by Nina Wright
“He did, but I could not accept him.”
“Because of his behavior?” I asked.
“Because his mother wouldn’t give him permission.”
Stunned, I asked why not.
“She has her reasons. It is not my role to question a parent’s choice.”
I wanted to question that parent. Stevie seemed so cool, so progressive, and yet some of her choices baffled me. She apparently trusted her son to spend evenings unsupervised and yet she denied him a school-approved archery seminar with a former Olympic trainer. Why? Maybe saying no to the class was her way of punishing Tate for previous bad behavior. I was starting to surmise that parent-child dynamics could be dauntingly complex.
Abra whined softly, awaiting her next cue from Anouk.
“Not yet,” the archer said firmly, and my dog shut up.
I cleared my throat. “Stevie McCoy told me you’re a pet psychic. Can I hire you?”
“You already have.”
28
Abra heeled perfectly as Anouk Gagné walked her away from me, toward a modest two-story white frame house located a couple hundred feet from the archery range. Napoleon must have got a good whiff of my dog. He howled piteously in anticipation, presumably from an outdoor kennel.
As I turned to leave, I noticed that all three PTO moms were now conversing. Kimmi Kellum-Ramirez and Loralee Lowe had joined Robin Wardrip. Though not a fan of conspiracy theories, I couldn’t help thinking I was the subject of their chat. I was sure of it when Kimmi called out.
“Hey. You. Realtor lady!”
I took a deep breath and started toward them. “The name’s Whiskey Mattimoe.”
“Whatever,” Kimmi said. “You’re one of Chester’s personal assistants.”
“I’m his neighbor and also his friend.”
“Whatever,” she said again, flipping her long white-blonde bangs back from her forehead. Gold jangled against gold as her many bracelets banged together. “Any news about who killed the headmaster?”
“How would I know?”
The three moms exchanged glances.
“We think you’re the prime suspect,” Robin Wardrip said, her tone aggressive.
“I’m the eye witness. I phoned it in, remember?”
“Right. But you ran and you left your bike at the scene of the crime. Those wanted posters don’t help your case.”
“Those posters are irrelevant,” I said. “Ask Chief Jenkins.”
As soon as I spoke Jenx’s name, Camo-Mom’s face flushed. What was up with that?
“If you didn’t kill him, who did?” Kimmi demanded.
“Why would I kill him? I didn’t even know him.”
“Maybe you did it for Chester.”
“Are you nuts?” I cried. “Do you even know Chester? He liked the headmaster. Chester likes everybody, which is way more than you can say for the PTO.”
“You’ve been talking with Pauline Vreelander, haven’t you?” Loralee piped up.
I stared, picturing her heart-shaped face in the upstairs window on Fresno Avenue.
“How would you know that?” I demanded, wondering if I should call her out, announcing to her and the other mothers what I’d seen from the curb.
During the fracas at the front door, either Loralee had sneaked in, or Pauline had let her in. Or—another possibility—Loralee had been in the house, hiding or known to Pauline, since before I got there. In any case, Loralee had to be aware that I’d seen her because we’d made eye contact as I stood by my car. What was the name of this game, and how many people were playing it?
“Everybody knows Pauline phoned you,” Robin said. “She asked folks at school how to spell your name so she could contact you about selling their house.”
“Mrs. Vreelander and I discussed real estate,” I confirmed with deliberate vagueness.
“And how much her husband hated the PTO?” Loralee asked.
“Why would you say that?” I said. “Were you there?”
A long silence ensued, during which I never looked away from Loralee, and she never blinked. Finally, Camo-Mom coughed.
“Listen, Mattimoe. We don’t know how you got involved with Mark Vreelander, and, frankly, we don’t care. We do care about what happens at The Bentwood School, and you got no business there.”
I peered beyond the mothers to the unsupervised archery seminar, which was rapidly taking on the appearance of a riot. With weapons.
“Uh, aren’t you responsible for those kids?”
“Oh my god!” Kimmi screeched, teetering on her stiletto heels.
Loralee moved like a natural athlete to break up four third-graders wrestling over a single quiver and a circle of older girls braiding arrows into each other’s hair. Most of the other kids had picked sides and started a competition to see who could shoot an arrow the highest into the sky. That might have been innocent enough, but gravity, working the way it does, ensured a shower of pointy objects plummeting to earth at high velocity. Little girls were already screaming and covering their heads. Kimmi bellowed for her son and daughter because there was no way she could chase them, then she settled for saving her own skull, covering her head with wrists so heavily weighted by gold that she nearly knocked herself out.
Withdrawing a whistle from a pocket in her vest, Camo-Mom blew it to earsplitting effect. In the sudden silence, I couldn’t resist commenting.
“Good job, moms. Letting your kids run loose with the same weapon that killed their headmaster.”
Camo-Mom glared at me. “For your information, Mattimoe, those are not the same arrows. The kids are using target points. Vreelander was shot with a mechanical broadhead!”
I knew that, and of course Jenx did, too. She had been the one to tell me what type of arrow killed Mark, but the information had not been released to the public. So how did Camo-Mom know? And who else was in on the secret?
Before I could follow that line of thought, I heard a ping, followed by an intensifying whistle. I felt a narrow stabbing pain, more sudden than sharp. Glancing down, I saw an arrow protruding from my lower left belly. My baby! Without thinking, I grabbed the shaft and plucked. The arrow withdrew easily, leaving a small hole in my leather jacket and probably one in me. I felt a lingering sting.
I screamed. Not from pain, not because I saw blood, but from pure terror. I had been shot. My baby had been shot.
I must have shouted exactly that because Robin Wardrip was at my side, speaking firmly.
“Your baby wasn’t shot, Mattimoe. The arrow was in your clothes.”
“I was hit! Somebody shot me!”
The next sound I heard was that of a child wailing. A child, I reassured myself, not a baby. Not my baby.
The kid bawled, “It was an accident. I didn’t mean to do it.”
I peered past Camo-Mom to see Anouk Gagné gripping a young boy by the arm. In his hand, he clutched a bow. Face contorted, he cried messily. Kimmi Kellum-Ramirez stomped toward the boy as fast as her short legs and stilt-shoes would permit.
“Let go of him!” she shrieked at Anouk.
“Not until he understands what he did. Your son could have killed somebody.”
“I just wanted to see if I could shoot far enough to hit her,” the boy whined.
“You could have killed her,” Anouk said.
“Stop shaking him,” Kimmi cried. “Robin said these arrows aren’t even dangerous.”
“I never said that,” Camo-Mom exclaimed.
Kimmi shot her a withering gaze. “Well, you said they’re not like the one that killed Vreelander.”
“That was a broadhead. I said broadheads are used for hunting. These are target arrows, used for target practice. But they’re still arrows, not toys, you dumb bitch!”
Through the haze of my shock, I understood. Robin not only knew what kind of arrow felled the headmaster, but she had told the other mothers. Suddenly the archery range was deathly silent. Like a battlefield between campaigns. Two middle-school boys giggled over Camo-Mom’s w
ord choice, and a little girl whimpered fearfully, but the rest of the kids were struck dumb. When two sparrows tweeted in a tree, I idly thought about birds, then birds and bees, and I wondered what Abra and Napoleon were up to.
“Are you all right, Whiskey? Do you need a doctor?”
Anouk Gagné stood before me, petite and pulsing with energy.
I realized I was hugging my stomach with both trembling arms. Although I wasn’t in pain anymore, I did feel sick.
Anouk gently removed my hands and discreetly did what was necessary to survey the damage. She stood so close that she blocked the view from other enquiring eyes. I turned my own gaze away, holding my breath.
“You are fine,” Anouk pronounced. “Thank God you wore leather.”
She spun toward Kimmi, whose son clung pathetically to her hips.
“Lucky for you, this was not a tragedy,” Anouk said.
“You can’t blame Raphael,” Kimmi snapped. “He’s just a kid. Kids aren’t responsible for what they do!”
“You might want to rethink your approach to child-rearing,” a new voice declared.
Chief Jenkins strode toward us. Where had she found a parking space? I was sure I’d grabbed the last one.
“Who called the cops?” Kimmi shot Anouk an accusatory glare.
“Nobody,” Jenx said. “I’m here to ask a few questions.”
“It’s her archery range.” Kimmi nodded at Anouk. “She’s responsible for everything that happens here!”
“Read the waiver you signed when you enrolled your son,” Anouk said coolly.
“Well, she isn’t even supposed to be here,” Kimmi said, shifting her focus to me. “That one keeps popping up in all the wrong places. I don’t know why you don’t arrest her for killing the headmaster or for leaving the scene of the crime. We’ve all seen the posters of her bicycle.”
“Shut up, Kimmi,” Camo-Mom said.
“Why don’t you shut up, Robin? I’m sick of you always acting like you’re the boss of us. Just because you’re old and ugly and couldn’t get a husband if your life depended on it.”
“I don’t need a husband. I am a husband,” Robin said through clenched teeth.
“Okay, ladies,” Jenx said, her own face coloring. “Class dismissed! Every one of you should expect a call from me later today. Leave your cell phones on and don’t leave town.”
Anouk systematically collected archery equipment while Jenx herded the horde of privileged kids and moms off the property. Before that happened, however, Anouk escorted me to a bench so that I could rest while watching the unhappy exodus. What was wrong with these families? They left a wake of misery wherever they went.
Jenx joined me on the bench. We sat in silence for a few minutes, looking on as Anouk cleaned up the range.
“Okay,” Jenx said finally. “I cheated on Hen. I had a little fling with Robin.”
That was not what I had expected to hear. Ergo, I had no ready response, and I couldn’t summon a single intelligent thing to say. For once, I wisely said nothing.
After a moment Jenx went on.
“Back in October Hen and I hit a rough patch. I got sick of her expecting me to help run the inn when I had my own job to do. If I opened my mouth to complain, she’d tell me I should try the New Age crap that worked so well for her. Hen wanted me to spend my days off replacing the windows in the inn. All the windows. You got any idea how many that is? I did the math and figured I’d be working seven days a week for the next six months. Hen accused me of not loving her enough to be supportive. Bullshit. I got so mad I almost took a swing at her. That scared me.
“So I went for a jog on the Rail Trail, to blow off steam. Robin was out running, too. We hadn’t talked since we broke up—what?—ten years ago? All of a sudden, we’re running together, like old times. She tells me about her partner and her kids. I tell her about Hen. Hell, I complain about Hen. She complains about her partner. We go grab a few beers, and one thing leads to another. You know how it goes.”
When I still didn’t reply, Jenx shot me a sidelong glance.
“It’s the same with gays, Whiskey. We just use different equipment.”
“Mostly the same equipment,” I said.
Jenx grinned. “Anyhow, we got together a few times. It was good, real good, but we started feeling guilty. No, Robin started feeling guilty. I was in love. I was ready to leave Hen, it felt so right, but Robin would never leave her family.”
“So you broke it off?” I asked.
“Robin did. No drama. She just stopped taking my calls and replying to my texts. And my emails. And my registered letters.”
“You passionate fool,” I said with affection.
Jenx shrugged. “Robin was right. She should be with her family.”
“How about you?”
“I love Hen. Hell, we all got issues.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Does it hurt where you got hit?” Jenx looked at my bump, which I cradled with both hands.
“Still stings a little,” I admitted. “I don’t even know if it bled. Maybe I don’t want to know.”
“You should disinfect a flesh wound,” Jenx said. “Got a hand-mirror for a good view?”
“Do I look like someone who checks herself in a mirror? I don’t even carry a comb.”
“That makes two of us,” Jenx said.
I chuckled. “Girls on the verge of being a mess.”
Just then, in a kennel I was glad I couldn’t see, a dog howled. Next came Abra’s cry, a sustained and intense rhoo-rhoo of ecstasy.
The chief said, “That girl’s a mess.”
29
From the range where she was moving a large leather target, Anouk paused to flash me a thumb’s up. Apparently, she was every bit as satisfied as Napoleon, and that was my cue to leave.
Jenx asked if I’d remembered to pack the two flash drives from the headmaster’s house. I had.
“You could give ’em to me now, and I could give ’em to Brady when I get back to the station tonight,” she said. “Or you could take ’em to Brady at the station. That would be the right choice.”
“I have a business to run,” I reminded her.
“We all know your mom and your best agent are running your business.”
“Not since Jeb started dressing me. Now I look good enough to be seen in public.”
“You do look good,” Jenx conceded. “Curvy Mommy?”
“How would you know?”
She pulled a face. “You think lesbians can’t get pregnant?”
I agreed to take the flash drives straight to the police station, which was just down the street from Mattimoe Realty. When I waved good-bye to Anouk, she called out, “Come back for your bitch any time after four.”
Jenx told me to call Jeb and let him know everything was all right.
“Why?”
“By now somebody’s told him you got shot in the bump. He’s probably left three voicemails on your phone already.”
In fact, he had left four voicemails and two text messages. I had left my phone in my car. When I finally got hold of Jeb, he was en route to the archery range to check my condition for himself, before whisking me off to the E.R.
I did my best to assure him that I was fine. So fine in fact that I was heading to the office as soon as I concluded a little totally trivial business at the police station.
“You took an arrow in the womb,” Jeb insisted. “You need to see a doctor.”
“No, I took an arrow mostly in the leather jacket and a little in the epidermis. I’m all right.”
“Babe, I’m driving you to the hospital. We need to make sure the baby wasn’t traumatized.”
I took a deep breath. “The baby wasn’t touched. You’re the one acting traumatized, and frankly, you’re freaking me out. You’d better be a whole lot calmer than this when I go into labor.”
We compromised. I would drive to the police station and Jeb would meet me there. Brady Swancott, part-time peace officer and fa
ther of two, would arbitrate our next move. At least we could agree on that.
I was the first to arrive at the police station. When I walked in the door, the place appeared empty, which was not unusual. Most of the time there was no crime in Magnet Springs, so Brady spent his desk-duty shifts cooking or surfing the net. I sniffed. Nothing yummy coming from the kitchen today. I heard a soft woof, followed by the scrabble of dog paws on a linoleum floor. Officer Roscoe trotted toward me from the back office, tail wagging. As his brown eyes darted around the room, his tail action slowed like a pendulum winding down. Poor guy. He must have recognized my scent and assumed I came with the stocky four-legged tart.
“Sorry, dude. No Sandra,” I said. “I don’t even have the other one today. Abra’s working for a living.”
“Whiskey? Is that you?” Brady called out.
“It is.”
“Jenx called. She said you got shot in the bump by a fourth-grader.”
I followed his voice into the converted storage closet that was the station’s second office.
“I’m fine. Jeb wants me to see a doctor, but he’ll settle for your opinion.”
Frowning, Brady glanced up from his computer screen.
“I’m not sure my coursework in art history has prepared me for this.”
“How about your experience as a husband and father?”
“Brenda and I didn’t have any archery incidents while we were pregnant.”
I excused myself to use the restroom so I could clean the wound. My plan was to use the mirror above the sink to see whatever needed washing. That proved tricky since the wall mirror had been installed to reflect faces rather than bellies. It was hung much too high for my purpose unless I could climb up on the sink. I was in the process of doing that when the bathroom door flew open and Jeb rushed in.
“What the hell are you doing? You’re going to fall!”
Just because I was kneeling on the narrow edge of a slightly shaky pedestal sink didn’t mean I might fall, but I let Jeb help me down, anyhow. He positioned me to take best advantage of the overhead florescent light, and he knelt down to get a close look at my teeny-tiny wound. In less ridiculous circumstances, his posture might have heralded a good time. In this situation, it just made me laugh.