Read Whiskey on the Rocks Online
Authors: Nina Wright
Tags: #Mystery & Detective, #Women real estate agents, #Michigan, #General, #Mattimoe; Whiskey (Fictitious character), #Mystery fiction, #Women Sleuths, #Fiction
Whiskey on the Rocks (23 page)
“You saw a . . . goat?” I inhaled part of my cookie.
“Not your average garden-variety goat,” Mrs. Schlegel said. “This one was strictly Old Testament--designed to get your attention. This goat had very long hair.”
“Blonde hair,” Dr. Schlegel added.
Because I was choking, Mrs. Schlegel slapped me on the back. She said, “I know this sounds strange, but we’re talking about Satan’s handiwork: In profile, that goat looked just like Sarah Jessica Parker.”
I was still coughing, so Odette slapped me, too. Sweetly she asked the Schlegels, “What did Satan’s celebrity goat do?”
“It tore our Prayer Garden to pieces, like a creature possessed.”
“Which, of course, it was,” said Dr. Schlegel. “It turned over our Nativity birdbath and destroyed Claudette’s prizewinning white azaleas.”
“Flowers are God's love made visible,” his wife added. “We can always plant more. Somewhere else.”
To Odette and me she hissed, “Please help get us out of here!”
Although I was under strict instructions to say little, I assured the nice woman that Mattimoe Realty would do just that. In a timely, customer-friendly, thoroughly professional manner. Moreover, we would get the Schlegels the best price possible—regardless of Satan.
While Odette did a walk-through with the couple, I stayed behind with the Rapture. I considered Abra’s possible contributions to their Prayer Garden and wondered how soon I could start digging. It couldn’t be Matheney’s finger. We’d seen that days after the Shadow Play murder. Unless someone had dug it up and put it in Holly Lomax’s purse in time for Marilee Gallagher to find it hidden in her motel room.
Assuming that Abra hadn’t been digging for the pure joy of destruction, which she often did, whatever was buried in the garden was probably something not seen since the murder. Such as the missing Cumulus. Or the Reitbauers’ ivory candlestick holders. Or Mrs. Santy’s Piaget watch. No. Those items were most likely in the possession of the still-living Santys, wherever they now were. Maybe in Angola, Indiana—if Darrin Keogh wasn’t the nice guy I wanted him to be.
What was my Satanic dog doing in the Schlegels’ Prayer Garden the night Holly Lomax got her head smashed in? Abra was supposed to be home at Vestige learning obedience on line with Chester. Did he know she had gotten out? If so, why hadn’t he told me? Did Abra take something of value from the crime scene, something we couldn’t yet name? Or did she simply pull another stupid anti-social stunt, one which had almost gone unreported? The Shadow Point subdivision is about a mile from Vestige, and Abra is fast. It would have been possible for her to get there and back—and do whatever—in an hour.
But what? And why?
After the Schlegels signed the papers necessary to list their home, Odette let me say good night. Mrs. Schlegel was closing the door behind us when she remembered something.
“I suppose I should mention that the Mayor was here a few days ago. He’s in real estate, too, you know.”
“So I’ve heard.” Odette stifled a yawn.
“He wondered whether we were thinking of selling. Or could we refer him to any neighbors who were.”
Odette squeezed my arm. She probably wanted to clap a hand over my mouth.
“What did you tell him?”
“I said we weren’t ready to discuss that with strangers, and neither were our neighbors. Truth is, I don’t like his politics. He’s a liberal.”
We nodded.
“Did he say anything else?” asked Odette.
“Well, he said that some real estate companies in town aren’t ethical.”
“Oh? Which companies are those?” Odette’s grip on my arm was so tight that my fingers tingled.
“He didn’t say, exactly. . . .” Mrs. Schlegel’s voice trailed off, and she looked uncertain. “Anyway, you two gals seem like Christians—not liberals—so I’m sure Hal and I are in good hands. By the way, we’re sorry for your loss, Mrs. Mattimoe. We knew your late husband. Such a nice man.”
Outside Odette said, “I know what you’re thinking, Whiskey, and we’re not going to.”
“Not going to what?”
“Dig up the Schlegels’ garden looking for that finger. Or the ring that belongs on it. Or whatever else Abra might have stolen lately.”
“She hasn’t stolen anything! Lately. She’s reformed.”
Odette raised a pencil-thin eyebrow.
I said, “She ran off with the purse from the police station, but that was a misunderstanding. The cops were drilling her all day long! As for the finger—well, we’ve seen that too recently for it to be under the Schlegels’ birdbath.”
“I suggest we phone Jenx, tell her about the ‘goat’ and let her look into it. You’re in real estate, remember? Let’s make money.”
She offered to call Jenx. After dropping her off, I turned the wheel toward home. Anxieties about Abra and Avery threatened to overshadow the prospect of a pleasant dinner with a thoughtful man. Both females seemed to be conspiring against me. Or was my fatigue inducing paranoia? I decided to discard my worries and let myself relax. Rounding the bend before Vestige, I spotted three emergency vehicles in my driveway, their flashers blinking blood red.
As I drew closer, I could see flames licking my garage roof and arcs of blue water aimed at extinguishing them.
That was when I flashed on Chester and Mooney chasing each other around the house that morning. Had the deputies escorted Chester home? And what had become of the Judge’s Rott Hound?
I screeched to a halt on the street in front of my house and dashed up the driveway. Jenx intercepted me.
“Easy, Whiskey.” She raised both palms to stop me. “It’s under control.”
“My house is on fire!” I panted.
“Just your garage and breezeway. Your kitchen’ll probably be okay. You don’t use that room, anyhow.”
“Is Chester safe?”
“He’s fine. And so’s Mooney. They called in the alarm.”
Jenx brought me up to speed. After obtaining Cassina’s autograph for the deputies, Chester had talked them into letting him back into Vestige. Today was an at-home study day, and he preferred to use my house because Mooney was there.
“You forgot about that dog,” Jenx scolded me. “Chester said you didn’t even leave him food and water.”
“I’d just been burgled. I’m usually a much better host.”
“Anyway, Chester was here, drilling Mooney on defense maneuvers from that web site.”
“Dogs-Train-You-dot-com,” I supplied.
“And they heard an explosion. When Chester looked out the window, he saw your propane tank had blown. Your backyard was on fire, with flames racing toward the garage. He reached for the phone, but Mooney had it in his mouth already. That’s one well-trained canine.”
After calling 9-1-1, Chester and Mooney had bolted for Cassina’s Castle, where the diva ordered Mother Tucker’s filet mignons for everyone.
“You just missed Walter; he delivered,” said Jenx. “And he said to tell you you’re a dead woman unless you get out of here. What’s that about?”
“His lasagna took a bullet for me on the patio, remember? I’m surprised he still delivers in this neighborhood.”
“After tonight, he might not. Walter thinks the hang glider came back and shot your propane tank.”
Headlights swept across the front of my house. I turned to see a dark BMW park by my car. Wells Verbelow flung open his door.
“Here come da Judge!” Jenx said. “And Abra.”
I groaned as a blonde Satanic creature bounded toward us. Then I realized that the Judge had her on a retractable leash. Maybe someone would escort her next door to share Chester’s pre-chewed steak.
“Fire bomb?” Wells asked after hugging me. Abra was already wrapping her razor-wire lead around my legs.
“We’re thinking deer rifle fired at the propane tank,” said Jenx.
“Lucky you didn’t have it filled recently,” Wells said. “Everything might have been vaporized.”
“What do you mean?”
Jenx made a “pffffft” noise.
An appropriately heavy silence ensued.
“The hang glider again?” asked Wells.
“Maybe,” said Jenx. “But he was probably in a car this time. It was too dark to fly.”
I needed a chair, but there was none in the vicinity, so I staggered a little.
Wells said, “Somebody’s trying to kill you, Whiskey. You and Abra are coming home with me and Mooney. Right now.”
If I can get that far. Suddenly the smoke and flames and stink of burning plastic overpowered me. I blacked out. When I awoke, I seemed to be inside a fairy tale—on an immense feather bed draped in netting.
“Hello—?” I said.
A familiar face popped up along the edge of the bed. Then a second one, and then a third.
“You need full-time protection,” Chester declared. On each side of him, a large canine head bobbed in agreement. One dripped copiously on the satin bedspread.
“Is this the witness protection program?” I murmured, still groggy.
“No, this is Cassina’s Cloud Room, in our guest wing. Jenx and the Judge carried you here after you fainted. Your house was closer, but it’s on fire.”
I let my head sink back against the pillow. And what a pillow it was. Inside the satin case was so much soft down that it felt like a cloud. A fake cumulus cloud. I must have mumbled something.
“What about the Cumulus?” said Chester. He slid under the netting and perched on the edge of the bed. “Did you say it’s a fake?”
“Oh my god!” I cried, my head clearing. “Where’s Jenx?”
I sat up so fast that I sent Chester over the side.
“Downstairs. With Cassina and the Judge. They’re eating the extra filet mignons Walter delivered.”
“Get Jenx in here! Now!”
Chester picked himself up off the floor and straightened his glasses. “They’ll save you some.”
“It’s not about the food!” Getting out of this bed was a lot harder than it should have been. My arms tangled in the netting as I tried to yank it back. “What’s this for?” I said, flailing away at the fabric.
“Set dressing,” said Chester. “Like at her concerts. Cassina wants everything to look romantic.”
I wanted to point out that getting tangled up in bedding isn’t romantic, but I had bigger issues. “Bring Jenx up here. Alone.”
He and Abra traipsed off, leaving a moist Mooney to study me from the other side of the veil.
“I don’t think I’ve thanked you properly. You’re a hell of a Rott Hound.”
Mooney gurgled in reply. Jenx appeared holding what looked like a half-eaten turkey drumstick.
“I thought you were having filet mignon,” I said.
“We did. Then Cassina’s cook whipped this up.” She took a juicy bite from the bone. “We’ll save you some.”
“Close the door,” I hissed. “I just had a brainstorm.”
“You hit your head when you fainted, but there can’t be much damage. What’s with the mosquito netting?”
“It’s supposed to be romantic,” I said, sliding down the side of the mattress and under the veil, as Chester had done. Then I was on my knees, but at least I was free. Jenx hoisted me to my feet.
“I figured it out,” I cried. “It’s about fake clouds!”
Jenx studied the room, uncertain. “Well, it’s a look.”
“I mean, what’s going on! The hang glider, the burglary, the dog-napping, the finger. And the murders! Somebody’s forging art—somebody we know.”
Jenx stopped chewing. “Rico?”
“Maybe.”
She looked unsure. “We know the Santys deal in stolen or forged art. The Mounties told us that. What’s the connection to Rico?”
“What’s the thread that runs through everything?” I demanded. “Warren Matheney! He has a show at the West Shore Gallery and then he’s dead and then Rico’s rich. The Santys show up and pretend to die. We find Matheney’s missing finger in a dead woman’s purse. A Cumulus painting—Matheney’s most valuable—goes missing. So does his Celtic Cloud Ring. Abra disappears, too. When she comes back, people start trying to kill me! “
Jenx said, “You left out Matheney’s nephew and the not-dead lady at his store.”
“And the fact that Keogh is a friend of my stepdaughter—who broke into my house last night with a second set of boot prints.” Then I remembered the Schlegels. “Did you get Odette’s message?”
Jenx said, “I’ll check my voice mail after dessert.”
I saved her the trouble, explaining that Abra had buried something two doors down from Shadow Play the night of the murder.
“You’ll want to dig that up,” I told her.
First Jenx wanted to question Chester, who arrived with a plate of cookies. He admitted falling asleep while dog-sitting at Vestige that night.
“I’m sorry, Whiskey,” he said. “But we’d had a hard day of training. I dozed off in front of the TV. I knew Abra must have let herself out because when I woke up, she was doing that cat thing.”