Whiskey on the Rocks (2 page)

Leaf-Peeping is one of our four Major Seasonal Events, the others being Winter Sports, Water Sports, and Blossom-Spotting. It was already the last week in September, and our trees were wowing audiences from near and far.

“Ordinarily, we would not,” said Odette. “But the Reitbauers just called, wondering if they should rent their home before they sell it. I said that sounded like a fine idea.”

“And we could help the new widow,” I said. “I’m sure she’ll be grateful.”

Odette sniffed. I knew what that meant. It was her polite way of letting me know that I didn’t know what I was talking about.

“The new widow is rather rude, I think. But you can judge for yourself when you meet her. She’ll be here at ten tomorrow, and she will only do business with you. I don’t think she likes my accent.”

“Not possible. What’s her name?”

“Ellianna Santy. She’s about thirty, I’d say. Tall, blonde, blue-eyed—or maybe green. Very well dressed.”

Odette has an uncanny ability to read people over the phone. From their voices, she gets clues about age, eye color, lifestyle, and more. I call it telephone telepathy. It makes money.

I called the Reitbauers in Chicago and negotiated a fair weekly rental rate on their cedar-sided Cape Cod called Shadow Play. Situated in a pine glen on a dirt lane less than a quarter mile from Lake Michigan, it’s one of those ubiquitous “within-walking-distance-of-the-beach” properties. Only this one really is.

As I thanked Mrs. R and disconnected, Mattimoe Realty’s front door swung open to reveal the compact form of Magnet Spring’s Deputy Police Chief, Judy “Jenx” Jenkins. At five feet, five inches tall, Jenx is a tornado in uniform. She’s fast, she’s loud, she’s blunt, and frankly, she’s electric. According to local lore, Jenx in high dudgeon can screw up our legendary magnetic fields. I haven’t witnessed it myself, but I’ve heard the tales. Let’s just say about Jenx that the Force is with her. Unofficially, she’s Magnet Spring’s Acting Police Chief since her boss Big Jim is spending Leaf-Peeping Season at a rehab clinic up north. Most Main Street merchants would bet their inventories we’ll never see Big Jim again.

“Yo, Whiskey!” Jenx boomed before the door could slam behind her. “We got a corpse next door!”

That made my skin prickle. I thought Noonan had got it out of there. Being massaged on a table that recently held a dead man was unnerving enough. Hearing that he was stashed nearby canceled all therapeutic effects. I told Jenx so.

She made a rude raspberry-like sound. “I meant he was next door. Now he’s at the county morgue in Ritchie. Crouch has probably peeled his face off already.”

“Good afternoon to you, too, Deputy.” Odette’s mellifluous tones emanated from her cubicle. “Could I offer you a cup of coffee--or would you prefer a barf bag to go?”

“I don’t drink coffee, Det. And I don’t puke, either. Thought you knew that by now.” Jenx adjusted her holster.

“And I thought you knew by now that I answer only to my Christian name. Whiskey can spell it for you. Phonetically, if necessary.”

“Yeah, what a head case. Called back three times to recheck the facts as we have them. Her husband’s heart quits on a massage table, and she calls me a loser.”

“Let me see.” Odette emerged from her cubicle. She studied the picture. “Generically handsome Caucasian male, between thirty and thirty-five.”

“Thirty-four, as a matter of fact,” confirmed Jenx.

“Never seen that one before.” Odette handed back the photo. Returning to her cubicle, she added, “His eyes are brown, I think. And he’s six-foot-two.”

Jenx released a low whistle. “You’re damn good, Det. And not just on the phone.”

Before they could restart the name game, I said, “Have you shown the photo around town?”

“I’m starting here, working my way down Main Street. Maybe somebody saw him with somebody, either today or another day. Noonan said he came to her place alone.”

“Yeah, well, he wanted a massage, not a room. Speaking of rooms, why didn’t you refer the widow to Red Hen’s?”

Jenx’s partner Henrietta Roca owns the largest inn in Magnet Springs, a sprawling Prairie-style mansion overlooking Lake Michigan.

Jenx cocked her head at me. “Noticed the tourists lately? Seen what’s happening to the trees? Hen’s booked solid for the next three weeks.”

At 5:30 Odette left to show a new listing. I headed for Shadow Play to check the property before offering it for rent the next day. Mrs. Reitbauer said they kept an extra key under a flowerpot at the base of the biggest tree in the yard. Not helpful. At Shadow Play all the trees were huge, and all the trees had flowerpots. We’re talking densely packed pines. I couldn’t see the trees for the trees, let alone decide which was the tallest. After ten minutes of circling the yard and craning my neck, it dawned on me that Mrs. R might have meant girth, not height. And so I found my key.

Gaining access to a house these days is rarely as simple as turning a key in a lock. The kinds of homes I sell come with alarm systems. Often very sophisticated alarm systems. Shadow Play was no exception. Fortunately, Mrs. R’s instructions in that department were easier to follow. Inside I readily located the lighted keypad and entered the prescribed series of digits. Colored lights flashed along the panel, followed by a high-pitched hum, followed by a click—then silence and the glow of a single tiny green bulb. I was clear. The Reitbauers had spared no expense in protecting their hideaway.

I might as well admit something right now about my attraction to real estate: This biz lets me indulge my talent for snooping. No apologies. I pay attention. It’s one of the keys to my success. But technically I wasn’t snooping that evening at Shadow Play; I was following the client’s instructions. Mrs. R had faxed me a list of valuables that she wanted removed to a safe in the master-bedroom closet.

So I had to look around. Very closely. One day soon I hoped to list this place for sale. Hardly a cottage, it was almost three thousand square feet and exquisitely decorated. The floors in the front half of the house were bleached hardwood; the rest were wall-to-wall white Berber. I noted murals and custom-made wallpaper, plus recessed lighting in the tray ceilings. Mrs. R collected watercolors, apparently. Every room was a testament to her taste: mostly garden scenes with pale flowers under watery skies. It wasn’t my style—too floral—but it was a classy style. One of the watercolors must have been truly valuable. A miniature painting of pansies and violets was on Mrs. R’s list of objects to be stowed away.

I walked through a second time admiring the home’s best features, which included floor to ceiling windows overlooking the flagstone terrace. The better I knew the place, the faster I could move it once I got the go ahead. Shadow Play would be a quick sell when the Reitbauers were ready; I knew people who were in the market for just such a second home.

Mrs. R was “selective” about tenants. She had inserted a clause in the property management contract, reserving the right to approve or disapprove of any prospective tenant I recommended. She said she understood that Mrs. Santy was a special case since the police had requested our help. Of course, I would still interview the widow, ask for references, and run a credit check before administering the Shadow Play “entrance exam”: Mrs. Santy would have to be able to work the alarm system. No point renting this place to a technophobe.

I completed my second walk-through, admiring the home’s overall design. Shadow Play combined shade, seclusion, and just enough brightness, thanks to the terrace’s southern exposure. The sooner the Reitbauers were ready to part with it, the happier I’d be. Selling a place like this is a lot simpler than managing its rental. And vastly more lucrative. I double-checked the sophisticated lock on the bedroom safe, reactivated the home’s alarm system, and departed.

I didn’t mean to be impatient with the Reitbauers. Postponing the inevitable was something I understood. It had been five months, one week, and three days since Leo died, and I still hadn’t gone through his things. Even worse, every day I put off as long as possible going home. It wasn’t just that I dreaded walking all alone into that big house we built together. It was also that I dreaded Abra. She still rushed past me to the door, her head and tail held high in expectation. And when she saw that I had once again failed to bring home her man, the expression she turned on me broke my heart anew.

A ruddy setting sun turned Lake Michigan blood red as I drove along the coast toward Vestige. Leo and I intended the name of our modest estate as a nod to another era. This land and our crumbling barn had once belonged to a vast farming dynasty, long ago sold off and subdivided. Now it’s a vestige of something else: the dreams that Leo and I shared.

I did what I do whenever I pull up the driveway. I tried not to look at the sign out front, hand-carved by my late husband. But that evening, my peripheral vision detected a small blur due south. The blur had waving arms, churning legs, a bobbing white-blonde head, and glasses. It was moving toward me. Fast.

“Hey, Chester,” I said as I stepped from my Lexus RX 330, a modest-sized SUV. He was panting dramatically. Chester does everything dramatically, or it wouldn’t be worth doing.

Chester is eight years old, small for his age, and also my next-door neighbor. He’s obsessed with Abra, and she makes the most of it.

“How could she get out?” I began and instantly saw how. The side entrance to my garage gaped open.

True confession time: Unlike my clients, I don’t activate my alarm system every morning. I don’t even lock the door leading from my kitchen to the breezeway that connects my garage. Usually, I lock the garage itself, but apparently that morning I hadn’t. If motivated, Abra can open most doors. Afghan hounds are uncanny that way. The worst of them, that is. Leo didn’t name her Abracadabra for nothing.

“Let’s go.” I dropped my purse, my briefcase, and my rapidly cooling take-out dinner back into the car. Fortunately, I was already wearing my Nikes.

Chester and I jogged around the house to the edge of the bluff. I looked out over the wide wooden stairway down to the water. Leo had designed it to include two decks above dock level. On the lower deck stood Abra. I swear she was waiting for me. The wind lifted her glossy blonde tresses as she stared at us impassively.

Like a bad actor, Chester pointed and declared, “There she is!”

She responded with a toss of her head that distinctly said, “Screw you.” Then she bolted for the water. I was sure she was testing us.