abra’s trial—dubbed “The Abra Show” by the weekly Magnet—was our town’s midsummer highlight. A spate of soggy weather had turned tourists away from the shore. But we had an antidote: Go see that crazy long-haired dog on trial for stealing purses! The courtroom was packed. I wish I could have scalped tickets. Strangers asked if they could photograph The Defendant. Most wanted to pose Abra with their purse in her mouth.

About Wells Verbelow: He was in his late forties with two grown kids who lived elsewhere. His first and only wife had died four years earlier from breast cancer. He was short although the assessment is relative. After all, I’m six-foot-one. The Judge was probably five-foot-eight. Not that I had ever hesitated to date non-tall men. My Soul Mate, the Late Great Leo Mattimoe, was a full three inches shorter than I am, and I never cared. More important, neither did he.

Thinking about the Judge—and trying not to think of him as The Judge—I settled into my first bike ride since last spring. Bicycling is boring to runners, but when you can’t run and you want to move, it works. After a few minutes, my heart rate picked up. The wind was in my hair, the golden autumn sun was on my skin, and I was starting to appreciate the colors all the tourists come to see, when something snagged my attention. Just inside the stand of trees lining the other side of the road was a flash of yellow, low and in motion, like a loping blonde Afghan hound moving in the opposite direction. I braked and called Abra’s name. The image did not reappear. I parked Blitzen off the road and walked toward the woods. When my thigh protested, I stopped. No sound, not even a snapping twig. I called a few more times. Nothing.

I turned Blitzen around and started back toward Vestige. If I had seen Abra, she might be heading home. I peddled cautiously, calling for her. The road was nearly deserted at that hour on a Sunday; only three cars had passed me so far. When I heard Number Four coming behind me, its pace seemed oddly slow. We were on a paved county road with decent shoulders and a posted speed limit of 50 mph. Number Four was approaching at half that rate.

I swung onto the gravel shoulder, expecting my nubby tires to grip the loose stones. But as Blitzen skittered sideways, I felt her tires slide, not bite. In my hurry to hit the highway, I must have overfilled them. Leo had warned me against that; he’d even bought a pricey digital gauge so that I’d get the pressure right. I’d never used it.

A sleek midnight-blue Beamer with privacy glass hovered near me as I wobbled. Then the driver accelerated, and the car peeled away. I read the Indiana vanity plate: ARTZAKE. Meaning “art for art’s sake?” I wondered. Or a man named Art Zake? Or maybe an exotic mushroom?

I concentrated on easing Blitzen back onto the pavement. By the time I got up to speed, the Beamer had turned around. I stared with dumb horror as it moved toward me, much faster than before. And the driver was now operating British style, heading down the left side of the road. My side.

I don’t know what I was thinking, or if I was thinking, when my peripheral vision registered the golden flash again, much closer this time. I jerked my head and handlebars in that direction, and the whole world slipped sideways. The Beamer’s tires squealed.

Gravel against bare skin burns. But not as bad as a Beamer doing sixty.

Both car and apparition were gone by the time I picked myself up. Did Abra save my life? Or did I have a major case of visual distortion? All I knew was that my tires were too hard, and someone in a BMW from Indiana had almost killed me.

I promised myself that I would find that tire gauge.

Like a worried sailor’s wife on a widow’s walk, Chester was pacing up and down my driveway watching for me. I’d remembered to leave him what I thought was a parental-type note: “Back soon. Brush your teeth.” But it had failed to reassure him. As I turned up the drive, he waved my note like a semaphore.

Omitting the part about the Beamer, I told him I might have seen Abra. He whooped and tossed my note in the air. “I knew we’d find her!”

I didn’t have the heart to point out that just because Abra found me didn’t mean she wanted to be found. If I’d really even seen her.

At the station, Brady Swancott listened to my ARTZAKE story in silence. He promised to run a check on the plate and added, “Any chance you need a brain scan?”

Before delivering Chester to the police station, I had had barely enough time to brush the gravel from my hair. And not enough time to close the garage, apparently. I arrived home to find my garage open and another pseudo-ransom note duct-taped to Blitzen’s gel-padded seat. Ripping it free with my bare hands, I read, “Still hoping to see your dog again? Then stay off your bike and keep your big mouth shut.”

The phone in my kitchen started ringing. At least I’d locked the door into the house. Or had I? I took a deep breath and turned the knob. Not locked. The door swung open. I grabbed the phone.

I found several piles I should have picked up days ago. Or, rather, Abra’s keeper should have. But nothing fresh. Jenx arrived, readied her service revolver, and entered my house. Just like a cop in a movie. After a few minutes, I checked my watch. If I didn’t get on with washing my hair, I’d be late for brunch. So I went indoors.

I had nearly finished blow-drying my unruly locks when Jenx kicked open my bathroom door.

I screamed, “What the hell’s the matter with you?!”

“Did you hear an All-Clear?” she demanded. “No you did not. First, you think there’s an intruder in your house. Then you decide to wash your hair. Of course, you don’t bother to notify me. Or lock the bathroom door. . . . Do local law enforcement a favor and set the alarm for a change when you leave on your date.”

“It’s not a date,” I said.

The Acting Chief of Police said, “While you’re not on a date, I’ll get the latest on Sparky.”

The Judge arrived punctually as judges probably tend to do. Out of his robe—that is, in civilian casual clothes—Wells Verbelow wasn’t intimidating. It helped that he wasn’t sitting on a high throne behind a huge desk. His car gave me pause, however. I froze in my tracks at the sight of the midnight-blue Beamer.

I had managed to make myself about as attractive as usual. My hair was tousled but shiny; I wore little make-up and less jewelry. I favor tailored suits in subdued colors. With my schedule, shopping for clothes is a necessary evil rather than a pastime. I trust Martha Glenn and her staff at Town & Gown to put together my professional wardrobe. Noonan is the only friend who comments on my taste in clothes. She’s fond of saying, “You should wear your True Colors, Whiskey.” According to the Seven Suns of Solace, those would be sea green and coral.