Nina Wright - Whiskey Mattimoe 06 - Whiskey and Soda

by Nina Wright

  “So whose bracelet is it? It can’t be Robin Wardrip’s. She’s an accomplished archer, but she doesn’t like men and she wears camouflage gear, not gold.”

  Anouk raised both palms to signal either that she didn’t know or that it didn’t matter.

  “You are on the hunt, Whiskey. You will need to follow the trail all the way to the killer.”

  I rolled my eyes in exasperation. “Just give me one good clue.”

  “I have given you every clue that is mine to give, but here’s a thought. You are looking for someone whom Georgie helps in return for the help she gives him. It is a circular relationship, I think.”

  “So this woman is not Bentwood’s lover? Or not his lover anymore?”

  Anouk gazed solemnly at her smiling children in the open scrapbook on the coffee table.

  “Find out what Georgie needs, and you will be able to figure out who she is, and also why she killed Mark.”

  I left Anouk’s house, my brain buzzing with new information. A woman had killed Mark. A woman who loved George Bentwood, or used to.

  Because I was less than two hours late for my originally scheduled date with Jeb, I was now early for the postponement. That made me feel virtuous. Approaching Vestige, I noted happily that my exterior lighting had been restored. I honked as I pulled in the driveway. Before I could exit the vehicle, Jeb stepped out on the porch accompanied by Abra.

  Throwing open my door, I shouted, “Where’s her leash?”

  I hadn’t completed the question before she leapt off the porch and flew toward the darkest recesses of my front yard. She was aiming for the forest beyond, where I knew she would vanish.

  “Jeb!” I cried. He hadn’t even moved.

  “You let her get away again!” I stomped toward him.

  Without answering, he held up a finger and slowly, dramatically pointed it toward the distant grove of trees. As if by magical command, Abra reappeared and loped toward the porch.

  “How about that, babe?”

  Jeb turned his thousand-watt grin on me. In the restored porch light, I could fully appreciate his good looks. He looked like James Taylor back in the Carly Simon days.

  “How the hell—?” I began.

  What I hoped was about to happen didn’t. Instead of returning to us on the porch like a much anticipated miracle, Abra swerved away again. Her golden hair lifting like a curtain, her long legs stroked the night air. Without slowing her pace, she traced a wide, graceful circle around the yard. No question. The Affie was poetry in motion. The problem was that I never knew where the poem was going, or where it would end.

  “No worries, babe,” Jeb said, pulling me toward him. “She won’t leave the yard. We now have a dog containment system.”

  “We do?”

  “It’s called a hidden fence. Did you see the new collar she’s wearing?”

  “Sorry, no, she went by in a blur.”

  As we watched Abra loop the yard, Jeb explained that Camo-Mom had suggested he try installing a flexible and temporary hidden fence system. The delay I had requested in starting our date gave Jeb time to buy the best kind available and set it up.

  I couldn’t help being skeptical. After all, I had been living with the bounding beast. In my experience, Abra could find her way out of any “containment system.”

  Listening to my concerns, Jeb remained optimistic.

  “So far, so good,” he said.

  Abra was now on her fifth lap. I studied her as she rounded the bend near the porch. For a split second, we made eye contact, and I got a chilling vibe.

  “Jeb, she’s playing us, just humoring us humans ’til we’re lulled into submission. Then she’s going to take off again.”

  “I don’t think so,” he said.

  With that, he stuck three fingers in his mouth and blew a show-stopping whistle. I had completely forgotten he had that talent. It achieved the immediate desired result. Abra turned herself back toward the house, sailed onto the porch and flew through the front door that Jeb held open.

  “Great job,” I told him.

  But I still believed she was conspiring against us.

  35

  Once we were inside the house, Jeb removed my leather jacket, led me to my favorite recliner, and brought me another glass of soda, this one served with a sprig of fresh mint. I didn’t have the heart to tell him I’d been drinking bubbly water until I thought my bladder would burst. While I relaxed with yet another bland carbonated beverage, he took care of securing Abra for the night.

  He settled on the floor to massage my feet.

  “I didn’t get to finish this job when we were at the police station.”

  “I am so sorry,” I said.

  “‘Least said, soonest mended.’”

  He wouldn’t let me apologize, but he did let me plant a big warm wet one on his handsome musician’s mouth.

  When we finally paused the kiss, Jeb said, “Speaking of mending, Tate McCoy’s mom sent over a guy to fix your lights this afternoon. He measured the door on Leo’s workshop, too, and said he’ll be back tomorrow to install a replacement.”

  “Good restitution,” I murmured, my eyes still closed, but I was way more interested in the kind of restitution Jeb and I had begun.

  “Don’t get too comfy, babe. I’m about to whisk you away for a wonderful dinner.”

  “Aw, Jeb,” I purred. “I love you, and God knows I love good restaurants because I sure do hate to cook, but tonight I’m just too tired to go out again.”

  “Who said anything about going out? I’m whisking you away to a gourmet dinner served in your own king-size bed.”

  I opened my eyes. He was holding up a menu. Not just any menu, but one that I recognized as belonging to my favorite restaurant. The one I had visited for lunch.

  “I know you had pulled pork this afternoon,” Jeb said, “so we’re doing something different tonight. I hope it’s all right that I took the liberty of ordering for you. Any minute now, the doorbell should ring, and—”

  Right on cue, the doorbell did ring.

  “Now that’s what I call timing,” he announced, jumping up to answer the door. “Start dreaming about crab cakes and smashed Yukon golds because that’s what we are about to devour. Why don’t you go on up to bed and get comfortable? I’ll serve you in a minute.”

  When I’m invited for dinner, nobody has to ask me twice. The same applies when Mr. Right makes a date in the boudoir. I was halfway up the stairs before Jeb had even reached the foyer. This was shaping up to be a perfect ending to a rather unsettling day, which meant I could now flush the emotional bad stuff and focus on paradise.

  I flew past Abra’s room into my own boudoir, dove into my featherbed, and pulled the down comforter all the way up to my chin. I proceeded to slither out of my clothing and toss each item toward a different corner of the room. I was thrilled when my larger-than-ever bra snagged on a corner of the dresser mirror. After that, I deliberately aimed my panties at the floor lamp next to the door. Two more points! I was now officially naked, famished, and ready to score in a way that counted.

  A female voice drifted up the stairs and into my room. A familiar female voice, as in that of the woman who had raised me. Since when did Irene Houston deliver meals for Mother Tucker’s? I sat up straight, clutching the quilt to my bare chest. Surely Jeb would tip Mom and send her on her way. I was puzzling over the delay when Jeb appeared in our bedroom doorway. He offered no crab cakes, just a perplexed expression.

  “Whiskey, you’re not going to believe this,” he began.

  “I heard her voice,” I said, rolling my eyes. “I can’t believe she’s got a second job already. Do you need more money for the tip?”

  “Your mom isn’t here delivering food. She’s here because she needs a place to stay.”

  “Peg threw her out?”

  “Peg threw them out,” Jeb said. “Howard is with her. They’re in their pajamas.”

  “What?”

  Jeb was trying hard not to laugh.<
br />
  “According to your mom, they were in her room at Peg’s house ‘making whoopee.’ And that popped Peg’s cork. She had some kind of meltdown and made ’em leave before they could even get their clothes on.”

  “So there’s no dinner?” I asked.

  “Oh, your dinner’s on its way, but where do you want me to put your mom and her boyfriend?”

  “Fiancé. Howard is my fiancé, and Peg should have respected that.”

  I shrieked. Mom was standing inside my bedroom wearing a sheer peach-tinted bathrobe and negligee. Victoria Secret sheer. Next to her stood a tall, stocky bald man with an unnaturally deep tan. I could see a lot of his tan because he wore only fleece pants, and they came only as high as a couple inches below his navel. The fleece pants sported palm trees with red and white Christmas lights.

  “How ya doin’?” he said, his voice deep and husky. “The name’s Howard Nusbaum. I love your mother.”

  He crossed to the bed to shake my hand. A dicey proposition since I was using my hand to hold the quilt over my breasts. I bunched the fabric into my left hand, slid farther down into the bed, and lamely offered my right palm. As a Realtor, I have developed a power-handshake, but that wasn’t what Howard got.

  “I love her, too,” I stammered. “But, honestly, Mom, couldn’t you have grabbed some clothes?”

  “No, we couldn’t. You should have seen Peg. She went completely ballistic. She was swinging her broom at us, wasn’t she Howard?”

  He nodded gravely.

  “Did you forget to close the bedroom door?” I said.

  “Of course not. We weren’t born in a barn.” Mom looked insulted.

  “We did forget to lock the door, though,” Howard said. “That’s how come Peg was able to barge right in, waving the broom.”

  “I told you she was jealous, Whitney,” Mom said. “But I never expected a fit like that.”

  “If she was ten years younger, I’d uh blamed it on The Change,” Howard said. “She screamed like a banshee. You’d uh thought we were swappin’.”

  “Swappin’?” I repeated.

  “Yeah, you know, swappin’ sex partners. Like back in the ’70s.”

  I longed to stick my fingers in my ears and sing “la-la-la.”

  Jeb cut in. “How about I show Irene and Howard to the guest room, Whiskey? The guest room at the far end of the hall?”

  “The far end is a good idea,” Howard said. “That way we won’t bother you guys. Irene likes to make a little noise, don’t ya, doll?”

  “Only for you, Hunbun,” my mother said. She surveyed my undergarments hanging about the room. “I never could teach her to put things away.”

  I pulled the quilt over my head. It was so dark, warm and soft under there—a welcome retreat from flying arrows, running dogs, and sexually-active senior citizens. I must have dozed off. The next thing I knew, Jeb was gently peeling back the bedspread, filling my head with the tantalizing scent of our dinner.

  “I’m going to feed you,” he said.

  Which was exactly what he proceeded to do. Slowly. Sensually. I highly recommend smashed potatoes as foreplay-food. Sure, the meal was a little messy, but Jeb and I aren’t the types to mind rolling around on a few crumbs and spills. Who needs dessert when you are dessert? Eventually I fell asleep in Jeb’s loving arms, Mom and Howard long forgotten. If they did make noise, I never heard it.

  If only I could have slept without dreaming. Sometime before dawn, the nightmare played again in my head, and the newest version was the worst.

  Jeb was riding toward me on the headmaster’s bike, wearing the same yellow and white Spandex. When he raised both hands, I knew he was going to fall to the trail, dead. Before I could shout a warning, an arrow struck my belly. I felt no pain, but gazing down, I realized the arrow had penetrated so deeply that only a few inches of the shaft were visible. I grasped it firmly with my right hand and pulled. The shaft wouldn’t budge. So I pulled again, using both hands this time, straining with all my might. Still no movement. Deep within me, a baby wailed—a loud and terrible cry—the desperate breathless bawling of a wounded infant. My child.

  “Whiskey! Whiskey, wake up.”

  Jeb was rattling my shoulder and speaking straight into my face.

  “You’re dreaming, babe. It’s okay. Everything’s okay.”

  “That was awful,” I whimpered. “The baby—this time, it was the baby who—”

  Jeb folded me into him, caressing my hair.

  “Shh,” he whispered. “The baby’s fine. You’re fine. I’m fine. We’re all fine.”

  “When will I stop dreaming about death and arrows?”

  “Soon, I promise, very soon.”

  But even as Jeb held me, I wondered when my night terrors would end. Most likely, not until I could be certain that the person who had killed Mark Vreelander would never hurt anyone again.

  36

  There’s nothing quite like post-coital breakfast with your lover, your mother, and your mother’s lover. That’s right. All four of us managed to arrive in the kitchen at the same time very early in the morning. Jeb and I were in our robes. Mom and Howard were in the scant nightwear they had arrived in. I tried not to look at my mother’s negligee for any number of reasons.

  Mom peered into my fridge.

  “I can tell Jeb’s living here now,” she said. “You have food.”

  She proceeded to make us all scrambled eggs, bacon and toast, and I let her. Hell, I hadn’t even known we still had food in the house. While she cooked, Howard lasciviously watched, and I tried to ignore that.

  We didn’t say much, not only because the situation was awkward, but also—and more importantly—because my mother didn’t talk while cooking. A real chatterbox at almost any other time, Mom put herself in the zone when she cooked, and she detested interruptions.

  Apparently, Howard had been trained. He seemed content with his designated role as silent and lusty observer. No doubt he also knew that Mom was a good cook, so whether they went back to bed or not, he was about to be made deliriously happy.

  Chewing and swallowing further removed the necessity for conversation. By the time we’d all had two helpings of everything and multiple cups of coffee, I felt sufficiently fortified to deal with my mother.

  “When are you going to get your clothes?”

  “Just as soon as we finish our coffee, dear.”

  “Dealing with Peg might be awkward,” Jeb said, “Do you want me to fetch your stuff?”

  “No need,” Mom said cheerfully. “She texted me. Our clothes are in the front yard.”

  Howard said, “I got a text, too. Our clothes are all over the front yard. Peg threw ’em out the window.”

  “Where are you going to stay?” I said.

  Jeb cleared his throat meaningfully. So meaningfully that I looked at him, and I didn’t like what I saw. During the long pause that followed, I had the unsettling sensation that I was supposed to answer my own question. When I didn’t, Jeb did.

  “You know, Irene, there’s plenty of room here.”

  “Howard and I need privacy,” my mother said. “I’m sure Odette can find us a nice cabin or condo to rent ’til we’re ready to head back south.”

  “Mom, I can find you a place. I’m a real estate broker.”

  She ignored that remark, turning instead to Howard. “We’ll get our clothes, and I’ll go to the office. Odette will be there. She’s always on time.”

  “Mom,” I tried again. “You’re more than welcome to stay here.”

  My mother gave me the look she’d always given me when I lied to her.

  “I’m not lying,” I cried.

  “Whitney, I love you, but parents shouldn’t live with their adult children. It’s unnatural. Besides, Howard is allergic to dogs, and you don’t even know how many dogs you have.”

  Howard said, “No problem last night. I took an antihistamine. Good thing it didn’t interfere with that little blue pill.”

  “It sure didn’t,” I
rene cooed.

  Jeb asked Howard how he planned to spend the day while Irene was at work.

  “Sightseeing, I guess, unless you got a better idea.”

  “I just might,” Jeb said.

  When I excused myself to get ready for work, Mom reminded me that I needed to set a date for my bridal shower. In response, I kept walking.

  My day promised to be more hectic than usual. I had a real estate deal to seal and a murder to solve, or at least help solve. As I showered, I made a mental list of the nagging questions that, when answered, might point us toward Vreelander’s killer. In no particular order, these sprang to mind:

  • Who made the Blitzen poster, and why did he or she put Mark Vreelander’s cell phone number on it? Who has that phone, anyway? Pauline Vreelander said she would produce it, but so far she hasn’t. Was it the same person who left the note on my windshield?

  • What was Loralee Lowe doing at the Fresno Avenue property? And how did she get in? Did Pauline Vreelander know that she was there?

  • What is on the encrypted flash drive recovered from the headmaster’s home office?

  • If Anouk is correct that the inscribed gold bangle bracelet belongs to one of Bentwood’s lovers, who is that person, and did she in fact drop the bracelet while shooting Vreelander?

  Fresh from my shower, I stepped into fuzzy slippers and wrapped myself in an oversized towel. To my surprise, the bed was made. For an instant, I suspected my mother of making it, either out of nostalgia or as a silent rebuke of my housekeeping skills, but I spotted a note on the bed. Inside a folded piece of notepaper, Jeb had printed: Check the closet. Curvy Mommy delivers again.

  On the inside of the closet door hung my third brand-new beige maternity ensemble this week, a bulky turtleneck sweater with darker skinny-leg pants. A brown and ivory checked silk scarf was draped gracefully across the sweater. It gave me pause. I loved Jeb and his shopping muse, Chester, but how could either of them expect me, in my second trimester, to undertake accessorizing? It was a concept as foreign to me as, well, weekly grocery shopping, and yet reflecting on how good Avery had looked in her scarf, I knew I probably ought to give it a try.