by Nina Wright
The dining room did not afford a view of the front door. To Mom, who was slicing what remained of the cake, I said, “Did you invite someone else?”
Mom shook her head, then I heard the one and only human voice guaranteed to ruin my day.
“Look who’s here!” screeched my ex-stepdaughter, Avery Mattimoe.
2
When Chester shouted in pure joy, I knew that Avery couldn’t be alone at the door. Chester liked almost everybody, but he saw Avery every day, so she wouldn’t generate that kind of enthusiasm. Avery worked for Cassina at the Castle, managing the singer’s online presence, whatever that meant.
“MacArthur!” Chester exclaimed. “I always knew you’d return!”
He wasn’t referring to the late great American general. A more mysterious individual had come back to Magnet Springs. MacArthur, alias the Cleaner, used to work for Chester’s nominal parents as bodyguard, driver, and fixer of messy moral errors. He also sold real estate, part-time, for me until he vanished seven months ago.
Nobody knew why although I had a theory. MacArthur, first name irrelevant, had just tattooed Avery’s scowling face on his meaty arm. They were sharing a bed at the Castle when the Cleaner took a powder. I figured Avery scared him away. She had that effect on men. Hell, she had that effect on me. I would cross the street or turn the corner to avoid making eye contact, much less conversation.
Jeb welcomed MacArthur while Chester squealed in delight. I was glad the Cleaner was back in time for peak real estate sales season, but I couldn’t feign enthusiasm for Avery. If only my ex-step had inherited even one trait of her late father’s. Leo had been a likable, can-do kind of man who made people feel better. Avery, to put it bluntly, was a snake. She even snapped her tongue like a snake.
From the foyer Jeb called, “We got two more for the party!”
Ever nimble with kitchen utensils, Mom re-divided the slices she had already placed on plates.
“Excuse me if I don’t get up,” I told MacArthur as the studly Scot hove into view. Tall, muscular, black-haired and blue-eyed, he was still a hunk even though I now had a husband.
“Gawd, are you fat!” Avery flicked her tongue at me.
“This is what nine months pregnant looks like,” I said through my teeth. “As you surely remember.”
Almost two years ago, Avery had arrived at my front door poised to deliver twins. A husky gal, she could pass for five months pregnant even now. How I longed to point that out, but my mother was watching, and she had raised me to be nice.
“What brings you back to Magnet Springs?” I asked MacArthur.
“Duh—me!” Avery replied. Then we had to wait a full minute while they French-kissed.
Because Chester was familiar with a wide range of inappropriate behaviors, I didn’t bother to distract him. Peg Goh and Mom exchanged glances while the rest of my guests pretended to be happy for the kissing couple. Maybe Noonan Starr was happy for them. She often spouted nonsense about souls finding “permanent spouses,” so she probably thought these two were cosmically bonded. I thought they were gross.
When they came up for air, Mom offered them cake. Jeb found two more chairs, and we all crowded around the table—Chester, Noonan, Peg, Mom, Deely, Dr. David, MacArthur, Avery, Jeb and me. Six of us had recently become couples, but only two of us lacked self-restraint. Avery slid onto MacArthur’s lap, nearly flipping the table. That would have pleased the dogs, who were standing by to gobble whatever crumbs remained. I gave Avery the fisheye.
“It’s Chester’s party,” I reminded her, “so let’s keep the focus on him.”
“I see Chester every day,” she said, “but I haven’t seen my baby-man since September.” At which point she re-inserted her tongue in MacArthur’s mouth.
Baby-man? My as-yet undigested meal roiled.
“Anyway,” Avery said, smacking her lips when she rejoined us, “why is Chester having a birthday party now? I tweeted his birthday back in October.”
“Tweeting isn’t celebrating,” I said. “He’s a kid, and kids need birthday parties.”
“What we really need,” Chester said, “is attention, which I now have. So I’d like to seize this opportunity to make an important announcement.”
He cleared his throat officiously.
“As everyone here knows—except maybe the dogs, and I’ll translate for them later—Magnet Springs is rebranding itself as the Pet Mecca of the tourist trade. Inspired by our mayor, we’re in the process of turning this town into a pet-friendly destination where most fine retail establishments welcome four-leggers.”
“Dogs and cats,” Mayor Peg Goh clarified.
Chester nodded happily.
“Although buhds and equine kweechers are awso under considewation,” Dr. David said.
That’s how his R- and L- impairment sounded, but we all knew what he meant. We also knew he meant well and loved animals but was fundamentally nuts. I couldn’t imagine traveling with dogs or cats, let alone birds or horses. My definition of “vacation” was strictly limited to consenting two-legged adults.
Peg nodded cautiously at Dr. David. “At some future point, perhaps we will consider such legislation, but for now we welcome only dogs and cats, and only in the company of responsible adults prepared to pay additional pet-related fees by cash or credit card.”
Our mayor had good reason to be cautious with both Dr. David and his wife Deely. They headed an animal rights advocacy called Four Legs Good, “Fleggers” for short, that promoted equal rights for non-human creatures. As far as I could see, many non-humans already had more rights than I did. Take Abra, for example. Every time she broke the law, I had to hire a lawyer and cover her court costs and fines.
Chester cleared his throat again, reclaiming center stage.
“In conjunction with Magnet Springs’ new brand as a pet-friendly destination, I’m planning to use a chunk of my trust fund to start a 503(b) corporation. I’m going to purchase real estate in order to build and operate an animal rescue center.”
Dr. David and Deely leapt to their feet, cheering. Noonan, always quick to join a liberal cause, also rose and applauded. Peg Goh stood, too. In addition to being a savvy politician, she liked cats and probably figured that Chester deserved credit for trying to save some. Jeb, a touring musician, loved the rush of a standing ovation, so he joined the throng. Mom, who wanted the party to be a success, jumped up and waved her cake knife like a pennant.
That left me, Avery and MacArthur in our seats. Those two were kissing again. I was just slow to get my ass in gear. With a boost from Jeb, I was standing, too, whooping it up for the kid next door. However, I had my doubts. While I approved Chester’s desire to buy real estate, we had plenty of critters in Magnet Springs already, and now the door was open to any who could afford our room rates. Why invite strays?
I dared to voice the question. Chester blinked up at me, wondering eyes magnified by his thick lenses.
“Why? Because I can, Whiskey, and because it’s the right thing to do.”
Everyone in the room nodded, including Jeb. I shot him my “you’re-supposed-to-be-on-my-side” look, but he ignored it. We would talk later.
“It also reinforces our new brand,” Peg said. “If we succeed in attracting vacationers with pets and maximizing the activities they can enjoy together, some of our visitors will want to go home with more pets.”
“Really?” I couldn’t imagine that.
“Especially pets that will remind them of the fun they had in Magnet Springs,” Chester added.
Deely Smarr nodded enthusiastically. “If we run the rescue operation right, we’ll convince folks to adopt multiple dogs and cats, and come back for more.”
I stared at Deely. During the many hours I had spent with her, she had left me with the clear impression that she was eminently wise and practical about everything except how normal people feel about animals. Like her new hubster, whom she had helped to found Fleggers, Deely put furry creatures above virtually everything el
se.
“Do you plan to manage the rescue center?” I asked, selfishly hoping she’d say no.
She shook her head, exchanging sly smiles with Dr. David. Relief surged through me. Although I hadn’t yet inquired about her availability, I intended to entice Deely back to one or more of her former positions. In the past, I had employed her as my personal assistant and Abra’s personal trainer, as well as nanny for Avery’s twins. Now I wanted her to be my baby’s nanny.
“David and I will both be on the rescue center board,” Deely said, “but I’m assisting him full-time in his veterinary practice until our baby is born.”
Gasps all round. Deely wasn’t showing yet, so this was news. Disappointing news to me although, of course, I was happy for her. I knew that some people got pregnant on purpose.
The announcement even got Avery’s attention.
“Wow,” she said, straightening herself on MacArthur’s lap. “I can’t believe you want to take care of a kid for free. Plus, pregnancy sucks. You could end up looking as bad as Whiskey.”
Deely positively beamed. “I’ve never felt better, and I can’t wait to be a mother.”
That elicited lots of “awwws” and even a few hugs. It also brought a question to mind. I turned to Avery. “Who’s watching the twins?”
“You mean right now?”
“Uh, yeah.”
“One of Chester’s personal assistants. Obviously, he isn’t using her now.”
Chester’s mother hired a cadre of assistants to “manage” her son in her absence, and also in her presence. Although Cassina regularly hired, fired and sometimes forgot to re-hire help, Chester thrived without supervision. Since sneaking two dogs into the Castle, he had finally found a family. Prince Harry the Pee Master was devoted to the boy, and Velcro the teacup shitzapoo never veered far from Chester’s ankles.
The nine-and-a-half-year-old piped up, “That particular personal assistant is my driver and go-fer.”
“Gopher?” Mom asked. In the process of clearing the table, she was only half-following the conversation. “Will you rescue wild rodents, too?”
“Go-fer as in errand-runner,” I said.
“Chester, I’ll be your driver and errand-runner once more,” MacArthur vowed, adding a warm burr to every R. So help me, his accent made him sexier still even though nasty Avery occupied his lap.
My husband steered the conversation back on track. “So, who’s going to manage your rescue center, Chester?”
“We’ve got a lot to do before we hire,” Chester replied, “but my board and I will choose someone devoted to saving animals and building community. We hope to hire someone local.”
“I’m channeling the energies of local animal-lovers right now,” Noonan Starr offered. She had been quiet for so long that I hadn’t noticed she’d slipped to the floor and assumed the lotus posture. All four dogs sat in a circle around her, watching closely.
“That is so weird,” Avery observed. “It’s like the dogs are reading her mind.”
“We’re communicating on a higher plane,” Noonan whispered. “No words required.”
“I thought only pet psychics could do stuff like that,” I remarked to no one in particular.
Suddenly, Noonan’s pale eyes opened wide. “A pet psychic just replied!”
The doorbell rang, again. This time the chime was followed by a gunshot as a bullet shattered the leaded glass in my front door.
3
Dogs howled and humans screamed. That is, we female humans screamed, except for Deely, who pulled out her cell phone and dialed 9-1-1. I’m sure that Jeb would have dialed 9-1-1, but he chose instead to attend to me because I had screamed louder than anybody. Also, I was thirty-nine weeks pregnant with his child.
My husband calmly helped me into an overstuffed chair in the corner of the dining room, far from the front door and away from all windows. Meanwhile Dr. David herded humans and dogs into the kitchen. We would wait for the authorities to come save the day.
“Somebody rang the doorbell,” I panted, “and then they got shot!”
“We don’t know they got shot,” Jeb said. “Nobody’s ringing the bell now.”
“Probably because they got shot! What if somebody’s bleeding to death on our front porch?”
“Help is on the way,” he reminded me. “Emergency services know where you live.”
Indeed. This was the umpteenth time cops and EMTs had responded to a call at this address, but this was the first time anybody had attracted a bullet while ringing my bell. Sirens sounded in the distance.
“That’s what I call rapid response,” our mayor declared proudly.
I said, “That’s what I call repeat business.”
From the kitchen, nobody had a view of the porch or driveway. Like any curious kid, Chester insisted on moving to the front of the house to peer out a window. The adults argued that one of them should do it first, for safety’s sake. MacArthur volunteered to risk his life, and I watched with interest as his muscular form jogged past.
Don’t get me wrong, Jeb is handsome—tall and lean—built the way I’ve preferred men since I noticed them as sexual beings, but MacArthur is a hard-bodied hottie, built like a male model who lives at the gym and gets paid to take his shirt off.
“Woman down!” he reported from the front window.
“Anyone we know?” Jeb asked.
“Can’t tell. She’s face down.”
“Oh God!” I cried. “Is she … dead?”
“No, she’s texting.”
With that, everyone except me, including the four-leggers, raced into the living room for a closer look. I couldn’t see the group once they reached the front window, but I heard someone draw back the drapes.
“Good news, Whiskey,” Chester yelled. “There’s not much blood. You won’t need to repaint the porch.”
“I know that woman,” Noonan’s ever-serene voice announced. “We all do.”
“We do?” In my safe corner of the dining room, I leaned as far forward as I could without rolling onto the floor.
“Like I said earlier,” Noonan continued, “a pet psychic replied to my message.”
“You mean…” Recent memories lit up my brain.
“It’s that crazy French bitch,” Avery said, “but I don’t see her poodle.”
“I do,” Chester said.
Apparently, all the dogs did, too, for they set up a chorus of howls, topped by Abra’s “roo-roo.” Of course, she would be happy to see Napoleon. She was his girlfriend-for-hire.
Anouk Gagné and her black standard poodle Napoleon had come into our lives last winter through the murder of a mutual acquaintance. Like many folks in Magnet Springs, Anouk made ends meet by working several jobs. She was an archery instructor, a dog groomer and a pet psychic, the last of which mattered most to me. Thanks to Anouk’s doggie-hypnotherapy, Abra and Sandra Bullock, French bulldog, were learning to cautiously co-exist.
“Napoleon looks fine,” Chester announced, “but he’s acting frantic. He’s running around in circles on your front lawn.”
“A typicaw stwess weaction,” Dr. David said, and we all knew what he meant. We were stressed, too.
“Anouk is definitely texting,” Jeb said, no doubt to reassure me.
Oddly enough, the first time I’d seen her she was texting—next to a corpse. I shuddered.
“Not texting. She’s tweeting,” Avery said.
“Tweeting?” I repeated. Of course, I had heard the term, but I couldn’t make it fit this context.
“Using a social media site to broadcast a personal statement,” Chester translated. “She’s telling her tweeps what just happened.”
“She’s telling her what?” I said.
“Tweeps. Her Twitter friends,” Avery snapped. “How out of it are you, Whiskey? Do you even have a Twitter account?”
“I talk to people in person or on the phone,” I said. “That’s how I sell real estate.”
“Bravo, boss! I like your style,” MacArthu
r said, stepping into the dining room to flash me a flirty grin.
“Whiskey’s married now, you know,” Avery reminded him. “In addition to bloated.”
Sirens grew louder, and the commotion in my living room intensified as everyone vied for a better view of tweeting, bleeding Anouk and her spinning dog.
“‘Shot in my right shoulder at Whiskey Mattimoe’s house,’” I heard Noonan say.
“Are you still channeling Anouk’s psychic vibes?” I called out.
“I’m reading her tweets,” Noonan said. “Here’s the next one: ‘Came to see Whiskey and Abra. Got shot. Nobody here cares.’”
“That’s not true,” I said. “Nobody here cares to get shot. The bad guy might still be out there. We’ve called for help.”
“I’m tweeting that to her right now,” Noonan said.
“Why not send psychic vibes?” I asked.
“Tweeting’s more fun. Here’s her reply: ‘Napoleon risked his life to see his one true love.’”
“That’s not true,” I said. “Anouk hires Abra by the hour.”
Napoleon had been depressed before he met my dog, or rather, before my dog got loose and seduced him. Abra escaped whenever she could and never failed to get into trouble. She was widely known as a wanton hussy and felon.
The sirens, which had grown painfully loud, suddenly cut out.
“Jenx is here, and so are the EMTs,” Chester informed me.
Magnet Springs is a tourist town, famous for its beaches, bistros, and B&Bs. Our police force is minimal, to put it nicely. Chief Judy “Jenx” Jenkins, my former classmate, responded to most calls, but when violence occurred, a Lanagan County sheriff’s deputy or Michigan State Police officer wouldn’t be far behind. Jenx liked to get the facts before anybody could wrestle the case away from her. She had control issues, not to mention an earth-shaking temper.