by Nina Wright
“There’s nothing funny about this,” Jeb scolded.
“Seriously? You’re on your knees in a police station bathroom trying to find an arrow-hole in my tummy.”
“Whiskey—” he began sternly, but when he glanced up at my face, he laughed, too. “Only you, babe. Only you could deliver your dog for a sex-date and get shot in your bump with an arrow.”
Giggling, I said, “I can’t take all the credit. I owe a big shout-out to Raphael Ramirez and his incredibly annoying mom. You can’t expect a woman with tits that size and shoes that high to keep track of her kid.”
I was laughing so hard my eyes watered.
“Hey, that’s a public restroom!” Brady called from his desk. “Don’t make me come in there.”
Jeb tenderly kissed my bare belly and cleaned the very small, shallow wound with soap and warm water. When we emerged from the restroom, Brady was still on the computer, the German shepherd at his feet.
“Roscoe’s been depressed since last night,” Brady explained. “He’s got a crush on Sandra Bullock.”
“More like an obscene obsession,” I said. “He can’t even walk on four legs when he sees her.”
Brady shrugged. “The blood rushes away from his brain.”
“What’s new with Tate McCoy?” I said, eager to change the subject.
“We’re waiting for a call from his attorney. If Kittler can convince Jenx that Tate will make full and immediate restitution, plus do community service, we’re gonna drop the charges. He’s fifteen, and he’s got no record.”
I shook my head. “I like Stevie a lot, but I’ve got a bad feeling about Tate.”
“Like a psychic feeling?” Brady asked.
“You know I got no intuition. This is more like common sense. Tate practically started a mutiny during the school assembly, then we find out he’s been destroying property. I think he’s a bad kid.”
“Maybe he’s going through a phase,” Jeb said.
“Or maybe he’s bad to the bone,” I said.
“A sociopath,” Brady theorized. “A kid with no conscience. Speaking of which, I hear you stole something.”
He held out a hand.
“Jenx told me to get something she could use when I toured the headmaster’s house.”
“She meant something like information,” Brady said.
I dropped the two flash drives in his palm. “Here’s your information.”
“If we’re lucky.”
Brady popped one into a USB port and clicked a few keys. “Of course nothing we find here is admissible in court, but we’re not officially working this case, anyway.”
He cocked his head at the computer screen.
“It’s encrypted. Somebody wanted to protect this.”
“Can you un-encrypt it?” I said.
“Decrypt it, you mean. I can’t, but I know someone who can.”
“Another cop?”
“Sort of. Chester.”
“Our Chester?”
“He took an online encryption seminar last summer. Jenx and I were hoping we’d come up with something he could try his skills on and here it is.”
“This could be sophisticated stuff,” Jeb said.
“Probably not. Whiskey stole it from the headmaster of a private elementary school. We’re not talking corporate espionage.”
“Vreelander was career Army,” I reminded Brady. “What if this is military software? State of the art, top secret stuff?”
“We’ll let Chester take a crack at it. Hand me the second flash drive.”
He removed the first, replacing it with my other “theft.” By now, all three of us were watching the screen, waiting for the flash drive to load.
“That’s more like it,” Brady said. “No encryption here. Large files, probably media.”
As he spoke, he clicked open Folder A.
“That’s it. Videos and photos.”
I was imagining elementary school sports events, classroom presentations, holiday plays. What bloomed on the screen was something else altogether: Pauline Vreelander in the buff. Sprawled like a Rubeneque beauty on a leather divan, she dangled a bunch of red grapes over her head with one hand and caressed each piece of fruit with her tongue, moaning as she did so. I turned away before I could look for her other hand.
The boys in the room had their own responses, neither professional nor mature. Their eyes stayed on the screen.
“I don’t think we’re supposed to see this,” I said.
“I don’t think you were supposed to steal this,” Jeb rejoined, laughing. “You found Vreelander’s secret stash.”
“Home grown,” Brady added. “Man, there must be twenty videos on here.”
The guys guffawed like middle-schoolers. Suddenly, I did feel like a criminal. I had invaded the Vreelanders’ private lives. On the bright side, I had inadvertently answered my own questions about the nature of their marriage. Mark had found his wife alluring, and he had found a way to sustain himself during their long separations.
“Turn it off,” I barked at Brady.
“Just making sure there’s nothing illegal in the rest of these files,” Brady said.
“Now,” I growled.
All the males in the room, including Roscoe, snarled at me and then settled down.
“I’ll take that, thank you.” My hand was out, ready to receive the X-rated flash drive. “I wonder why this one isn’t encrypted.”
“Are you kidding?” Brady and Jeb said in unison.
I wasn’t kidding. I wanted to know. The guys exchanged glances.
Jeb said, “Whiskey, you only encrypt what you want to hide.”
“Yeah? So?”
“Vreelander didn’t want to hide this. He used it.”
“Ewww. Got it. Now give it to me.”
Brady did. I had an overwhelming urge to find hand sanitizer.
“What are you gonna do with it?” Brady said. “Ring Mrs. Vreelander’s doorbell and tell her you took it by mistake?”
The guys laughed again. It wasn’t like I was a prude. While married to Leo, I was the subject of similarly sexy videos and photos, made for our eyes only. Staged simply for our own spontaneous fun. Not for Leo’s later stealth-use. Or were they? Whatever happened to those little films? A wave of anxiety rolled through me. What if Leo’s nasty daughter Avery had found them during the months when she lazed around my house with her infant twins letting the nanny I’d hired do all her work? Avery might do anything with those movies. She might show them to my friends, show them to my enemies or even post them online. Chester had said she was an online buzz-maker. I shuddered.
“You okay, babe?” Jeb asked. “You don’t look so good. Better sit down.”
I let him lead me to the sofa in Jenx’s office, where I lay down. I didn’t feel well at all. Screw the arrow wound. Guilt plus worry will fell the strongest among us.
I deeply wanted to get back, fast and hard, into the Real Estate game, but I also had karma to settle or restore or rebalance. Whatever it is you have to do to fix that stuff. All I knew was that I had overstepped a cosmic boundary in removing at least one of those flash drives, and I needed to make things right.
As I lay, eyes closed, on the too-short couch in Jenx’s office, my shoeless feet balanced on the threadbare arms, my cell phone rang.
“Want me to get that for you, babe?” Jeb asked. He was keeping me company on an adjacent chair, doing good-daddy duty massaging my size tens.
Shifting my weight, I slid the phone out of my hip pocket. Caller ID announced Pauline Vreelander. My first response was to drop the phone on the floor in a panic of guilt. My second response was to scoop it up, answer it, and fix my world.
“Hello, Pauline. What can I do for you?”
I assumed she wanted the name of the real estate attorney who could handle the immediate cash sale of her house to George Bentwood on behalf of The Bentwood School. But if Pauline had been calling to demand the return of her flash drives, I wouldn’t have batted an eye
. I would have crawled over there on all fours and begged her forgiveness, then I would have hunted down Avery and demanded to know if she’d ever found her father’s stash.
“Whiskey, I’ve decided not to sell the house to The Bentwood School. I would like you to list it and sell it.”
I was on my feet moving toward the door so fast that Jeb had to follow me with my shoes. Of course, I would list the Fresno Avenue property, I told Pauline, and I would sell it for more than George Bentwood had offered.
I had a secret weapon—Irene Houston, office manager and receptionist. I might not understand how my mother’s juju worked, but Odette wasn’t the only salesperson getting great business vibes, and this deal came with a bonus, a legit excuse for me to re-enter the Vreelanders’ home and replace the flash drive that rightfully belonged to the widow.
I just hoped I wouldn’t picture her naked the next time we met.
30
The one snag in my business plan—and, hence, my karma—was that Pauline Vreelander couldn’t meet with me until that evening. First, she had to handle the remaining details concerning her husband’s remains. His wish was to be cremated and to have his ashes scattered on the family farm in his home state of Kentucky. Or was it Kansas? Truth be told, I was only half listening. The other half of my attention was on Brady as he conversed with somebody phoning in an anonymous tip about the president of The Bentwood School.
Sensing my interest, Brady switched to speaker phone. The woman caller, who refused to give her name, seemed to be altering her voice. I guessed that she was lowering it while speaking through a muffling piece of cloth. She might also have faked the thick accent although we do have Germans in this part of the state.
“George Bentwood is not who he says he is,” she intoned. “You must do a thorough background check. The man is up to no good.”
“Ma’am, a background check won’t reveal what anybody’s up to,” Brady said. “It can only show what somebody has already done.”
“Well, he has done plenty that he should be ashamed of, and he won’t stop. He uses money and privilege to cover his tracks.”
“Can you be more specific?” Brady said.
The woman had hung up.
“I think that’s about his womanizing,” I told Brady, forgetting that I still had Pauline Vreelander on the phone.
“Pardon?” Pauline said. “Who’s a womanizer?”
“Sorry. I was just talking about … um … ”
My eyes scanned the room for a bailout. They lighted on Jeb, still helpfully holding up my shoes.
“Jeb,” I told Pauline, not wanting to leak the latest police station developments.
“Your husband is a womanizer?” she asked.
“My ex-husband. Well, he used to be. I don’t know if that’s true now—”
“You don’t know?” Jeb demanded.
Before I could reply, he dropped both my shoes and exited the police station. Hastily, I concluded my phone business with Pauline and started to go after him. Roscoe blocked my way, growling.
This wasn’t our first fight since Jeb’s return; it was just our first fight since his return that had nothing to do with dogs. This one was entirely my fault, at least that was how Brady and Roscoe saw it, and they were eye witnesses.
What had possessed me to use that moment with Pauline to question Jeb’s loyalty? Brady thought I was punishing Jeb rather than questioning him, and Roscoe gave me a look that telegraphed the same message. They were probably right, but why would I do that? Jeb was knocking himself out to please me in almost every way. I had no reason to believe that he’d had any female other than Sandra Bullock in his bed for months.
Back in the good-old, bad-old days of our marriage, Jeb used to frequent a couple cheap bars down by the docks. If he needed to go there to blow off steam today, maybe I should follow. I didn’t, though, and not just because Roscoe blocked my way. Mom called and ordered me to come straight to work.
I left the station with all the dignity I could muster, carrying my shoes in my hands.
Ensconced at the receptionist’s desk at Mattimoe Realty, Mom looked surprisingly youthful. Maybe it was her new hair and lipstick or the two vases of fresh pink roses that framed her face.
“I’m busy, Mom,” I said, attempting to walk on by.
“Indeed you are, Whitney. I’ve prepared the paperwork for the Vreelander listing. It’s in this file.”
She extended a manila folder to me, like a flotation device to a drowning man.
I stopped. “Who told you about this?”
“Pauline Vreelander. She came by looking for you. I told her you were out servicing a client. She doesn’t need to know how you waste your time.”
“I wasn’t wasting my time, Mom. I got shot—”
“In the belly with an arrow. Yes, I know about that, too. It wouldn’t have happened if you’d been at your desk, dear, where you’re supposed to be.”
I snatched the file a little more forcefully than necessary. My mother made a distinct tsk-ing sound.
“What’s that about?” I demanded.
“That is the sound of me recognizing you making the same mistakes all over again,” Mom said. “By the way, Jeb phoned. He’s too upset to talk with you right now. I told him I know the feeling. He forgives you, though, and he’s got a special dinner planned for you tonight. Better change your appointment with Mrs. Vreelander.”
A whirlwind of emotions spun my heart around. Mostly, I felt relief. I hadn’t behaved my best, or even like a grownup. Surely, though, Mom was wrong about my making the same mistakes again.
“Thank you,” I forced myself to say.
“Just doing my job,” she replied. “By the way, Odette is out servicing clients.”
“See? That’s what we real estate professionals do.”
“That’s what Odette does, dear. You just get in trouble. Sorry to hear you got shot. I hope you learned something.”
As I turned away, willing my jaws to stay locked, Mom added, “We need to talk about your bridal shower. Tick-tock.”
I walked rapidly to my office, where I locked the door. Like that would help.
For the next two hours, I immersed myself in business. It felt wonderful to work hard again. The only snag was that I couldn’t leave my desk for fear of being scolded my mother.
Note to self: Fix that.
Happily for me, Pauline Vreelander was flexible about my coming over with the paperwork for her to sign. I told her to expect me just before dinner.
Shortly after one o’clock, Mom buzzed my phone.
“I’m taking my lunch hour now. Would you like me to bring you back something from Peg’s?”
She was referring to the Goh Cup, the quaint coffee shop run by her friend and our town mayor. I recalled Mom’s telling me that she planned to rent a room in Peg’s house, so I decided to play nice and ask how that was working out. Big mistake.
“It’s not working out. Peg is so depressed. Frankly, she’s bringing me down.”
“Depressed about her business?”
“Of course, she’s depressed about that. But Peg’s got bigger issues. She needs a man.”
“She does?”
I knew that Peg’s coffee shop and tattoo parlor were foundering, and that she missed her weird little Devon rex cat. I was mainly to blame for her having lost that cat although Odette had made sure she was compensated in the transaction. However, I had never once thought that Peg needed a man. A long-time widow like my mom, she seemed too busy to have time in her life for a guy.
“It’s a problem,” Mom insisted. “Peg is jealous of me and Howard.”
“How can she be jealous? Howard isn’t even here.”
“He isn’t here yet,” Mom said. “But he sends flowers every day. Even you must have noticed the roses on my desk. Peg won’t let me keep them in my room. She says she’s allergic, but I know that’s not true. She’s sick with envy.”
A dull ache crept from the top of my skull toward my forehe
ad.
“Go enjoy your lunch, Mom, and take your time. I’ll get myself something to eat when I’m ready.”
“That’s not how it works when you’re expecting. You’ve got to feed that baby first, often, and well. I thought you knew that much.”
I managed to get off the phone by promising to leave within five minutes for a nutritious hot lunch at Mother Tucker’s. The fact that Mom wasn’t hell-bent on joining me signaled that even she needed a break.
In fact, I was hungry. As I walked the half-dozen blocks to my favorite restaurant, I entertained myself by mentally sampling each item on the menu and imagining which one would taste best today. My mouth was watering for the pulled pork sandwich with curly fries and German coleslaw when my phone rang. Wishing it were Jeb but knowing it wouldn’t be, I read the caller’s name.
“Chester, shouldn’t you be in school?”
“We get out early on Wednesdays because of the seminars,” he said. “Are you okay? I can’t believe Raphael Ramirez shot your baby with an arrow.”
I assured him that my leather jacket was the actual target, and that every part of me was fine. Chester was a chronic over-reactor. Given his mom’s penchant for drama on stage and off, he had a right to be theatrical. I knew he meant well.
“The Bentwood School is complicating your life,” he exclaimed. “And I’m responsible. Things started going wrong when I brought you to the school assembly.”
“Actually, things started going wrong as soon as I hit the Rail Trail. You couldn’t have known what would happen.”
“I should have known,” Chester said. “Everybody but you has some intuition. The Bentwood School has bad karma, and now you and your baby do, too.”
“No, Chester,” I said firmly. “My baby and I do not have bad karma. We have good karma. We have survived two flying arrows.”
Chester was troubled by the notion that he had placed us in the path of those arrows.
I reminded him that I had free will. Clearly, Chester needed comfort. I invited him to meet me for lunch at Mother Tucker’s. We would both feel better after pulled pork.
At age nine, Chester couldn’t yet drive himself, so he conferred with one of Cassina’s employees.