Nina Wright - Whiskey Mattimoe 06 - Whiskey and Soda

by Nina Wright

  “We don’t have to try, Whiskey. We are solid. It’s the dogs that need work.”

  I didn’t want to work with dogs or even hang out with them. I wanted to curl up with Jeb and make the bad parts of the world go away for a while. Jeb helped me sneak out of the car and into the house without waking Abra. We secured Sandra again in Abra’s bedroom.

  I had to give the little gargoyle credit for going quietly although I detected a definite fart, a real stinker, ominous coming from a dog that small. I hoped Jeb had fed her the wrong food because that could mean flatulence was an accident and not a permanent condition.

  Too late I realized that Abra would go wild when she whiffed the Frenchie’s odor in her boudoir. We would deal with that later, much later. Now Jeb was leading me to our boudoir, which fortunately didn’t smell like dogs or farts.

  16

  After we made love, ate, slept and made love again, I reluctantly broke the cycle, informing Jeb that I had to go back to work. First, though, we had to let Abra out of my car and figure out how to avoid another dogfight. Jeb and I strategized, dividing the chores. I would feed and walk Abra while he dispatched Sandra to the exercise pen. He would disinfect Abra’s room afterward.

  Although I doubted that erasing the French bulldog’s scent was possible, I had a bigger worry, that Abra and Sandra would fly at each every time their eyes met. Oh, I still believed that Sandra would have to leave, later if not sooner. I didn’t need to talk about it, though. All that good sex had suffused me with optimism, or maybe just more denial.

  Around my house, leashes vanished like potato chips, but I needed leashes more. The one I grabbed from a wall peg near the back door was basic black leather. Strictly functional, unlike the gold-lamé-and-faux-emerald number Jeb had bought for Sandra Bullock. Granted, Abra wore a rhinestone-studded collar, but that was a nod to Leo’s belief that every female needed at least one piece of nice jewelry.

  I gave silent thanks that Abra had not gnawed my car’s upholstery during my absence. In fact, she was still dozing when I opened the door. Once on the leash and out of the vehicle, she gobbled the kibble that I offered. Not that Abra was usually a dainty eater, but she was used to being fed indoors. I could tell that she was suspicious; she eyed me sideways as she chewed.

  Jeb had requested thirty minutes to vacuum the house and sanitize Abra’s room. Since that would include a change of linens, I was glad I had a back-up comforter for her bed. Sure, Abra preferred her plum-tone Calvin Klein Madeira duvet, but the alternate—her sky-blue IZOD Calypso comforter—bore no trace of Sandra’s DNA. I just hoped Jeb could rid the rest of the house of alien dog dander before I brought Abra inside.

  Twenty minutes passed. The Affie and I were on our third vigorous pull around my property when my phone rang. The caller had a 469 area code and a melodious female voice.

  “Ms. Mattimoe, this is Pauline Vreelander. We met this morning.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Vreelander. How can I help you?”

  “I’m calling because I’m going to need a Realtor. I want to sell our home here as soon as I possibly can.”

  So help me, I stumbled, and it had very little to do with Abra’s pace. After months of trying to jump-start my business in a stalled real estate market, I suddenly had two requests for my professional services within a single day. Ironically, both were new contacts developed as a result of a tragedy that I had just happened to witness.

  “Are you ready to list the property for sale?” I said.

  “Almost. I’d like to show you the house and discuss my options first. I know this is short notice, Ms. Mattimoe, but could you possibly stop by today?”

  It was already after three, which meant I was meeting Stevie McCoy in less than two hours. Before that, I not only needed to make myself presentable, I also needed to tame two wild dogs. Maybe Jeb would be willing to handle the hounds solo.

  I told Pauline I’d try to rearrange a couple meetings already on today’s docket and call her back. Immediately I dialed Jeb. He answered, panting. I was panting, too.

  “We shouldn’t be breathing this hard unless we’re doing something wickedly good to each other,” Jeb said.

  “Abra’s dragging me in circles. What’s your excuse?”

  “I’m running your vacuum cleaner at record speed up and down the stairs.”

  Quickly I filled Jeb in on Pauline Vreelander’s call.

  “Do what you need to do, Whiskey. Chester’s stopping by on his way home from school. You know he’ll want to help me with the hounds.”

  Whatever Chester lacked in size and strength, he more than made up for in good will and animal magnetism. The kid could talk to most dogs and some cats. I couldn’t explain it, yet I had seen it. Even more amazing, Abra adored him. I wondered what that felt like.

  Another call was coming through, this one from Jenx.

  “You left the Bentwood School just in time,” she said. “The press conference wasn’t pretty.”

  “Neither was the student assembly. You’re saying the press conference was worse?”

  “Way worse. A couple PTO moms barged in. They asked more questions than the press, and they heckled me.”

  “Why?”

  “Guess they didn’t like my answers. Or maybe they don’t like lesbians.”

  If that were true, then Camo-Mom hadn’t been in attendance.

  “Who showed up?” I asked.

  “Kimmi Kellum-Ramirez. So did Loralee Lowe.”

  “Lowe’s a teacher. How could she leave her class?”

  “She brought her class. The kids bawled all over again when I said the headmaster was dead. Geez. You’d think I killed him.”

  “Maybe that is what they think.”

  “Nah. They think whiskey killed him, and I don’t mean you. They’re still confused.”

  “I still like Kimmi for the murder,” I said.

  “Any of those PTO moms had time to scream at Vreelander and then head over to Tir à l’Arc. The killer fired from there, or near there. We’re waiting for the State Boys to complete a trajectory report.”

  “How far can an arrow fly?”

  “Depends on the archer and the arrow,” Jenx said. “And the bow.”

  “And the bow?” I asked.

  “Sure. How many pounds of pull the bow has. If we like a PTO mom for this, she’s gotta have skill and strength.”

  I pictured Kimmi drawing back the bow. Her augmented anatomy would interfere, not to mention all that dangly gold jewelry.

  “You didn’t answer my question,” I said. “How far can an arrow fly?”

  Jenx sniffed. “Up to forty yards.”

  “How far was Vreelander from the range?”

  “About thirty yards. This was a clean kill. The shooter struck the upper center of a man’s back as he moved away, probably traveling close to fifteen miles an hour. I’m no trajectory expert, but I’d say we’re looking at a champion archer. Male or female.”

  I replayed the mental image of Vreelander coming toward me around the bend, raising his hands and falling down dead. For the first time I wondered what might have happened if I’d started sooner or traveled faster and encountered Vreelander earlier in his ride. If the would-be killer had seen me first, the headmaster might still be doing twenty miles a day. I said so to Jenx.

  “Yup, and you might be dead. Don’t make yourself crazy with ‘what-ifs.’”

  “But isn’t it true that most murders are crimes of opportunity?”

  “Passion and opportunity,” Jenx said. “Somebody hates somebody else so much they figure out a way to whack ’em.”

  “So there’s no way this was an accident? A shot on the range that went out of control?”

  “Not this kill. Somebody who wanted Mark Vreelander dead was armed and ready when he rode by.”

  “Maybe an employee at the range?”

  “Anouk’s the only employee,” Jenx said. “But archery clubs have lots of skilled shooters. The killer could be somebody who competes in a league, or
who joined the club just to keep their skills sharp.”

  “Will you subpoena the club roster?” I said.

  “The State Boys will, probably, if Anouk doesn’t hand it over. But the killer’s name might not be on it. He, or she, could have been a guest or a trespasser.”

  I noticed that Jenx hadn’t mentioned a certain PTO mom who knew archery and the chief herself, Robin Wardrip, so I opened that door.

  “Did Camo-Mom storm the press conference, too?”

  “Who?”

  “Robin Wardrip.”

  I listened to the silence on the line. When it dragged on, I decided to make life easier for my old schoolmate. “Jenx, Anouk Gagné told me that Robin knows archery. I think she also knows you.”

  “Used to know me. A long time ago. Way before Hen.”

  The words were clipped and defensive.

  “So, did Robin come back for the press conference?”

  “Nope.”

  “She could have killed Vreelander. She was part of the angry PTO mob on the Rail Trail, and she fits the profile.”

  “We don’t have a profile,” Jenx huffed.

  “You liked Robin for the crime before we saw her at the school. Something happened when you two made eye contact—”

  “Nothing happened.”

  “This morning you said she was a suspect. Now that you’ve seen her again, you’ve changed your mind.”

  “Bullshit. My history with Robin doesn’t affect the way I do my job. Anyone who’d be better off with Vreelander dead is a suspect. It’s too early to have a profile.”

  “Robin took a swing at Vreelander a half-hour before he died,” I reminded Jenx. “Plus, she had the skill to kill him, and the strength, too.”

  “I’ll remember that,” the chief said.

  I didn’t enjoy sparring with Jenx. Besides, all this talk about murder made me queasy, and I’d had enough of that just being pregnant. I switched subjects, mentioning my two new real estate prospects, both involved with the Bentwood School.

  “Do me a favor, Whiskey, and take a real close look at Vreelander’s house.”

  “What am I looking for?”

  “Anything that helps you understand the headmaster,” Jenx said.

  “You’re authorizing me to snoop?”

  “Since when do you wait for my okay?”

  She was right. Curiosity was my primary reason for becoming a Realtor. I followed the code of ethics, mostly, but I sure did love to snoop. It didn’t hurt that Jenx often appointed me temporary volunteer deputy. I even had a badge. On close inspection though, it looked like a booby prize.

  “You think something’s not right with Pauline Vreelander?” I asked.

  “I didn’t say that. She never lived in that house. I understand she has a condo in Dallas. Find out if they ever shared an address. See if Vreelander has a PC. Look around.”

  “What about his office at the school? Who’s searching that?”

  “The State Boys,” Jenx snorted. “I sneaked in for a minute this morning. Vreelander kept a clean desk. No stray papers. All his pencils were sharpened and lined up straight. Only personal artifacts were a couple framed photos of him and his wife. Everything else looked professional. I didn’t have time to check his computer. If Brady could get his hands on that hard drive—”

  “Any chance of that?”

  “Nah. Let me know what you see at the house. Be a good volunteer deputy.”

  17

  I handed Abra off to Jeb as soon as he’d removed the most offensive traces of Sandra Bullock from the house. From the most sensitive area of the house, that is. Our meekest hope was that Abra might tolerate the Frenchie’s scent if it were limited to a respectful distance from her boudoir.

  Jeb agreed to trot Abra around the property a few more times, evading views of the doggie exercise pen, where he’d temporarily stowed Sandra. The plan was to simultaneously tire the Affie and give me dog-free time to dress for my Realtor gig.

  Rifling through my closet with exceedingly low expectations, I spotted a beige corduroy jumper I could not remember acquiring. The label read “Maternal America” size XL. I wore size 8, max. Correction: I used to wear size 8, max, when I wasn’t in my current condition.

  A lifelong anti-shopper, I had committed zero time and energy to purchasing maternity-wear. The jumper, therefore, was the work of closet gremlins. Underneath I wore a long-sleeved tan T-shirt that was obscenely tight, which didn’t matter since it was covered by the surprise jumper.

  I now had a reasonably attractive clothing item that fit. However, I could not explain its existence in my wardrobe. Nor did I want to think what size I would be by my due date if at six months I was already wearing maternity-size XL.

  Happily for me, denial was my best-developed skill. Flushing the worries, I grabbed my briefcase, phone and keys, and exited through the front door, close to where I had parked my car. Jeb jogged past, pulled by Abra. He held up four fingers.

  “Four what?” I asked.

  “I think I can last maybe four more laps,” he panted. “Will she be tired by then?”

  “Not a chance.”

  “The relief team’s here!” announced a high-pitched voice punctuated by two kinds of barks.

  Up the driveway jogged Chester accompanied not only by Prince Harry but also by Velcro, the teacup-sized shitzapoo I’d re-gifted him six months earlier. Chester was carrying Velcro because the pooch’s legs were too short and his joints were too weak making Velcro the neediest, noisiest, most annoying canine alive. If another dog that shrill and manipulative ever entered my life, I would have to … give it to Chester. I shuddered, remembering Velcro’s ruining a romantic relationship and fraying my last nerve. Abra had been indifferent to Velcro, but the micro-beast had driven me nearly mad.

  Now I was off to make money, which is what I was trained to do. Suddenly, I had two prospects in a single afternoon making this my best shot in months at showing that I still had the right stuff. Waving good-bye to Chester and Jeb, I vowed not to check my phone for their progress reports. Hear no doggie, see no doggie, know no doggie.

  The Vreelander home was located on Fresno Avenue, about a mile from The Bentwood School. Frankly, I had assumed that housing would be part of the headmaster’s compensation. Most private-school employees couldn’t afford to buy a home in a tourist town, but until I met with Pauline, I wouldn’t know the Vreelanders’ situation.

  Their house was a red-roofed, wood-shingled white Craftsman bungalow, a low-slung story-and-a-half structure, built circa 1920 during the Arts and Crafts movement. A small dormer covered a modest-sized off-center front porch; wide horizontal windows flanked the red front door.

  I parked on the street and studied the house. Its curb appeal was high. The lawn, still green in December, was uniformly thick and trim. Aggressively manicured yews lined the foundation. A wide brick path led straight from the sidewalk to the steps. Shades were down on both front windows making it impossible to tell whether anyone stirred inside. There was no driveway because the detached garage of this and all other homes on the block faced an alley running parallel to the street. Similarly styled bungalows lined both sides of Fresno Avenue. At 3:30 on a bizarrely mild December day, I almost expected to see kids in the street playing baseball, but the neighborhood was perfectly still.

  Pauline Vreelander had changed out of the business suit she’d worn that morning. She answered the door in a navy blue boatneck sweater with ivory wool pants. I saw no trace of tears or stress.

  “How are you, Ms. Mattimoe?”

  “I’m fine, but please call me Whiskey—unless, of course, my nickname makes you uncomfortable.”

  She laughed, a short staccato burst that sounded like a much needed stress release.

  “Not at all. That confusion at the school this morning was most unfortunate.”

  I nodded. It was my turn to ask her how she fared.

  “I’m all right, thank you. No doubt I’m still in shock. Mark always seemed more alive
than most people. To accept that he’s dead will require some time.”

  “If there’s anything I can do to make your life less stressful—” I began, but she shook her head.

  “I’m hoping you can help me professionally. As you know, I live and work in Dallas. Mark took this position with the intention of spending at least five years at The Bentwood School. That was why we bought, rather than rented, a home. Our plan was for me to retire at the end of this academic year and join Mark here. I was going to start my own educational consulting firm.”

  “And now?” I asked.

  She smiled again, the ghost of old dreams flickering in her face.

  “I hope you can help me decide.”

  “Decide what?”

  “Whether to offer the house for sale on the open market or accept George Bentwood’s cash offer and close the deal this week.”

  Pauline produced a business-sized envelope made of heavy vellum bearing the blue and yellow logo of The Bentwood School. Her full name was handwritten with a flourish in dark-blue ink.

  “Open it, please,” she said. “His offer is inside.”

  Without comment, I unfolded the expensive stationery and read the brief memorandum composed on school letterhead using today’s date.

  TO: Pauline Vreelander

  FROM: George Bentwood, President

  RE: 379 Fresno Avenue, Magnet Springs, MI

  Please accept my condolences on the death of your husband. This offer is in addition to and independent of the life insurance policy included in Mark’s contract.

  On behalf of The Bentwood School, I hereby tender a cash offer, good for three days from the date of this memo, for the purchase of the home and its furnishings at the above-mentioned address. As School President and Chairman of the Board of Directors of The Bentwood School, I am authorized to present this proposal for acquisition of the stipulated Fresno Avenue property as a permanent part of the institution, to be used for the short- and/or long-term residence of future lecturers, guests and/or administrators. Details of said offer are stipulated below.

  I wore my poker face as I processed the figure and the terms of Bentwood’s proposal, not lifting my eyes from the page until I was ready to meet Pauline’s intense gaze.