Nina Wright - Whiskey Mattimoe 06 - Whiskey and Soda

by Nina Wright

Prince Harry panted and grinned as if his team had just won a national championship. Jeb was busy comforting Sandra Bullock. Again. Except for losing another hat, she seemed none the worse for wear. Any excuse to cuddle with her man was probably her definition of triumph.

  Brady opened the squad car door, presumably to reassure his K9 partner. The vandal cowered in the backseat. Under the dome light, his face shone ghostly white, and his eyes were a dark shadow. Suddenly he cried out, sounding more like a frightened child than a delinquent teenager.

  “You got crazy dogs in the car, on the car, and around the car. I want my mom! Somebody call my mom!”

  When the kid collapsed in a wracking sob, Chester stepped forward for a better look.

  He said, “Tate?”

  24

  I turned to Chester. “Please tell me that’s not Ms. McCoy’s son.”

  “Well, I could tell you that,” Chester said. “But I’d be lying.”

  The one and only person I liked at The Bentwood School—other than Chester, of course—was the mother of a juvenile delinquent, the very vandal who had damaged my property and been a royal pain during the morning assembly.

  Where did Stevie think her son was tonight? Do kids that age still need a sitter, I wondered. I felt sick because I didn’t know. Would my child turn out to be a criminal, too, because I was clueless about parenting?

  Fortunately, Chester interrupted that trainwreck of thought.

  “Tate’s got issues, but he’s great at stand-up.”

  “He ran like a rat,” I said.

  “Stand-up comedy,” Chester clarified. “Tate loves the spotlight.”

  I pictured the kid in a police helicopter searchlight. Where was Tate’s dad? If Stevie was the only parent, did she want it that way?

  I swallowed hard, recalling that I had briefly thought Jeb didn’t deserve to know I was pregnant since he hadn’t seemed totally committed to me. After my anger receded and I did tell him, I still felt entitled to handle everything my own way. Now I shuddered at my selfishness and ignorance. Good parenting, I realized in a white-bright epiphany, wasn’t about being right; it was about trying to do right. Maybe that was what Noonan and my mother had been telling me for months. I asked Chester if he had a pen; I wanted to write it down in case I got confused again.

  “There’s a pen in my shirt pocket,” he said. “But I don’t have a free hand to grab it.”

  Of course, he didn’t. In one hand, he was holding a quaking teacup dog, and in the other he was holding the leash of a recidivist-felon dog. Chester was a loving, caring kid, yet his father had been strictly a sperm donor and his messed-up celebrity mom had provided little more than a womb, followed by a large household staff. Hmm. Maybe there was hope for my kid.

  As I extracted the pen from his pocket, Chester said, “I meant to tell you, Whiskey, you look lovely in that jumper.”

  “I’m six months pregnant. I look fat.”

  He shook his head. “You look nice. I’m glad Jeb went shopping for you.”

  So my mother had been right. Jeb was dressing me. When had he found time to go shopping? And how did Chester know about it?

  “We discussed your wardrobe on the phone last week,” Chester explained. Translation: Chester had told Jeb I looked horrible. “I recommended Curvy Mommy, an online clothing retailer for expectant mothers. You’re going to find more surprises in your closet.”

  “Curvy Mommy?” My toes curled in revulsion. “How would you know about a fashion website for pregnant women?”

  “I know how to do research, thanks to my tutors.”

  Thanks to Tate’s crime, the only source of illumination in my yard was a sliver of moon, but I could see Chester beaming.

  “We have a few good teachers at The Bentwood School,” he said. “I think Ms. McCoy is good at her job, too. It’s probably not her fault that Tate’s a criminal.”

  I wanted to believe that for two reasons: to forgive myself in advance for not being a perfect parent and to excuse Stevie because I liked her.

  After using Chester’s pen to scrawl “do the right thing” on my palm, I invited Abra back to her own bedroom. Chester agreed that the original bad dog shouldn’t be shipped off just because a new naughty girl had arrived on the scene. Sandra Bullock could spend tonight at The Castle with Velcro and Prince Harry. Jeb resisted at first, offering a series of increasingly lame excuses for why Sandra needed him close by. When he argued that she would pine for him, Chester chimed in.

  “No worries, Jeb. Frenchies aren’t choosy about the human company they keep, just as long as they keep human company, and they like most other dogs although Frenchie females often fight other females.”

  “As we have clearly seen,” I agreed. To Chester I whispered, “Did you read that somewhere? Or did you make it up?”

  “My brain is so full I can’t always remember how I know what I know, but I know I know Frenchies.”

  Jeb’s last objection to Sandra’s spending the night at The Castle was that she might unintentionally seduce the dog-boys. I pointed out that Velcro was too fragile to engage her, and Prince Harry was too young to stand still.

  Chester handed me Abra’s leash. She gazed affectionately at him for a long moment before sighing and consenting to come with me. She came with me because I dragged her. When Chester summoned Sandra, she trotted toward him with Frenchie zest and nary a glance back at Jeb. Later my guy and I would admit to each other what we’d felt at that moment. I wished my dog would come when I called, and Jeb wished his dog would come only to him.

  We watched the boy who loved dogs run off with three of them into the darkness separating Vestige from The Castle. Jeb had offered to drive them all, but Chester wanted to jog in honor of the dead headmaster.

  Aware that she was getting her own bedroom back, Abra did a happy dance and swallowed more of Sandra’s hat. En route to the house, she found the Frenchie’s semi-chewed afternoon-fight hat, and added it to what was left in her jaws. She bounded up the stairs, sailed onto her bed, made the usual pointless doggie circle, flopped down on her pillows and promptly fell asleep. Gotta love a dog with no guilt.

  In my house, all dogs get equal treatment at night. It’s called lockdown.

  Jeb embraced me from behind as I secured Abra’s door.

  “Amazing,” he whispered. “You can make a boy and three dogs disappear.”

  “Four dogs, if you count the one who’s unconscious,” I whispered back.

  He closed my mouth with a kiss before I could finish.

  25

  If only I could report that every part of my night with Jeb was as deliciously romantic as that first deep kiss. In the beginning everything was sweet and sexy. We stood in the hall kissing and molding our bodies to each other. Jeb led me to my bedroom—our bedroom—where he undressed me slowly, caressing every newly exposed inch of skin. He paused when he reached the palm of my left hand, where I had scrawled the Chester-inspired morality note to myself.

  “What’s this?” Jeb strained to decipher my blurred script. “‘Do the right thing?’”

  “Forget about it,” I whispered. “Let’s keep doing the other thing.”

  “Why did you write this?”

  The hormones flooding my brain wouldn’t let me remember. They were screaming, “Take me. Take me now.”

  So I passed that message along to Jeb. He kissed me but without the desperate passion I craved.

  “Seriously, babe,” he said, “what’s this about?”

  He was holding up my left palm so that I could reread what I had written.

  “Not now,” I moaned. “Later. Much later. Kiss me.”

  Jeb complied, but his ardor had declined. While we made love, I could tell that his mind kept circling back to the note on my palm, which I couldn’t wait to wash off, proving that my mind veered there, too. Did he think I wrote the note because I had done something awful? Or because I was tempted to? Did he think I had cheated on him? Did he—horror of horrors—suspect that the baby wasn
’t his?

  The instant that fear slammed my brain, I jackknifed into a sitting position.

  “Did I hurt you?” Jeb said, rolling away.

  “No, and I didn’t hurt you. Honest. I’ve always been faithful.”

  “Sure you have,” he said, suddenly sounding sleepy.

  I shoved my left palm in his face, using the index finger of my right hand to tap what was now a black smear.

  “This is about our future. This is about being good parents. Together.”

  “Got it,” he yawned. “When I saw it, I thought maybe you were thinking of Sandra.”

  “Huh?”

  “I hoped it meant you were going to be fair to her.”

  Uh-oh.

  “Fair?” I said warily.

  Jeb slid a pillow under his right shoulder so that his face was close to mine.

  “You know, treat Sandra like she’s your dog, too.”

  “I already have a dog. We have a dog. Her name is Abra.”

  “No, babe,” Jeb said. “Abra is the dog you got with Leo. She’s always going to be part of him.”

  “Why can’t you adopt her?” I almost shouted in frustration.

  “I already have, but I also want a dog that’s ours. Yours and mine.”

  “Sandra Bullock is your dog,” I said.

  “I found Sandra, but she’s yours, too. She will love you, Whiskey. Sandra loves everybody.”

  I didn’t hear a compliment in that line. I knew it was true, however. Sandra wagged her stubby stump of a tail at everyone she met.

  Suddenly, I understood why Abra hated her. Sandra was an automatic tail-wagger, much as Stevie McCoy was an automatic smiler. Sandra wagged because she was built that way, whereas Stevie smiled to advance her sales career. Like Abra, I didn’t have much truck with naturally friendly types, but I could empathize with those who feigned friendliness to earn a living. I’d been known to do it myself.

  Sandra’s easy gregariousness was the antithesis of Abra’s basic nature, which was to remain aloof and unattainable. Therein lay the seed of the two canines’ conflict. If only the bitches could talk it out. I said as much to Jeb.

  “Maybe Chester can help,” he mused. “The kid’s been known to speak a little canine. Remember how he translated for Abra last summer?”

  Jeb was referring to Abra’s experience as sole witness to a heinous act. Whereas Chester’s translated account of her doggie narrative wasn’t admissible in court, it did lead authorities to make an arrest.

  “These dogs need counseling,” I said, trying to work up the courage to mention Anouk Gagné, Pet Psychic.

  “You mean, like a pet psychic?” Jeb said.

  “You know about pet psychics?”

  “I know about one. The woman you saw on the Rail Trail. What’s her name? The one whose poodle’s hot for Abra. Lots of people take their dogs to her. Hey, aren’t you supposed to take Abra over there for a play date this week?”

  I demanded to know how Jeb had heard about Anouk’s pet psychic biz before I did. After all, I sold real estate in this town while he spent half his time on the road.

  “It’s that denial thing you got going on, babe. If you don’t want to know about it, you don’t know about it.”

  Jeb caressed my belly just as our baby kicked. Hard.

  “That is so cool. You got a boy in there, for sure.”

  “Could be a girl,” I said. “A strong-willed girl who wants out.”

  Jeb chuckled. “Just like her mom.”

  We kissed again. And again. As usual, my guy plucked the sweetest strings within me, and the rest just happened naturally. After our lovemaking, I dreamt about Jeb, and my dreams felt almost as fine as the real thing until they moved to a view of the Rail Trail on a warm sunny day. I was riding alone on Blitzen, working up a sweat. Suddenly I spotted Jeb riding toward me, wearing yellow and white Spandex.

  “You look like the headmaster,” I called out.

  Jeb raised his hands, just as the headmaster had done.

  “Don’t do that!” I screamed, but it was too late.

  Like the headmaster, Jeb rolled off his bike. I squeezed my eyes shut, but not fast enough to block the sight of an arrow sticking out of his back.

  “Nooooo,” I cried. “This can’t be happening!”

  “Whiskey, wake up. You’re having a nightmare.”

  I blinked at him in the blackness of our bedroom.

  “I was having the dream again. You were riding on the Rail Trail. Like the headmaster, and you got killed just like he did.”

  “Don’t worry, babe. I got no plans to ride a bike on the Rail Trail. Besides, nobody wants to kill me.”

  “I’ll bet that’s what Mark Vreelander thought,” I said, wiping tears from my eyes. “Look at me. I’m crying.”

  Jeb chuckled. “You must really love me.”

  “This isn’t funny,” I said. “I’m really upset.”

  “I know you are, babe, and it makes me love you even more than I already do.”

  He drew me close and gave me a comforting kiss just as my phone rang. Jeb took his time completing the kiss before grabbing the phone from the nightstand and passing it to me.

  “What time is it?” I barked into the phone without bothering to check Caller ID. I could guess who was on the other end.

  “Seven twenty-nine,” Jenx said. “I worked an all-nighter.”

  “Not my problem. You need to respect people’s schedules.”

  “And you need to respect the commitments you make,” she retorted. “You promised to deliver two flash drives to the station.”

  “Yeah, well, a bad bout of vandalism can mess things up.”

  That reminded me of my lunch-hour appointment with the little criminal’s mom. Were we still on? Or was Stevie due down at Juvie Court with her kid? I asked Jenx what went down after Tate arrived at the station last night.

  “He lawyered up, just like he told Brady he would. Ronald Kittler is representing him.”

  “Seriously?”

  Ronald Kittler was the priciest criminal defense attorney in Lanagan County. I suspected that Stevie’s real-estate nest egg was now her son’s legal defense fund.

  Jenx said, “The good counselor showed up with Mom less than an hour after Brady brought Tate in.”

  “Now that’s what I call customer service. Have charges been filed?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Any chance you’ll drop the charges?” I let my voice rise in childish hopefulness.

  “You want me to drop the charges?” Jenx said. “Tate McCoy vandalized Vestige, among other properties.”

  “I know, I know. Could you require restitution without litigation?”

  “Restitution plus community service,” Jenx huffed. “You’d better tell me why you think that little shithead deserves a break.”

  “He’s a nice enough kid.”

  “He’s a prick,” Jenx said.

  “He’s fifteen,” I protested.

  “In addition to being a vandal, he’s got a raging case of P.O.P.”

  Jenx was referring to his talent for pissing off police. She continued, “I was ready to pitch him through the plate-glass window just as his mom and attorney walked in.”

  “Tate was contrite by the time he left Vestige,” I said. “He was so scared he peed himself.”

  “Correction: he was so scared of you and the dogs he peed himself. Brady told me what happened.”

  “Okay. So the kid’s a jerk,” I conceded. “But his mom’s nice. She’s the only sane person at The Bentwood School.”

  “You want to sell her a house.”

  “Well, yeah. That, too. I don’t how she can afford Ronald Kittler.”

  “That’s not our business. Lots of people work out deals with their attorneys.”

  Was Jenx hinting at something sexual? I had met Kittler several times. He was twenty years older than Stevie, divorced and not attractive in any way that I defined the term.

  “Are you saying that Stevie and
Kittler are an item?”

  “No. I’m saying lots of people have unexpected resources. My guess is that Boss Man’s covering part of this bill.”

  “Boss Man?”

  “Tate’s only phone call last night was to George Bentwood.”

  I blinked. How many kids would call the head of their school if they got busted?

  “Tate called George, and George probably called Kittler,” Jenx said. “Who knows? Maybe legal fees are included in the tuition.”

  “Maybe they should be,” I mused. “Bentwood probably called Kittler because he doesn’t want more bad press for the school, but why didn’t Tate phone his mom?”

  “Maybe George is a father figure,” Jenx offered. “Somebody Tate confides in. Or maybe he was afraid his mom would go ballistic.”

  “Stevie seems like one of the ‘cool’ moms,” I said. “Bentwood seems way too detached to be fatherly. Does he even have children?”

  “Officially? Nope. But Loralee Lowe is pressuring him to admit that Gigi’s his. She’s got the DNA tests—and the pissed-off ex—to prove it. From what I hear, she’s playing nice so far, hoping Bentwood will step up and do the right thing.”

  I didn’t see how admitting illicit paternity would be the “right thing” for George, given that his distinguished family had founded The Bentwood School, and he was the school president as well as Loralee’s employer.

  “Who told you Loralee’s plan?” I said.

  “It’s a rumor.”

  “Come on. Who told you?”

  “You know I can’t divulge sources.”

  “Bullshit. This isn’t even your investigation. The State Boys have it.”

  “Which is why you gotta bring me the flash drives,” she growled before clicking off.

  26

  When I returned my phone to the nightstand, I realized that my man was no longer warming the sheets.

  “Jeb?” I asked the air.

  No reply. Unless you counted a flying Affie answering to someone else’s name.

  Abra the Afghan hound bounded across my bed en route to my bathroom. Seconds later, I heard her lapping out of the toilet like a common cur. She was probably not to blame for her lack of decorum as I couldn’t recall when I’d last refilled her water bowl. Munching Sandra’s hats had made her thirsty.