by Nina Wright
“It’s like my hairline,” he remarked, indicating his receding pate. “Suddenly, there’s a new whole frontier. Heart-breaking yet full of options.”
Back in the present, I said, “Odette might know if Hamp was showing the house. She talked with him a lot. I think she’s friends with his wife.”
“Did he have kids?” Jenx asked.
“Just a wife.”
I cringed as soon as I said it. Having been “just a wife,” I knew that losing a spouse could close down your whole world and keep it dark for a long, long time.
“Hey!” Jenx said suddenly. “Is that MacArthur over there? When did he return?”
I followed her gaze to the wreckage of the Mullens’ home. My part-time agent was wading into the debris.
“Today,” I replied. “He and Avery crashed Chester’s party. We were glad to see MacArthur.”
“What the hell is he doing?”
“Uh…taking real estate notes.”
Jenx inserted two fingers in her mouth and whistled shrilly. When MacArthur turned, she waved, but not in welcome.
“I don’t need Cassina’s ‘Cleaner’ working my crime scene.”
“Crime scene?” I said. “I thought this was a fire.”
“Anytime there’s an explosion, you got a potential crime scene.”
“Where’s the yellow police tape?” I said.
Jenx admitted she was fresh out.
“Did the propane tank blow?” Jeb asked.
“It blew. Maybe by accident, maybe not. The fire investigation team’s on its way.” Jenx checked her wristwatch and then me. “How you holdin’ up?”
I fluttered my hand to signal “touch and go.”
“Not sure I’m up for another dead body.”
“We’re never up for dead bodies, but that doesn’t stop ’em from happening. How about looking at the cars next?” Jenx indicated the charred remains in the driveway. “There were no vehicles in the garage, just these two parked here. Could either of them belong to Glancy?”
“I don’t know. I can’t even tell what kinds of cars they were.”
MacArthur, who had jogged over to us, said, “Lincoln Navigator on the left. Jaguar F-type convertible on the right.”
Jenx peered up at him. “You wouldn’t be shitting me, would you?”
He grinned. “I would never shit you, Chief. I am here to serve.”
She grunted in a skeptical way, but she did write down what he’d said.
“Hamp drove a Lincoln Navigator,” I said sadly.
“Was it silver?” MacArthur said.
I nodded, and Jeb squeezed my hand.
“The Jag used to be silver, too,” MacArthur said.
“Shit,” I said. “The Mullens had a silver Jag. I saw it yesterday. I think it was Lisa’s car. Todd mentioned driving a vintage Thunderbird.”
I didn’t care about the cars except that talking about them made their owners more vivid. Dammit. Death punched holes in your life.
“Did you identify the bodies?” MacArthur asked me.
“Just the man’s. I’m working up my courage to look at the woman’s.”
MacArthur said, “Perhaps I could be of assistance. I once knew Lisa Mullen quite well.”
Jenx’s eyes widened slightly, but she said nothing, just motioned for the waiting EMT to roll another gurney toward us. My husband gently steered me towards our car.
“MacArthur knew my client,” I repeated.
“MacArthur knows many women,” Jeb said. “Many troubled women.”
“He’s engaged to one,” I confirmed, “but Lisa Mullen didn’t strike me as anything but privileged.”
“Privileged women can like trouble, too.”
I wondered if MacArthur had known Lisa Mullen romantically or professionally, or both. Any scenario involving those two seemed preposterous. And yet …
“Let’s assume he did know her,” I said. “Was that the real reason he wanted to ride along?”
“I think he wanted to look like a good guy and maybe check out a few things,” said Jeb. “And also step away from the party.”
“You mean step away from Avery,” I said.
Jeb winked. He opened the car door in preparation for shoving me inside. My cell phone rang. The ringtone was the theme song from The Blair Witch Project, a cheesy ’90s horror movie about naïve college students chasing more trouble than they can handle. It signaled a call from Avery.
“You don’t have to take that,” Jeb pointed out.
“And miss the fun? You know she’s torqued because her ‘baby-man’ took a powder and isn’t answering his phone.” I clicked to accept the call and dropped my voice an octave. “Hellllloooo.”
“Whiskey? Why are you answering all weird like that?”
I was tempted to pretend that I was someone else, but that would require more effort than I could spare for Avery.
“What do you mean, weird?” I said, resuming my normal voice. “I always answer my phone like that.”
“Uh, no. You don’t. Cut the crap and put my fiancé on the line.”
“Your fiancé has his own line. He doesn’t use mine.”
She heaved the kind of sigh I specialized in back when I was sixteen. “I said, cut the crap. MacArthur’s battery must be dead or something. His phone doesn’t ring.”
“Really? MacArthur always takes my calls.”
Just as I was hitting my stride, my husband removed my phone from my hand and spoke into it. Courteously, he kept the phone close enough for me to catch both sides of the conversation.
“Avery, this is Jeb. MacArthur’s helping Jenx identify bodies and vehicles burned in the explosion. He can’t take calls right now, but I’ll make sure he knows you’re trying to get hold of him.”
She shouted, “Damn straight I’m trying to get hold of him. He stranded me here playing stupid games with Whiskey’s mom.”
“You know you love Pin the Tail on the Donkey,” I said.
Before she could reply, Jeb said, “You’re not stranded, Avery. You have the vehicle you came in.”
“Except the key is in MacArthur’s pocket. I want him to take me home. Now! I’ve been stabbed eight times already with giant thumbtacks.”
“Maybe it’s personal,” I suggested.
“Make Mac call me.”
“Will do,” Jeb said and clicked off.
“Why would you make him do that?” I wondered.
The man of the moment jogged toward us. I had forgotten how seldom MacArthur strolled anywhere.
“You need to call Avery,” Jeb told him.
“Yeah, there’s been a multiple thumbtack stabbing,” I said. “Avery’s pissed off.”
“Avery’s almost always pissed off,” MacArthur replied cheerfully. “It’s one of the things I love about her.”
“Seriously?” I said.
Jeb intervened. “Did you identify the dead woman?”
“It’s Lisa Mullen,” MacArthur confirmed. “There’s no doubt in my mind.”
We stood silent. I thought about asking how the Cleaner knew the dead woman, but it was the wrong time to inquire and I had a feeling I knew how he knew her—intimately. After a beat, MacArthur added, “I hate to deliver more bad news, but there’s a third body.”
“Oh my God,” I moaned. “Who found it?”
“I did. I had just spotted the corpse near the chimney when Jenx waved me over.”
I hoped it wasn’t Todd Mullen, but it had to be someone. Another person recently living was now dead.
“Man or woman?” I said.
“Neither.”
“Oh, God. You mean…”
As I choked on the word “child,” MacArthur filled in the blank.
“Dog.”
8
“You found a dead dog?” I said.
“I did,” MacArthur affirmed. “It’s mostly covered in rubble.”
My throat clenched. “What kind of dog?”
“Not an Afghan hound.”
That
hadn’t been my worry. Fast as she flew on her four pedicured paws, Abra couldn’t have made it all the way over here in time to be part of the fire, but now I realized that she and Napoleon could have scored a speedy car ride with humans. Abra had been known to hitchhike with strangers, and Napoleon was her willing follower. I found myself blubbering with relief.
“What is wrong with me?” I snuffled. “Three dead bodies—two humans I know and one dog I don’t know—and it’s the dead dog that makes me cry. I almost never cry.”
“You’re about to deliver a baby,” Jeb said, stretching his long arms around my girth in a consoling embrace.
“Yes, a baby human, not a baby dog. I don’t even like dogs.”
“Baby dogs are called puppies,” Jenx said, rejoining our group. “We know you don’t want one of those.”
She flipped open her notebook and, using a stubby pencil, added a line.
“The dead dog looks like a male retriever.”
“Like Norman the Golden,” I mused, picturing Abra’s one true canine love and Prince Harry’s father. Other than Abra, Norman was the most stunning four-legger I knew, a glossy blonde god with the instincts of a hero and the heart of man’s best pal. I renewed my sobbing.
“Whiskey, relax,” Jeb said. “Norman is safe and sound and far, far away.”
True enough, thank God. Norman lived in Texas with his human, a feel-good guru married to our own Noonan Starr.
“A black retriever,” MacArthur added, “or maybe a mixed breed.”
I turned on Jenx, demanding to know how the police could have missed that body.
“The first-responders weren’t looking for dogs buried under debris,” she explained. “They came to save lives. Now the investigators will take over.”
With that she dispatched Jeb and MacArthur to peruse the scene one more time.
“Don’t get in anybody’s way,” she warned, “but see if you notice anything else before they make you leave.”
The guys ambled off in separate directions. Jenx asked whether I’d seen a dog while listing the property the day before. I shook my head.
“When I asked if there were pets in the house so I could include that information for agents showing the property, the Mullens said no.”
The chief made a grumbling sound, which I took to mean she now had more work to do.
“Do you know if Glancy had a dog?” she said.
“No. But even if he did, he wouldn’t bring a dog to a showing, and he certainly wouldn’t bring it inside the house.”
“If that’s why he was here,” Jenx said. “The fact that we haven’t yet found another human body suggests he didn’t have a client.”
I didn’t want to contemplate another body, human or otherwise.
“Sometimes clients prefer to meet agents at the property,” I said. “Maybe Hamp got here early, and his client never showed or had already left.”
“The position of the bodies suggests Glancy and Mullen were in the same room, probably having a conversation,” Jenx said. “Can the seller talk to a buyer’s agent?”
“It happens.”
The dog’s missing identity troubled me more than a possible breach of sales ethics. Someone needed to be told that a furry member of their family was dead.
Mentally I replayed as much of my listing interview as I could recall.
“I just remembered something.”
Jenx glanced up from her notes.
“Lisa Mullen left the room to take a phone call, a long one, while they were signing the listing documents. It was Todd who answered my question about pets.”
“And?”
“He shook his head, but I knew he was distracted. Now that I think back on it, he was way more interested in what Lisa was saying on the phone.”
“What was she saying?” Jenx said.
“Just a bunch of one-word answers. Yes, no, okay.”
“And you don’t know who she was talking to?”
“No. Todd and I finished reviewing the paperwork, but he wasn’t really listening to me.”
Jenx frowned. “Is that legal? Going through the listing papers with only one person when they both have to sign?”
“They both have to sign, so they both have to read everything, or they should. We had nearly finished and were just reviewing details related to showing the house. I had already covered the sales contract with them.”
Jenx, brow still furrowed, scribbled more notes in her pad.
“Who phoned in the fire?” I said. “Could it have been Glancy’s client?”
Jenx shook her head. “A neighbor called 9-1-1.”
Suddenly, I wanted just one thing, and I wanted it bad—to go home and go to bed. I imagined the pure pleasure of pulling covers over my head and making myself as comfortable as my bulk would permit. Never mind that it wasn’t yet 7 PM. I could only hope Mom’s party games were over.
I made a decidedly unsexy come-hither gesture to Jeb, and he jogged over. Ever the good hubby, he agreed to take me straight home.
MacArthur volunteered to remain at the scene. Jenx seemed pleased. Apparently, the Cleaner had scored vital points when he discovered the dead dog. Now he handed Jeb the key to his car to pass on to Avery.
“Not ready to deal with her?” I asked slyly.
“Oh, I’m ready.” MacArthur’s blue eyes gleamed. “Avery will drive directly here and scream herself hoarse giving me what-for. Then we’ll go home to the Castle, and my welcome-back party will begin.”
Jeb nodded approvingly. Men. Not for the first time I wondered how much disturbing stuff I’d have to learn about boys if I happened to give birth to one.
Reloading me in the SUV was a chore. Fatigued and a little depressed, I wasn’t much help fighting bulk plus gravity. We now needed either a step stool or a different vehicle if we wanted to keep the process pain-free. For everybody.
Although Jeb’s sporty Beamer might have offered easier access, it was dangerously low-slung, not to mention tight inside. My heft might have caused us to scrape the highway, and I didn’t want to travel anywhere with my knees jammed against my belly.
“I need phone numbers for Hamp Glancy and Todd Mullen,” the chief reminded me.
“Call her office in the morning,” Jeb grunted, still trying to slide me into the vehicle. “Her receptionist will help you.”
“I need the numbers now.”
“Call Information.”
Impressed though I was by Jeb’s defense of his hippo-wife, I was tired of being lodged in the car doorway while they talked around me.
“My phone’s in my sweater pocket,” I said. “I have four numbers for the Mullens and two for Hamp. Not that you’ll ever need the Mullens’ home number again.”
After Jeb pried my phone free, Jenx jotted down the numbers. She returned the phone once I was settled inside.
“I can’t promise I won’t have more questions for you later.”
“Tomorrow at the earliest,” Jeb said sternly. “And call me first.”
Tough talk from my husband always made me swoon. Jenx liked it, too. She gave a mock salute and clicked her heels. Jeb closed the passenger door and climbed in the driver’s seat.
“How the heck did you get in and out of the car yesterday without me?” he said, referring to my trip to the airport to retrieve Mom.
“Chester helped. He brought a goat prod.”
Back at Vestige, the homestead Leo and I had built from remnants of an old farm, I noticed that MacArthur’s black Audi was the only car still parked out front.
“The good news is everybody except Avery is gone,” I told Jeb. “The bad news is everybody except Avery is gone. You get to deal with her. I’m going straight to bed.”
“Can you climb the stairs without assistance?”
“Ha-ha,” I replied. Then I wondered if I still could.
We entered via the front door, the one closest to the staircase. My plan was to make eye contact with no one, certainly not my mother and not even Chester if he wa
s still there, never mind any of the dogs. I was a monstrous pregnant woman on a mission. I needed to get my big body into bed, and nobody, but nobody, better get in my way.
Climbing that steep staircase was getting harder every day, but I could still manage it. I had just cleared the landing when I heard Avery shriek a profanity, presumably at Jeb for handing her MacArthur’s car key. The back door slammed, and I savored the tranquil atmosphere of my home minus my ex-step.
Once upstairs I paused outside Abra’s room. Yes, the Alpha princess had her own bedroom, complete with designer décor. One result of Anouk’s pet psychic counseling was that Sandra now had her own room, too, at the opposite end of the hall. Although it was hours before Abra’s bedtime, I felt a wave of sentimentality tinged with anxiety. How many nights like this had there been when the felonious Afghan hound was on the lam? She always turned up, either sooner or later, usually in need of a day at the doggie spa and a good criminal attorney.
It must have been a delayed reaction to the death and destruction at 318 Swan Lane. I could probably chock the whole thing up to late-stage pregnancy. In any case, I leaned against the wall outside Abra’s empty room and sobbed like I’d just had my heart broken for the very first time.
I don’t know how long I stood there, but I do know that tears and snot commingled on my cheeks, ran down my chin, and dribbled onto my shirt. I tried wiping them away with the sleeves of my sweater because I didn’t have tissues and was too tired to search for any. Eyes closed, I sobbed and snuffled like a certified wreck of humanity.
Until a familiar voice said, “Whiskey, I have tissues.”
I opened one eye and focused on Chester, who extended a small hand stuffed with what I needed.
“Thanks, buddy,” I hiccuped. “How long you been standing there?”
“Long enough to evaluate the situation, gather tissues and deliver them. Sorry you’re so sad. Are you worried about Abra?”
I wanted to slide all the way down the wall to the floor, but I wasn’t sure I’d ever be able to stand up again, even with Jeb and Chester assisting. I buried my bloated, tear-streaked face in a wad of tissues and blew my nose.
“I’m not worried about Abra,” I lied. “That hound’s better at taking care of herself than I am. I’m just very, very tired. That’s all.”