Nina Wright - Whiskey Mattimoe 06 - Whiskey and Soda

by Nina Wright

  “I loved being pregnant,” Stevie sighed.

  “Seriously?”

  “Oh, yes. If I could have had more than one, I would have had three or four, probably.”

  Her voice and her gaze trailed off nostalgically into the black night outside the restaurant window.

  Tempted though I was to probe her personal life, that was not an area in which I excelled. As a sales professional, I had learned to steer clear of all but the most relevant and necessary questions. Stevie had said she was divorced. Why go down that road? In my experience, most people’s moods turned sour if you brought up the subject of their ex.

  I asked about her kid instead. Every mom I knew thought her offspring hung the moon, at least until they grew up, moved far away and forgot her birthday.

  “His name is Tate,” Stevie said brightly. “And he’s in the eighth grade.”

  “Eighth?”

  I shouldn’t have repeated his grade like that, but the number startled me. I had assumed that Stevie was old enough to be a grandma. In fact, I had been toying with asking how many grandbabies she had. If her son was in eighth grade, she must have been near forty when she gave birth.

  I suddenly felt much better. My thirty-fifth birthday was coming in late March, and I was due to deliver a week later. If Stevie McCoy could get her body back, I had a fighting chance of looking like a slim, trim woman again instead of an egg with legs.

  “It’s harder when you’re older,” Stevie said. “It’s sweeter, though. I only wish I had started my family when I was young.”

  She gazed out the window again, sadness settling on her usually cheery features. I wanted to change the subject.

  “When you called, you mentioned having a real estate question. What can I help you with?”

  Stevie took her time answering, sipping first from the dregs of her second cosmopolitan.

  “I may be looking for a new place to live.”

  “House or condo?” I asked.

  “Probably condo. Two bedrooms, two baths.”

  “Where do you live now?” I asked, wondering at her sudden reticence.

  “On campus. Tate and I rent a furnished cottage that used to be reserved for visitors and guest instructors.”

  Curious, I thought. George Bentwood was offering to buy the Vreelanders’ home for that very purpose. If so, why would Stevie need to move out? Or was it her choice? Maybe Bentwood knew nothing of her plans. I decided to go fish.

  “Does the school maintain only the one cottage?”

  “Currently, yes, although George may convince the board to invest in additional real estate.”

  I had a lot more questions for Stevie. As a Realtor, I needed to find out what she wanted in a home. As a volunteer deputy, I needed to find out who she thought had killed Mark Vreelander and why. I didn’t get what I needed. At that moment, we were interrupted by two folks I had never expected to see together at Mother Tucker’s.

  “Well, hello there, dear,” exclaimed Mom, beaming at me. Her newly tinted red-gold curls glimmered unnaturally.

  “I’m treating your mother to drinks and dinner,” purred Odette. “After you left, she did amazing things on the telephone. I have a brand new listing.”

  Odette announced the address, which I recognized as part of a tony subdivision up the coast. Any property there would list for more than a million.

  “Nice job, Mom,” I said.

  “Nice jumper,” she replied, studying my outfit. “You look a lot better than usual, Whitney. Is Jeb dressing you?”

  Before I could respond, Odette introduced herself to Stevie, slipping her a business card.

  “I’ve heard about you,” Stevie said. “You’ve sold homes to several families at The Bentwood School.”

  Odette reeled off five or six names. “When you’re ready to buy or sell, give me a call.”

  She walked away. Mom lingered a minute, smiling like a contented flight attendant.

  “Odette’s the best in the business,” she confirmed.

  “I was talking to Whiskey about real estate,” Stevie said.

  “Talk to Odette,” Mom said. “She’s better at it.”

  21

  My mother was right. Odette was better at selling real estate than I was. But, dammit, I was Odette’s boss. Hell, I was my mother’s boss, too, as of that afternoon, and I wanted to claim Stevie McCoy as my client.

  “Jeb is not dressing me,” I hissed at Mom.

  Although I couldn’t claim credit for buying the jumper, I didn’t want her assuming that I needed Jeb in more ways than I actually did. Mom was already following Odette to the corner banquette, arguably the best seat in the house. If either of Mother Tucker’s owners had been on duty that evening, they would have given me that table.

  Some people liked me at least as well as they liked Odette. Some even liked me better although I couldn’t have named anyone specific at that moment, except Jeb. Maybe Stevie would become one of my fans.

  I smiled warmly at her, and of course she smiled back. That didn’t do a lot to boost my ego because Stevie was a smiler. As soon as I met her at the school that morning, I had noticed that smiling was something she did automatically and often. If she thought smiling would help recruitment, retention, marketing, PR, or whatever else her job entailed, no doubt she smiled, just like she was doing right now.

  “How soon would you like to start looking for your next home?” I asked her, sounding like a sales agent on steroids.

  “How about tomorrow?” she replied.

  I was so excited that I had to fight the urge to shout out the news to Odette and Mom.

  Instead, I forced myself to speak quietly. “What time will work for you, Stevie?”

  She checked her schedule on her smart phone.

  “I can take a long lunch tomorrow,” she said. “Could you show me a few places between, say, eleven and one?”

  “I can show you a few astonishing places,” I said. “Prepare to be amazed.”

  Even as the words gushed from my mouth, I knew I needed to dial my act back a few notches. Amazement might not be possible on Stevie’s budget. Then again, depending on the condition of the furnished cabin where she and her son had been living for five years, even a modest two-bedroom, two-bath condo could be a big step up.

  “How much are you prepared to spend?” I asked.

  Color rose in Stevie’s face, calling attention to her gorgeous bone structure. I could only hope to look that good at fifty-something.

  “I’ll be honest with you, Whiskey. I haven’t qualified for a mortgage yet, but I’ve done my homework on the subject. Unless I’m sorely mistaken, I should be able to afford something between two-twenty-five and two-fifty.”

  I exhaled softly, feeling relieved and more than a tad surprised. If I had guessed Stevie’s budget—never a wise idea—I would have topped out at one-fifty.

  “Excellent,” I said. “Do you want to see a mix of condos and houses?”

  She did. For a quarter-mil I wouldn’t be able to place her anywhere near water, of course, but I was confident I could provide a couple of items from her wish list. It included a fireplace, an attached garage, ample closet space, and a porch or deck. When I asked if she wanted stainless steel appliances in the kitchen, she shrugged.

  “I rarely cook, so the kitchen isn’t important.”

  “But you have a teen-age son,” I pointed out.

  “Tate isn’t fussy about food. I raised him to eat what he’s given.”

  Exactly what my kid would learn. I experienced another micro-panic attack as I realized that I would surely have to start stocking groceries and maybe even learn to cook a few things. No question about it. I was totally and hopelessly unprepared for motherhood.

  “Most kids learn to like what you feed them,” Stevie added, as if reading my mind. “The secret, of course, is to provide healthy foods and make them attractive.”

  “Of course.” I faked a knowing smile to cover my terror.

  “Tate is great ab
out eating fruits and vegetables as long as I let him have a few treats every day,” she said.

  Idly, I wondered whether I’d laid eyes on Tate that morning. Stevie struck me as a natural redhead—unlike my mom—but I couldn’t recall seeing a red-haired teenage boy. I had retained enough of my high school biology to know that red hair in humans is a recessive trait, so Stevie’s kid might not have inherited her hair color. He might not resemble her at all.

  “What does Tate look like?” I said, hoping to bond with Stevie while also tickling my memory.

  “Naturally,” she smiled, “I think he’s the handsomest boy in the school, but I might be prejudiced. Let’s see. How can I describe Tate? Well, he’s not tall yet although I know another growth spurt is coming soon. To me, his best feature is probably his eyes. They’re bright blue, like a summer sky.”

  Stevie gazed out the window into a night so black it was almost opaque.

  “He’s an ambitious boy,” she added. “He gets impatient sometimes because he wants more of the world than he’s ready to handle, but I tell him he will have everything he needs and wants, in time.”

  The waiter arrived with our food, Portobello mushroom burgers and steak fries for both of us, plus a side of guacamole with chips for me. Since my morning sickness subsided, I had developed insatiable cravings for certain foods I used to be indifferent to, including avocados. Go figure. Stevie excused herself briefly to use the restroom, instructing me not to wait for her before tucking into my meal. I complied greedily. When she returned, we both devoted more energy to chewing than talking. Even so, those delicious moments were interrupted by the beeps of several incoming texts. If one wishes to make bucks in the real estate biz, one really can’t afford to ignore those, no matter how inconvenient the timing. I set my utensils down, rummaged in my bag, and checked the messages. All of them were from Jeb. More photos of Sandra Bullock in costume. Now she was wearing a nurse’s uniform complete with an old-fashioned starched white cap perched between her bat ears.

  Jeb’s message read: How cute is she?

  I huffed and texted back: How cute does Abra think she is?

  Realizing that Stevie was watching me, I apologized.

  “My boyfriend brought home a dog that my dog hates. He’s trying to work it out between them, but that’s not happening. My dog is an Afghan hound. This is my boyfriend’s dog.”

  I showed Stevie the silly nurse-costume photos, assuming she would side with me.

  Instead she exclaimed, “A Frenchie. I love those dogs.”

  “Seriously? Well, you can have this one.”

  “I wish. I’m not home enough to take care of a dog, and neither is Tate, so condos that restrict pets are not a problem.”

  I made the mental note. As I did so, another text arrived from Jeb: Bad news. Another dogfight. Chester taking Abra home 2 his house 2nite.

  So help me, I growled.

  “Sorry,” I told Stevie. “The dogs are still fighting, and that ticks me off because my dog was there first.”

  I was in the process of texting Jeb a “his-bitch-or-mine” ultimatum when Stevie interrupted.

  “Have you considered hiring a pet psychic?”

  “A what?”

  “A pet psychic. They can be very helpful resolving animal aggression.”

  I cocked my head the way Prince Harry used to before lifting a leg on my furniture. I wasn’t about to pee, but I was confused.

  “A pet psychic?”

  Stevie nodded. “I know it sounds silly, but a number of our parents have had excellent results.”

  Now I was even more baffled.

  “Parents at your school consulted a pet psychic to work out their aggression?”

  Stevie laughed. “To work out aggression between dogs in their household. They swear it works when all else fails.”

  I wasn’t sure we’d tried “all else,” but I was absolutely sure I didn’t have the time or energy to sort out doggie issues, particularly when they caused issues between Jeb and me. As ambivalent as I felt about Abra, I couldn’t bear her being exiled from Vestige while the bat-pig dog posed for the camera-phone in silly costumes. I said as much to Stevie.

  “Frenchies do love to dress up,” she said. “And everybody loves a Frenchie.”

  “Not me.”

  “You will when you get to know her.”

  “I know myself, and that is never gonna happen.”

  “I recommend the pet psychic,” Stevie said.

  “There’s one in town?”

  “Oh yes.”

  Why was I surprised? Magnet Springs was a hotbed for New Age mumbo-jumbo.

  “She’s been here for years, but she’s selective about her clientele,” Stevie explained.

  “You mean, she’s pricey.”

  “Oh, she’s not in it for the money. You’re right, though, her services aren’t cheap. She accepts only those cases where she’s sure she can help.”

  “Where she’s sure people can afford her,” I translated.

  Stevie shrugged.

  “Who is she?” I said.

  Stevie reached into her handbag and pulled out her wallet. From it, she extracted a business card.

  “I keep a supply of business cards for parents who might have issues. Anything I can do to help our families helps our school.”

  She smiled reflexively. I took the card she offered, which featured a lighthearted line-drawing of two dogs, strikingly different in size and shape. One looked like a stocky little terrier; the other was a long-legged creature with a graceful neck and a dramatic tuck. The card read

  Pet Psychic

  Solving Your Animals’ Destructive Issues

  Without Force

  We win

  followed by the same phone number and email address on a business card that was already in my wallet.

  “Anouk Gagné is an archer, a breeder and a pet psychic?” I asked. “What credentials can a pet psychic possibly have?”

  “Satisfied clients,” Stevie said. “I could refer you to several families who were very grateful for her services.”

  I picked up my phone and reviewed the photos of Sandra Bullock in nurse uniform and elf costume. Since when was Jeb into doggie role-playing? But that was beside the point. The point was that the hound who had a right to live at my house was now boarding at Chester’s house because of a usurper dog I didn’t even like. Oh, the irony. Chester used to hang out at Vestige because his mother allowed him no pets at home. Tonight he had three dogs at The Castle, and all of them came from Vestige.

  “My head hurts,” I told Stevie. “What do you do when you have a massive headache, and you’re pregnant?”

  “Go home and lie down,” she said sympathetically. “Have your boyfriend rub your feet.”

  That sounded like a wonderful plan, provided the Frenchie was down for the night. I reached for the check, but Stevie beat me to it.

  “I invited you,” she insisted. “And I enjoyed this.”

  “Me, too,” I said. “Tomorrow I buy lunch.”

  We agreed that I would pick her up in front of The Bentwood School at eleven A. M. sharp. I glanced toward the best booth in the house, where my mother appeared to be regaling my star agent with stories. As I watched, Odette refilled Mom’s wine glass. The woman who had raised me almost never drank, at least not while she lived in Michigan. Tonight I hoped she had a designated driver.

  Mom paused long enough to take a big sip of the red wine, probably a fine Pinot like I would have been savoring if I weren’t in mom-to-be mode, resumed her story, imitating someone inclined to roll her eyes and sigh a lot. Her routine amused Odette to no end. I rolled my eyes and sighed.

  Head throbbing, I made my way out of the restaurant into the fresh night air. Almost nothing about the evening smelled like December in Michigan. Except for the faintest trace of wood smoke from someone’s distant chimney, it might as well have been late March. I caught the scent of damp earth and old leaves. Even the lake sent up a mossy odor appropriate to
warmer months. The air offered nothing crisp or frosty.

  As I opened the driver’s door, I noticed a folded piece of paper tucked under my left wiper blade. Grunting, I leaned around to pluck it, planning to chuck it when I cleaned out my car. But this was no advertisement. My name was handwritten on the outside below the horizontal fold. I got inside and read the short note inside before fastening my seatbelt.

  I have information about what you saw on the bike trail last night.

  I would prefer to share it with you before I call the police.

  Phone me at

  The writer had provided a local cell phone number but no name.

  I locked my doors and clicked off the dome light. I scanned the parking lot, which was devoid of people, or at least people I could see. My headache was gone, replaced by a scalp to sole jolt of fear. I glanced down to see that my left hand, the one not holding the note, covered my bump. While the stress of recent events couldn’t be good for my baby, I now believed I had maternal instincts.

  Suddenly, Baby kicked hard. No question, there was ferocious life in there and a fearsome killer out there. Whoever left that note had come looking for me. Granted, my personalized license plate MI HOME may have simplified the search, but the note-leaver knew where to look. I shivered and not from the cold. We didn’t have any of that. What we did have in Magnet Springs was a murderer who knew I had witnessed his—or her—crime.

  22

  Dialing Jenx’s direct line, my hand didn’t tremble as much as it had the previous night. Now there was no fresh body in front of me, just an alarming anonymous note.

  “Yo,” Jenx answered, sounding annoyed, and also like she knew who was calling.

  “Do you have Caller ID on this line?” I said.

  “What do you think, Whiskey?”

  “I think you should know about the note I just found on my windshield.”

  I read it to her, complete with phone number.

  “Can you find out whose phone that is?” I said. “It’s the same exchange as Jeb’s.”

  I remembered something.

  “It’s the same exchange as the cell number on the Blitzen poster.”