by Nina Wright
“Pancakes or oatmeal?” Jeb shouted from downstairs.
“For breakfast?” I inquired hopefully.
“I’m not taking a survey,” he replied.
“In that case I’ll have both.”
Momentarily overwhelmed with joy, I let myself sink back into my pillows. Not only was I getting a hot breakfast cooked by someone else, but that “someone else” happened to be the cheery father of my child. A man who now seemed more attentive—and attractive—than ever before in our long history. I was beginning to believe, finally, that Jeb just might be the loving and loyal partner I needed him to be.
Absentmindedly, I glanced at the gray smear on the palm of my left hand. Even though I could no longer read it, I remembered what I’d written, and what Jeb had said about it. He was correct, as usual. Doing the right thing would have to include Sandra Bullock.
After eating pancakes and oatmeal and offering Abra clean water and maybe, just maybe, enjoying dessert-in-bed with Jeb, I would call Anouk Gagné. I would take a deep breath and ask her to please, please apply her pet psychic skills to Abra and Sandra so that Jeb and I and our baby could live happily ever after.
Abra interrupted my reverie by leaping onto my bed and doing something she almost never did. She licked my face. I hate dog spit. Especially in the vicinity of my own spit, and extra especially when that dog spit just came from the toilet.
“Yuck. Ick. Arrgh.”
“She’s trying to kiss you, Whiskey,” Jeb said, laughing as he entered our bedroom with two steaming mugs.
“Slime me, you mean. Don’t even ask where her mouth has been.”
“I never ask that question,” he said, deftly delivering his own kiss along with the coffee.
It was the kind of kiss that renders breakfast irrelevant. I could only hope he hadn’t started anything else boiling because I was way too hot to let him leave.
Much later, he left the room to feed and water the hound. The food portion of our breakfast was yet to come. I couldn’t believe that my phone would ring again while it was still so early. I read the clock, which said nine. Time flies when you spend the morning at play.
“Whiskey? Stevie McCoy. I hope I’m not interrupting your day.”
I assured her that she wasn’t, but from there I didn’t know what to say or not say. I decided that the safest route was to pretend that I didn’t know the identity of the criminal captured on my lawn last night.
“This is so awkward,” Stevie said. “But here goes. That was my son who vandalized your property, Whiskey. I am very, very sorry about his actions, and he is, too. We will find a way to make it up to you. Please believe me.”
I did believe her. Except for the part about Tate’s being “very, very sorry.” I hadn’t seen a single sign of shame in the teenager, but I could let that go.
“Are we still on?” I asked her.
Silence. Then she groaned.
“Oh my god. I completely forgot that we were supposed to get together today. I was up all night with Tate, so I’m taking the day off. Frankly, I can’t face other parents right now.”
I made sympathetic noises, and I meant them. I had already seen the PTO unsheathe their claws. If they were willing to gang up on the headmaster, what might they do to the admissions/recruitment/marketing director once they decided her son was toxic to the school? Make her job a living hell.
I envisaged Kimmi Kellum-Ramirez, Robin Wardrip and Loralee Lowe texting the news of Tate’s arrest to every Bentwood School parent. Surely that had already happened unless Ronald Kittler had worked his magic. Was the criminal defense attorney adroit enough at damage control to keep Tate’s arrest on the down-low? Jenx hadn’t been specific about Kittler’s approach. If he had figured out how to hide or disguise the news from parents and the media, he just might save the kid’s reputation and his mom’s job, at least for now.
“Let me take you to lunch,” I told Stevie. “I owe you a meal.”
She laughed bitterly. “Not anymore. Tate and I owe you for the damage he did to your property, which we will cover completely. I promise.”
“No worries. Tate and I will work it out.”
If he resisted, I knew how to break him, by belittling his learning disability and surrounding him with local dogs. Nah. That was cruel and unusual punishment.
Stevie thanked me for understanding and promised to get back to me about viewing properties as soon as things settled down. I could read between the lines. What she meant was that she would call if she still had her job next year. Fortunately, Tate was due to graduate in the spring. I figured he would matriculate into an academy where The Bentwood School parents weren’t poised to track his criminal tendencies. Maybe that would ease Stevie’s burden. Maybe not. I kept expecting the citizens of Magnet Springs to forget my dog was a felon. It never happened.
Jeb’s promised pancake breakfast was almost as tasty as his appetizer. He rinsed dishes while I finished my second short stack, an especially fluffy batch soaked in strawberry syrup. My phone, which I’d left on the counter rang loudly, distracting us just long enough for Abra to snare with one snap of her aquiline jaws all that remained on my plate. Jeb and I both reached for my phone, and Abra got away with the pancake. I checked Caller ID.
“Hello, Anouk. If you’re phoning for Abra, she can’t talk right now. Her mouth is full.”
I regarded my long-haired hound, noisily licking her chops. Sticky red syrup had migrated to her ears and paws.
“Napoleon is unhappy today. He demands an audience with his queen.”
“Don’t you mean his consort? Or concubine?”
Anouk was not amused. “For our dogs to thrive, we must respect their relationships. Can you have her here in half-an-hour?”
“Sure.”
This appointment would be easier to keep than most. I already knew Abra’s location. No need to scour the countryside.
In the past, I might have sniggered at the notion of Napoleon “needing” Abra. Not anymore. I realized that Abra needed Napoleon, too, if only to restore her sexual self-confidence in the wake of the Sandra Bullock-Officer Roscoe fiasco.
As a champion standard poodle, Napoleon had to be one studly dude. Naturally, he would demand a beautiful babe. With Abra spayed, there was no threat of mixing the breeds, the very definition of safe sex for dogs.
27
If, as Jenx theorized, Mark Vreelander’s killer had fired the fatal arrow from Tir à l’Arc, then I wanted to see the archery range firsthand. I thought it might help me process, and then repress, what I’d witnessed on the Rail Trail. As sweet as the last two nights with Jeb had been, I was sick of dreaming of him as Mark Vreelander, rolling off a bike with an arrow in his back.
This was also a chance to sleuth for Jenx, and, if I could get past the silliness, to ask Anouk about psychic counseling for Abra and Sandra.
I felt a surge of curiosity as I flicked on my closet light. If what Chester had said last night proved true, I might find another new ensemble from Jeb, via Curvy Mommy. Okay, the name made me cringe, but the clothes apparently made me look good. Before last night, I couldn’t recall when I’d gotten a compliment on something I wore. Now, rifling through a rack of too-small beige suits, I was pleased to discover another cool new jumper, this one dark mushroom with smocking across the bust line. I resolved not to check the size. No point in raining on my own parade. Jeb was trying to be a helpful expectant father, so what if he’d needed a boost from Chester?
I closed my eyes and tried to picture Jeb assisting me with our baby. No part of the image would come. Probably because I didn’t know enough about babies to envision what we would be doing with one. My eyes flew open. Shit. I didn’t even know how to change a diaper. How the hell were we going to figure this out? I couldn’t expect Chester to teach us everything.
Jeb walked into my bedroom—our bedroom—grinning broadly and speaking into the receiver of my landline phone.
“You are so right, Irene. Whitney, it’s your mother.”<
br />
For Jeb’s smile to be any wider, he would have required plastic surgery. I handed him my new Curvy Mommy clothes in exchange for the phone. If I’d known what he was going to do next, I would have dumped the clothes on the floor and shoved him out of the room. Well, probably not, but it is nigh on impossible to converse while being dressed by Jeb. With his sensuous musician’s fingers playing my flesh, I had to stifle moans of pleasure, in addition to a few giggles. Meanwhile, Mom droned on about something to do with a shower. Suddenly, I understood the point of her call.
“Mom,” I gasped, twisting away from Jeb. “I don’t want a baby shower.”
Silence. A rare thing when my mother’s on the phone.
“Did you hear me?” I said.
“Yes, Whitney, I heard you. Of course, you’ll want a baby shower, but it’s too soon for that. I’m talking about your bridal shower. When do you want that?”
“A bridal shower?”
I shot Jeb a withering look. He winked at me.
“Who said anything about a bride?” I demanded.
“Oh, we all know you two are getting married,” Mom said. “The only question is when.”
I told my mom I’d have to get back to her.
“Well, make it soon, Whitney. Showers require planning and it’s Christmas time. People are busy. By the way, I got another new listing for Odette this morning. If you’d get to the office on time like she does, I could get a listing for you.”
After I closed the call, I realized that Mom might prove useful in ways that had nothing to do with real estate. I was reasonably sure she knew how to change a diaper and perform other feats of childcare. While I didn’t expect her to babysit, I did hope she would show me the tricks of the trade.
I forgave Jeb for so obviously enjoying my mother’s phone call. How could I not? He made love to me. He fed me. He even dressed me. He had also agreed to send Sandra Bullock away for the night. Despite his insistence that I let her come back, I did love having Jeb around. Pulling a brush through my stubborn curls, I asked him to prepare Abra for departure using the leash. She was not getting away from me today.
Moments later I stood in front of my coat closet, mentally debating how much outerwear I required. According to the update on my phone, it was already 46 degrees on its way to the upper 50s. I selected a lightweight leather jacket, plenty warm enough for this morning and easily discarded by the time the afternoon sun had worked its magic. In the kitchen, I found Abra wearing an understated leather leash attached to her rhinestone collar.
“Her hair looks worse than mine,” I said, noting the kinds of bumps and knots I usually found in my own mane. Hers also featured chunks of dirt and dead leaves, a look I had never attempted, plus strawberry syrup highlights.
“We could put a hat on her,” Jeb suggested. “I bought a slew of ’em for Sandra.”
Did he honestly think an Affie would wear a hat? Let alone a hat purchased for a Frenchie? With admirable dignity, I kept my lip from curling. Abra behaved, too.
“She doesn’t wear hats. She eats them,” I told Jeb. “I can ask Anouk to groom her in return for sexual services.”
“Wait. Who’s having sex today?”
Leave it to a man to hear only one word.
“Napoleon needs a little sexual healing,” I explained. When Jeb frowned, I added, “Napoleon the standard poodle? The champion who ran off with the goat who was really Abra? She stoked his fire, and now he wants more.”
“Got it,” Jeb said, handing over her lead.
Even a bucking Abra was manageable when leashed, which made me consider keeping the leather tether permanently attached to her collar. Why not let her drag it everywhere she went? All I’d have to do to when I needed to control her was dive for the other end. Right.
Once in my vehicle, she immediately settled down and dozed off. It was as if she knew that a little more beauty sleep could only help her cause. I tried not to imagine what an over-sexed Affie and a horny standard poodle would do all day. If Anouk confined them to a kennel, I hoped it had adequate sound-proofing. Abra in lust was way noisier than regular Abra. I glanced again at her gnarly coat. Unless Napoleon was into messy sex, Anouk might choose to clean up my hound before the event rather than after. Then again, if her boy liked strawberry syrup, their doggie foreplay could be extra fun.
Tir à l’Arc was located just off Orion Road, south of the lot where I had parked my car two nights earlier. In fact, the Rail Trail bisected the archery range. It had been many months since I’d ridden that far, but now I recalled the signs posted there. Although they didn’t warn cyclists and hikers of death by arrow, they did announce the presence of the range and urge passersby to stay on the trail. A lot of good that had done Mark Vreelander.
A private club, Tir à l’Arc had its own small gravel parking lot. I was stunned to find it nearly full on a Wednesday morning in December. Pulling into the only remaining spot, between two minivans, I snapped off the engine and instantly heard the unmistakable voices of children. Lots of children. Shouldn’t they be in school? Christmas break surely didn’t start this early. And even if it did, why would they all be shooting arrows? With the weather still Florida-mild, weren’t they more likely to ride their bikes?
Abra yawned without bothering to lift her elegant head from the leather seat. Children, with or without lethal weapons, were of no interest to her. Suddenly, though, the sonorous bark of another big dog reached us both. Abra was on her feet, sailing back and forth from the front of my car to the rear, whining pathetically. Apparently, Napoleon was pining for her. I snagged her leash, steeled myself, and unlocked the doors. Out we flew. Miraculously—or maybe thanks to her psychic powers—Anouk Gagné was walking rapidly in our direction. A quiver of arrows slung over one shoulder, she appeared as she had on the Rail Trail. I realized that she must be giving lessons. The range behind her featured four targets, each with a queue of children and mothers.
Even at this distance, I recognized Kimmi Kellum-Ramirez chatting animatedly with Loralee Lowe. Kimmi’s many gold bracelets and necklaces glimmered in the winter-slanted sunlight. As usual, she wore ridiculously high heels. They pitched her forward at an improbable angle, made perilous by her disproportionately large breasts. Loralee wore a soft, flowing pastel dress under a dark pea coat. I noticed that her calves were well-muscled.
“Hello!” Anouk called out to me. On second thought, she was probably greeting Abra. The Affie gagged, straining on her leash.
“Let her go, Whiskey,” Anouk said.
“Oh, I don’t think so,” I protested.
“Release!” Anouk commanded.
I did, along with four children who were holding loaded bows. Fortunately, all arrows were aimed away from us. Freed from my grip, Abra surged toward Anouk, a bounding blonde beauty panting for attention.
Anouk held out her arms to the Affie, saying something I couldn’t hear. In the next instant, a dog that looked just like Abra but behaved nothing like her was sitting patiently, watching the French woman for her next command.
“Amazing,” I told Anouk. “How is that possible?”
“Through practice and discipline.”
“I was afraid you’d say that. Whenever something looks easy, I want to believe it really is.”
“It really isn’t,” Anouk assured me.
“This must be a field trip from The Bentwood School,” I surmised, indicating the hectic archery range.
“It’s a seminar that Mark hired me to teach. We’re having our fourth session.”
She waved toward the children, now ready to fire again.
“Release!” she shouted, and they did. I couldn’t help but notice that at least half the arrows veered far from their marks. How fortunate that Abra’s eyes were obediently locked on Anouk’s face. No way she would have resisted chasing those flying sticks.
“Are these parents learning archery, too?” I asked.
“The seminar is for the children. The adults are chaperones. However, archery i
s a fine family sport.”
“Isn’t it dangerous?”
“No more so than other sports.”
I could have named a dozen sports in which participants ran no risk of being shot.
“How about those mothers over there?” I pretended to randomly choose Kimmi and Loralee. “Do they know archery?”
“Ms. Lowe, on the left, is athletic and strong for her size. I cannot say the same for Ms. Kellum-Ramirez. She has balance issues.”
Indeed. I pressed Anouk for more information about Loralee’s archery skills. She was noncommittal, insisting that the teacher was there to supervise third and fourth graders. That was when I noticed the absence of Chester. Anouk explained that some children chose a music seminar instead, which made sense for my neighbor since his parents were professional musicians. I couldn’t picture Chester shooting anything except a video.
“So, do Robin Wardrip’s sons take this seminar?”
I hoped my interest sounded casual. Before Anouk could reply, Camo-Mom herself stepped out of a small outbuilding near the lines of archers. Carrying a bow and quiver, she wore a leather glove. I watched her purposefully approach the nearest line of children.
“Robin is my co-teacher,” Anouk explained. “Those are her sons.”
I followed her gaze to two brown-haired boys, almost the same height.
“You told me Robin used to be your protégée, but her anger issues made her unfit for the archery range.”
“Did I say that?” Anouk asked, her dark eyes twinkling mischievously.
“You know you did.”
She shrugged. “Robin and I have had our differences. She’s very good with the children, however, particularly the boys.”
I thought of a particularly challenging boy at The Bentwood School.
“Do you accept any student who wants to take this course?”
“Yes, provided they have no history of discipline issues.”
That would explain the absence of Tate McCoy, even if he hadn’t been busted the night before. Just to be clear, I asked Anouk whether he had signed up.