Nina Wright - Whiskey Mattimoe 07 - Whiskey, Large

by Nina Wright

  Tears fogged the handcuffed guy’s lenses and leaked down his cheeks into his red-brown beard. If he had ever been attractive, it wasn’t apparent today.

  “Are you Reagan Duffy?” I asked.

  He nodded, sniffing loudly.

  “Is Ben your boyfriend?”

  “Used to be. ’Til Dani got him all confused.”

  This was the waiter I’d glimpsed outside the Sugar Grove Inn, and the driver of the black pick-up truck. The man who had fired at Diggs and at Napoleon.

  “You shot at dogs,” I accused.

  “And a human,” MacArthur reminded me. “He shot at Anouk, too.”

  “People aren’t supposed to shoot dogs,” I snapped. “People are supposed to shoot people.”

  “Poorly expressed,” MacArthur murmured.

  Duffy said, “I didn’t hit them. I was just doing my job.”

  “Which was what?” I said.

  “Ben gave me orders. He said to make it look like I was trying to hit the woman or the dog but to avoid hitting any of ’em. I was supposed to scare the town silly and distract people. Ben said there was chaos already over the new pet-tourist policies in Magnet Springs. He hoped somebody would think it was related to that.”

  “Nobody thought it was related to that,” I said dismissively. “It seemed random and senseless, and just plain mean.”

  “Good enough, I guess.” Duffy shrugged. Snot ran down his mustache into his mouth. Pathetic. If he hadn’t shot at dogs, I might have fetched him a tissue.

  “How much did Ben pay you?” MacArthur said.

  “Two hundred bucks a pop.”

  Duffy’s bargain-basement rates somehow made him seem even more repugnant. I told him so.

  “I got more for wiring the propane tank to explode,” he said.

  “You killed people,” I cried.

  “I blew up a tank. That was how I saw it.”

  “What about the dead dog in the rubble?” I said. “Did you kill him, too, and plant him there?”

  “I didn’t kill any dog, and I didn’t ask questions. I did what I was paid to do. Ben told me to find a dead dog that looked kind of like the one I was shooting at and put his body near the foundation of the house. A friend of mine had just buried his old black Lab in the woods, so I dug him up.”

  I shuddered. “How much did you get paid for that?”

  Duffy shrugged. “It was included in the cost of the explosion. Hey, if I’m really under arrest, you’re supposed to read me my rights. I want a lawyer.”

  “I already read you your rights,” MacArthur said. “You were blubbering too hard to hear me.”

  I hadn’t heard any Miranda rights, but then we weren’t real cops. Duffy, however, was a real creep. He deserved a bad scare before the real cops got here, which reminded me…we needed to call them. When I whipped out my cell phone, MacArthur said, “I texted Jenx. She’ll be here in a minute.”

  Sure enough, a siren shrieked.

  “You know that’s going to wake April,” I told MacArthur unhappily.

  Upstairs in the nursery my daughter was already howling, and so were Abra and Sandra. Fortunately, Irene Grace Houston was on duty.

  The Cleaner said, “You know your daughter’s going to grow up hearing that sound.”

  I wanted to protest. Really, I did. But I had no defense. I shared my home with a couple over-sexed four-leggers who liked every kind of bad boy.

  As the siren grew louder, Duffy’s trembling increased.

  “I am not a criminal,” he said.

  “That didn’t work for Richard Nixon,” I reminded him.

  To save Jenx the trouble of knocking, I swung open the front door. The shooter was handcuffed in my living room, so I figured we were safe. Jenx swaggered in, checked Duffy’s cuffs, and read him his rights.

  “He’ll lawyer up,” she told MacArthur and me, “which is okay. We’ve already got an indictment against Helen, and a Mexican cop just busted Dani and Ben for bringing contraband across the border. They’re so scared, they’re singing like meadow larks.”

  I asked what kind of contraband.

  “Guns, the damn fools,” Jenx said. “Now they’re temporary guests of the Mexican government.”

  I liked the idea of Dani Glancy—in heels, pearls, and perfect make-up—sweating in a Mexican jail cell. The chief, the Cleaner, and I executed a three-handed high-five.

  “This is a great day for law enforcement,” Jenx declared. “Too bad Chester’s in school.”

  Except he wasn’t. Even as Jenx spoke, I heard a familiar approaching engine. Over her shoulder through the open front door, I spotted the Lincoln Town Car. Cassina’s new driver was at the wheel, and Chester was leaning out the passenger window as far as humanly possible.

  I stared. “Is that Avery in the chauffeur cap?”

  “Affirmative,” MacArthur said. “She asked Cassina for a job that would get her out of the office.”

  He didn’t sound pleased, and I could guess why. Mobile Avery would be uber-Avery.

  “This is a great day for law enforcement,” Chester shouted.

  “I texted him at school,” Jenx admitted. “He should be part of this party.”

  She got no argument from me. Besides, he probably already knew everything his teacher was teaching.

  At that moment, my sainted mother must have decided to take a break. Overhead, eight paws’ worth of dog claws scrabbled on hardwood flooring as Abra and Sandra raced toward my central staircase. Involuntarily, all my muscles tightened, including some that were still quite sore.

  Out on the parking pad, Chester, holding Velcro, dropped from the Town Car window. Two more dogs tumbled out after him. All three canines emerged yapping.

  “Did you take your dogs to school today?” I shouted over the din.

  “Yes! It was Take-Your-Dogs-To-School Day,” Chester replied.

  Every day in Magnet Springs is It’s-Great-To-Be-A-Dog Day. My two canines blasted past me to noisily greet their favorite human and his four-legged friends. Abra looked sleek in her understated black velvet collar while Sandra sported the trailer-trash look—a too-tight, low-cut red, white, and blue pantsuit with matching kerchief. Velcro, as usual, ran circles around Chester’s ankles. Still a puppy at heart, Prince Harry just wanted to play, but Diggs understood that both my bitches were ready for a grown-up good time.

  Too lazy to open anybody’s door, Avery did manage to lower her window. She flicked her tongue lasciviously at MacArthur, and I glanced away.

  How was this possible? Somehow my life had changed completely, while not really changing at all.

  Epilogue

  “Look, Mama! Doggies. Lots and lots of doggies!”

  April wasn’t kidding. Canines were everywhere. Felines, too, and even a few exotics. Thank God they didn’t live at our house. At least most of them didn’t.

  My ginger-haired two-and-a-half-year-old daughter beamed up at me. The kid adored animals, just like her Grandma Houston did, and animals adored her. Apparently, it’s a trait that skips a generation.

  Jeb, April and I, plus Abra and Sandra, were among approximately three hundred guests at the belated official grand opening of The Magnet Springs Animal Magnet. That was what Chester chose to call it, and it was his 503(b). The Magnet, as most folks dubbed it, was already operational as a spare-no-expense rescue center. Never mind that some animals in residence, such as falcons and salamanders, weren’t destined for domestication. Under Chester’s guidance, and supervised by center manager Anouk Gagné, every critter that needed help got it here.

  “Daddy make music now,” April said, pointing a chubby finger at the makeshift stage.

  Jeb waved at us, and April squealed in delight. I waved back, wisely ignoring the stunning women who flanked my husband, one a leggy Nordic type, the other a voluptuous African-American. When the house lights banged down, a spotlight made their brief but blingy costumes shine almost painfully bright.

  “I totally love Diva Ocean!” Chester shouted abov
e the roaring crowd.

  “Of course you do,” I shouted back. “You’re in middle school.”

  Everybody with a pulse loved Rusha and Keyarra, the duo known as Diva Ocean, because they sang as fine as they looked. Jeb had been brilliant to hire them for his first acoustic soft-rock CD, “Songs for the Animals.” I could admit that now. In fact, I had to admit it because the album had out-sold our wildest expectations. We knew we had a huge hit on our hands when the music video of the title track went viral, surfacing on outlets as diverse as Entertainment TV, The Playboy Channel and ABC Family.

  Tonight marked not only the official opening of The Magnet but also the debut of Jeb’s follow-up CD, “More Songs for the Animals.” Pledging that half of all profits would go straight to The Magnet had made Jeb mighty popular with animal-loving freaks. I mean, enthusiasts.

  “You must be so proud,” said Mrs. Dr. David, the former Deely Smarr, wife of our local veterinarian.

  She bounced a baby with one hand and held a leash attached to a jumping toddler in the other. Deely had produced two offspring in less time than it took me to make one and recover.

  “Down, Rex, down,” she told her toddler. “See how quiet Skippy is?”

  Those names might have been better on dogs, but what could you expect from parents as zealous about animals as Deely and Dr. David? If blessed with a third child, they had already announced that the name, regardless of gender, would be Dash.

  I was learning to accept animal fanatics. After all, their music purchases were making Jeb famous, and, no matter how weird they might be, most critter-lovers were good people. It was weird, evil people I wanted to avoid.

  Speaking of which, Helen Kaminski would be locked away for a long, long time. A jury of her peers had convicted her of kidnapping, assault and battery, and fraud. Although urged by my attorney to sue her for libel, I chose to let it go, believing that whatever damage Helen had done to Mattimoe Realty while tweeting as UberSpringer would fade with the next wave of social media. In the meantime, I tried to tweet positive, business-building messages whenever I thought about it or got bored, neither of which happened often. Mattimoe Realty was doing well for one reason only: Odette Mutombo sold a whole lot of real estate.

  Reagan Duffy was now doing time as an accessory to murder and kidnapping, plus car theft. That’s right. In addition to truly heinous offenses, he had stolen Jeb’s car and sold it after helping Helen grab my husband. Beyond shooting inaccurately at living things, he admitted igniting the propane tank on Swan Lane, for which Dani Glancy—via Ben Fondgren—had paid him a whopping one thousand dollars, random canine corpse included. For assisting Helen he had required no compensation because Helen was his great-aunt.

  Dani, who hired a famous Chicago-based attorney skilled at stall tactics, still awaited trial. We didn’t know how she afforded him although she may have seduced him. Perhaps the lawyer liked her particular brand of cologne. The great state of Michigan hoped to prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that Dani had enlisted Ben to make her violent family fantasies a reality. He, in turn, recruited Reagan to execute the details.

  Whether Ben had been Dani’s lover, her hire, or someone she blackmailed into doing her bidding would remain unclear until Dani stood trial. Convicted of paying Reagan to commit multiple murders, Ben now resided in Jackson at the state penitentiary. Dani, still free though under indictment, had eliminated the sister she resented and the husband she no longer loved. Many Magnet Springers doubted she would ever do time. Her attorney specialized in portraying twisted women as mentally “disabled” and hence not responsible for their crimes.

  I turned my attention back to Dr. David’s wife, Deely. She seemed thoroughly content as a mother. I could only hope I looked that serene. For more than a year, I had worked mainly from home so that I could help Jeb care for April. I had also exercised and watched my diet, losing most of the weight I gained while pregnant…before I got pregnant again.

  That’s right. Jeb and I were expecting. At thirty-eight weeks, I felt happily human because this time I had gained twenty-five pounds versus sixty. I could still slide nimbly in and out of any vehicle with nary a goat prod, and this time I actually looked forward to nursing.

  Back home in Ft. Myers, Florida, Mom was married at last to her long-time fiancé, Howard. Although she had offered to come north to help me, I had declined. My second delivery promised to be so much simpler. I no longer feared mucus plugs, pushing, or the stages of labor, and I knew how to change a diaper. More important, Jeb wasn’t going anywhere for the next few months.

  When Jeb’s set ended, the crowd literally went wild, which was only natural given the high percentage of critters in attendance. Dogs barked, birds screeched, and cats yowled. The humans also made their fair share of noise. To my relief, Abra and Sandra were on their best behavior. Freshly groomed, they looked elegant in matching rhinestone-studded collars. Jeb had been unable to resist dressing Sandra in a black satin evening gown. Fortunately, it was quite discreet.

  I smiled at my hounds, and they wagged their tails. Abra’s was more a brief acknowledgment than a true wag, but I received it gratefully. The Affie was a beauty queen, a sex fiend, and a local legend. Despite her maddening antics, she had, through the years, saved several lives, including my husband’s and my own. Sandra Bullock, French bulldog, wagged her stub of a tail more often than she let it rest. Not quite hero material, she was the stuff of screwball comedy, making every day a little bit silly. Humans—including, finally, me—couldn’t help loving Sandra.

  Jeb thanked the audience, lowered the height of his microphone and exited. Chester bounded to the stage. Now age twelve, he still looked a couple years younger and acted a generation older.

  “Thank you for coming tonight,” he began, sounding like a seasoned emcee. “And thank you for making Magnet Springs the Pet Mecca it has become!”

  In truth, the jury was out on our town’s re-branding as a pet-friendly destination. Tourism was up, but that was mainly due to the improved economy. A number of local inns and restaurants had quietly banned animals following an unfortunate incident involving a Chihuahua and a chimpanzee.

  Abra chose that moment to turn her head away from Chester, whom she loved to watch, and gaze meaningfully into my eyes. She issued a low growl.

  “What’s the matter, girl?”

  She growled again, but not as if annoyed with me personally. I figured she disliked Chester’s topic.

  “You’re not a fan of pet-tourists in Magnet Springs?” I asked.

  “That’s not what’s bothering her,” Dr. David’s Deely intervened.

  I hadn’t realized that the Fleggers co-founder was standing near enough to overhear me and my hound. Maybe her acute love of animals had heightened her senses to doggie level.

  “I believe your dog needs to tell you something personal,” Deely said.

  Anyone outside of Fleggers would have intended that remark as a joke, but Deely was dead earnest. In support, Sandra woofed and thumped her stubby tail.

  “Did Chester teach you to speak canine?” I asked Deely.

  “No, but I’m very good at body language. Abra is relating to you as a fellow mother. She has something urgent she wants to say.”

  Deely narrowed her eyes. Even as she stared at Abra, I realized that Abra was staring at me, or, more precisely, at my belly.

  “Abra and I have totally different views on motherhood,” I told Deely. “I raise my babies, whereas she gives hers away.”

  “It’s not about that,” Deely murmured. “Lean down to her. I think she’s going to give you a message.”

  Now Deely sounded more like Noonan Starr, psychic hippie. However, I complied, leaning forward until the Affie and I were eye to eye. That portion of my anatomy didn’t interest her. My hound wanted to sniff my belly, and she proceeded to do so for a long, extremely odd moment.

  “Abra knows you’re pregnant,” Deely declared.

  “Everybody knows I’m pregnant.”

  “Mo
mmy pregnant,” April confirmed.

  “It’s more than that,” Deely insisted. “Abra senses something about your baby.”

  That could have been creepy, except she winked at me. My dog, I mean. The bitch knew something, all right. Something I didn’t yet know, and she was giving me a sign, maybe even her blessing. I swear I felt what could only be called a maternal bond between us. We were both mothers, and sometimes mothers just know things they can’t explain, or don’t have to explain.

  Just as suddenly as she’d sought my attention, Abra was done with me. She returned her gaze to the stage, where her beloved Chester was orating.

  “I have an exciting announcement,” the kid continued. “In collaboration with Four Legs Good, the animal rights advocacy, our board of directors has approved for limited production and sale a new line of all-natural dog food, the profits from which will support animal protection agencies across the state of Michigan. I’m proud to say that the food is based on a recipe developed forty years ago by the parents of our own Whitney Houston Halloran Mattimoe Halloran. Come on up here, Whiskey!”

  “Go,” Deely said, giving me a nudge with the hand that held Rex on the toddler leash.

  Confident that she could manage Abra and Sandra, I passed her two more leashes. April and I moved slowly through the cheering crowd. Jeb had returned to the stage so that he could lend us a hand as we climbed the steps. He kissed us both.

  Beaming, Chester presented me with a three-pound bag of dog food. The label read ROSIE. The package design featured a faded family photograph of a woman and her golden retriever. I had seen that picture before.

  Stretching on his tiptoes, Chester extended the microphone stand for me.

  “This is about family,” I began, my voice thick with emotion. “Before I was born, my dad rescued a dog that my mom called Rosie. Mom came to love Rosie more than she had ever thought possible. When Rosie died, a little bit of Mom’s heart died, too, but then I was born, and her heart healed.”