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 (6 page)
“I don’t suppose she got the boyfriend’s name, or where he lives?”
“That’d make my job way too easy.”
“What is it you think I can help with?”
“Heather didn’t come home last night. Hasn’t been there since yesterday morning, says the desk clerk. I want your opinion as to a few items in her room.”
Jenx patted her side. “I got a warrant from Judge Verbelow. He asked how you are, by the way.”
Judge Wells Verbelow had presided over Abra’s purse-snatching case two months earlier, one of several episodes in my recent life I was trying hard to forget.
“The next time you see the Judge, tell him Abra has a keeper.”
“A what?”
“A trainer. A guardian. Chester.”
We had reached Broken Arrow Highway, the major artery tracing the coast. It’s dotted with restaurants, antique malls, farmer’s markets, and motels. Our destination was a rundown affair with twenty units, all but one occupied by Leaf-Peepers lucky to find last-minute accommodations and willing to ignore roaches. Jenx introduced me to the desk clerk, an overweight twenty-year-old with bad skin and orange hair. She led us to Heather’s room, Number 17. Brady had already strung a piece of yellow crime scene tape across the door, which the desk clerk didn’t like any better than I had.
“My boss hates that,” she mumbled. “It’ll scare off business.”
“Leaf-peepers don’t scare easy,” Jenx said.
The drapes were drawn in Number 17. Jenx flipped the wall-switch, and a fluorescent ceiling light buzzed awake, bathing the room in a sickly yellow glow. The bed, with its worn chenille spread, had not been slept in. Though sad, the scene appeared orderly.
“What are you wondering about?” I said. This kind of snooping didn’t feel like fun.
“Over here.” Jenx led me into the bathroom, where she switched on another humming light. “Does that look right to you?”
Indicating the bathroom sink lined with cosmetics, hair-care products, and a curling iron, Jenx said, "I don't use make-up, so I don't know. But that seems weird to me."
I stepped closer. Taped to the mirror above the sink was a close-up of Julia Roberts, torn from a magazine.
“Don’t tell me Heather’s in love,” said Jenx.
“No, this is about make-up. Do you have Heather’s driver’s license?”
“At the station. Why?”
“I’m thinking maybe Heather’s photo looks like Julia Roberts. And maybe the person staying here isn’t Heather.”
“I was afraid it was something complicated. Need a ride back?”
I reminded Jenx that she had brought me. Busy though I was, I wanted to stop by the police station for a look at Heather’s driver’s license. Jenx said that Heather/Julia had been paying cash for the motel room, one day in advance.
At the station, Brady announced, “Heather Nitschke of Hillsdale didn’t know her wallet was missing. She’s had the flu since Sunday. That was the last time she opened her purse—to buy a couple scrips at her pharmacy. Somebody lifted her wallet.”
In her driver’s license photo the real Heather Nitschke didn’t look much like Julia Roberts, except for the bouncy brown hair and wide mouth.
Jenx said, “If our gal wanted to make herself look like Heather from Hillsdale, why didn’t she tape the license to her mirror?”
Brady took a stab at that one. “Because beauty’s in the eye of the beholder?”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“Maybe our Heather wannabe thinks the real Heather looks like Julia,” I said.
“No way,” said Jenx. “Julia’s cute. The real Heather isn’t.”
I remembered something from the Broken Arrow Motel.
“The lighting in that room is terrible for doing make-up. A driver’s license photo would be hard to copy. So maybe the fake Heather found a larger photo—of someone she thought Heather sort of looked like. Or someone she wanted people to remember.”
Brady said, “The hair’s the same.”
Jenx checked her pocket notebook and dialed a number.
“Acting Police Chief Jenkins again. I’m wondering if the customer in Number 17 reminded you of anybody? Somebody famous, maybe?” Jenx’s eyes narrowed. “Why do you say that?”
She thanked the other party and hung up.
“The Broken Arrow desk clerk didn’t hesitate. Number 17 looked like Pretty Woman. Want to know why?”
“The hair?” Brady suggested.
“And the laugh. And the fact that Number 17 told the desk clerk everybody says she looks like Julia Roberts.”
Since my side trip had yielded no news for the Reitbauers, I decided to get back to work selling real estate. At 4:50, our foyer still held one tourist family leafing through our listings. Odette was perched on the front edge of the receptionist’s desk, arms crossed, foot tapping. The receptionist had left for the day, and the other agents were in the field. Odette was stuck doing PR that wouldn’t pay.
“We’re just wondering if you have one like this—for a lot less money?” The Leaf-Peeping mom pointed to a three-story stucco beauty with multiple cedar decks.
“How much less?” Odette said.
Ma and Pa Leaf-Peeper exchanged worried looks. Ma said hopefully, “Say, half that much?”
“A house like that for half as much. . . .” Odette squeezed her eyes shut as if visualizing the myriad possibilities. She reopened them. “No.”
“Perhaps you’d like to take this home and talk it over.” I handed Ma Leaf-Peeper the current edition of Coastal Michigan Properties, the real estate industry’s local monthly. “We have a web site, too, so you can go online and browse at your convenience. It saves time.”
Especially ours. After they left, Odette reported that the day had been good. She’s a genius at separating dreamers from prospects and matching them with properties. Today she’d received offers on three different listings.
“I shall close them all,” she declared. “And to prove how confident I am, I’ll take you to dinner.”
“Not Reginald?” I asked, referring to her psychiatrist husband.
“He’s at a conference in Vermont, peeping at someone else’s leaves. I stayed home to make money.”
Remembering my temporary roommate and new employee, I told Odette I should probably feed Chester first. Like me, she doesn’t lead a child-centered life since her only daughter goes to boarding school. But I asked her advice, anyway.
“How often do you suppose eight-year-olds need to eat?”
“How often do you eat?”
“Whenever I can.”
Odette shrugged. “It’s probably the same for him.”
“But he needs healthier foods, right?”
“Theoretically. No booze, at any rate. If you can keep that dog alive, you’ll probably do all right with a kid.”
I promised to meet her at Mother Tucker’s at seven.
Chester may be VHM, but in some departments he’s self-sufficient. I arrived home to find him finishing a frozen dinner I’d forgotten I had.
“You sure that was still good?” I asked, looking through the trash for the carton it came in.
“Positive. They’re good for at least six months after the expiration date if they were never thawed and refrozen. I figured you don’t open the freezer enough for that to happen.” He wiped his mouth with a napkin I hadn’t known I owned, either. “Want dessert? We had carrot cake at school for Tripper’s birthday. I got to take home what was left because the other kids have nut issues.”
“Nut issues?”
“Food allergies.”
“Why didn’t Tripper take his own cake home?”
“He hates carrots. His mom’s a Vegan.”
Since I love carrot cake, I sat down with Chester. The cream-cheese icing was melting in my mouth before I realized what was missing.
“Where is she?” My eyes darted around the kitchen.
“Relax, Whiskey. Abra is in the isolation portion of her training. She needed a time-out.”
“You locked her up somewhere? Why don’t I hear her howling?”
Chester’s eyes twinkled. “Because I know how to handle her.”
“How? You’ve never had a dog! You told me you’ve never even had a goldfish!”
What if he’d accidentally killed Abra? What was I thinking, entrusting Leo’s legacy to someone with no animal-handling experience?
Chester said, “I went online: Dogs-Train-You-dot-com. It has everything we need to know. The professionals use it.”
I tried to keep my voice calm. “Tell me what you’ve done with Abra.”
Chester collected our dessert plates and stood on tiptoe to set them carefully in the sink. Then he led me to the guest room. Tucked neatly under the slate-gray velour bedspread was Abra, apparently sound asleep.
“Can you believe how she covers herself up? She gets in bed just like a person,” Chester said admiringly.
I started to say that that was precisely the sort of thing I wanted her trained not to do. Instead I said, “But she’s not a person, Chester. Which is why she needs a keeper.”
Chester shushed me, so I lowered my voice. “That doesn’t look like a time-out. It looks like a nap.”
He motioned me back into the hall. When I glanced over my shoulder, I could have sworn that Abra was grinning.
“Lesson One from Dogs-Train-You-dot-com,” he said. “Figure out what calms them. It’s called their Sucker.”
I’m the sucker, I thought. “Do you mean ‘succor’? As in comfort?”
“Right. Succor. So, when Abra’s having a Hyper Day, we give her succor.”
“With Abra, every day is Hyper Day,” I reminded him.
“Not for long! That’s why you’re paying me.”
“How much am I paying you, Chester? Where’s our contract?”
“In the computer. I’ll print it out later.” He smiled at me. On the other side of the guest room door Abra snored.
Mother Tucker’s was packed with Leaf-Peepers. At the bar, Odette was chatting up Walter, who was in the process of opening a very fine bottle of Pinot Noir.
“You like this one, don’t you, Whiskey?” Odette indicated the wine.
“It’s her Red of the Month,” Walter said.
I toasted Odette’s good work and then congratulated Walter on his own business success.
He wiped his brow. “Tourists. They want it all, and they want it now. And, of course, they want it perfect.”
Odette and I commiserated. Walter added, “Those Canadian clients of yours are the worst. She’s a bitch, and he’s not much nicer.”
Over the rim of her glass, Odette said playfully, “Whiskey thinks he’s nice enough.”
“He’s straight enough,” Walter said.
“Last night you didn’t think so,” I reminded him, trying to sound indifferent.
“Well, something happened in here about an hour ago.”
Odette said, “He turned you down?”
She was teasing, and Walter knew it. “Not me. He was sitting at the bar when Rico Anuncio came in.”
Odette and I groaned. Rico Anuncio runs the West Shore Gallery, where Warren Matheney had his recent exhibit. Since Rico is a tall, blue-eyed blonde who speaks only English, we suspect he wasn’t born with that name.
“We weren’t busy yet,” Walter continued. “Rico tried a few times to start a conversation with your client.”
“What happened?” asked Odette.
“At first, not much. Naylor barely responded. I didn’t pay attention until he raised his voice. He told Rico, ‘Kindly contain your sexual deviance, sir.’”
“Oh, no!” I hooted.
“Oh yes. Apparently that’s how Canadians decline an invitation. Anyway, that was the end of it. Rico backed off fast enough. He muttered an apology and moved to a table. Then Naylor said to me, ‘Don’t you hate it when they do that?’”
Odette and I almost choked with laughter.
“And that convinced you he’s straight?” I said.
“Yes. But that’s not the punch line.”
“Go on.”
“Then he added, ‘Maybe they should call this town Faggot Springs.’”
Walter refilled our glasses as we wiped tears of laughter from our eyes. When the phone behind him rang, he excused himself to answer it.
“You might have a shot with Mr. Naylor, after all,” Odette said. “Cheers!”
She clinked my glass, and we drank. Walter reappeared looking stricken.
“That was Jenx. There’s been a murder at Shadow Play.”
Even as I felt the wine goblet slip from my hand, I couldn’t make my fingers close around it. Fortunately, Odette’s lightning quick reflexes extend beyond her ability to calculate commissions in her head. She intercepted the glass on its way to the floor.