Whiskey Straight Up

by Nina Wright

  “She didn’t hire me; I was drafted,” I said. “Just ask Jenx. I’m not a child-care provider.”

  “I can vouch for that,” Jenx said.

  “If Chester’s with Beatrice, he could be in real trouble,” Evelyn insisted. “My sister is unstable.”

  “How so?” asked Jenx.

  “She’s capable of irrational, even violent, behavior. When she was thirteen, she killed the family cat.”

  “Why?”

  “She didn’t like the way he was looking at her. Romeo was a cross-eyed Siamese.”

  The phone on Jenx’s desk jangled, and I jumped.

  “Excuse me, boys,” Jenx told the Fibbies. After a few mumbles, she held the receiver out to me. “It’s the Coast Guard calling.”

  Deely Smarr was on the line. “We have a situation, ma’am. I recommend that you listen carefully and say nothing except yes or no. Got it?”

  “Got it. I mean, yes,” I replied.

  “A certain individual recently hired by you wants to come in from the cold. If you know what I mean. . . . .”

  “Yes. No.” Did she mean Roy? Or Chester? I had business arrangements with them both. And by “come in from the cold” was she referring to the weather or a clandestine mission, à la John le Carré?

  My eyes met the steely gaze of the older Fibbie. He was watching my every move.

  Deely tried again. “I’m referring to a person from the past who recently appeared in the present. He’s here now, and he needs sanctuary. Including a shower and a hot meal. Do I have your permission to assist him?”

  Roy Vickers was at Vestige. My mind raced. If I let Deely help him, would I be aiding and abetting a felon? I feared that Roy had killed Gil, and I assumed that the ex-con knew something about what had happened to Chester. After all, Roy had delivered both of Chester’s notes, plus Prince Harry.

  “Uh—yes,” I said. Then, for clarity and to prove I could talk military, I added, “Aye, aye.”

  “That’s Navy jargon, ma’am, not Coast Guard,” Deely said and hung up.

  “Everything all right, Deputy?” asked the older Fibbie. “Or does the Coast Guard require your immediate assistance?”

  “I thought you were a realtor,” Evelyn Huffenbach said. “You work for the Coast Guard?”

  “Only in the event of land-based emergencies,” I said.

  “Deputy Mattimoe, you’re dismissed,” Jenx said, “as soon as you fill out that report we discussed. . . .” She handed me an official form.

  I frowned, my mind a complete blank.

  “On C. Richards . . . ?” she prompted.

  “Oh! Right!”

  “C. Richards?” the younger agent piped up. “You mean, C. Richards, R.N., a.k.a. Thomas McKondin, Service Technician at Extreme Clean?”

  “The randy nurse is the perv at Extreme Clean?” I gasped. “He talked to Tina Breen about her woman parts!”

  “‘Woman parts’?” both Fibbies repeated.

  “What’s the F.B.I. connection?” Jenx said.

  The older agent shook his head. “You’re not on a need-to-know basis.”

  Jenx planted her fists on her desk and leaned toward the Fibbies. “Boys, in this town I am the Need-to-Know.”

  Her face was darkening.

  “You don’t want to make her mad,” I advised the agents. “She’s got magnetic fields on her side.”

  The younger Fibbie looked at his partner. “Is everybody here nuts?”

  “Just the local law enforcement,” the other agent replied.

  “That’s not true,” I said. “Magnet Springs has a long history of attracting eccentrics. It’s part of our proud heritage.”

  Just then the front door opened and in bounded Abra, followed by Officers Roscoe and Swancott. As usual, Abra had something in her mouth.

  “Check out Deputy Abra!” said Brady. He sounded proud, not horrified. Even so, I was afraid to look.

  “Is that what I think it is?” Jenx said.

  I squeezed my eyes shut.

  “It’s a purse,” Brady confirmed.

  “Of course it is,” I groaned, visualizing yet another day in court with the incorrigible dog.

  “Odette’s purse,” Brady added. “Her ID’s inside.”

  My eyes opened. “It’s her designer bag! The one she sacrificed to save the Gribble account!”

  “Let’s see,” said Jenx, coming around her desk to examine Abra’s find. To my astonishment, the dog sat down, opened her jaws, and deposited the purse in Jenx’s latex-gloved hand.

  “Deely’s work with Abra is paying off,” observed Brady.

  Jenx said, “Whiskey, didn’t this purse vanish at the same time Chester did?”

  I nodded.

  “Then maybe it can tell us something about where Chester went,” said Jenx. “Officer Swancott, did you use gloves when you examined the bag?”

  “I didn’t touch it,” he replied. “Abra opened it for me, and then closed it again. She let me see the ID inside, but nothing else. I think she was waiting for the right moment.”

  From deep inside the bag, Jenx withdrew a rainbow-colored poker chip.

  “It’s sticky,” she declared.

  “Bear claw,” I said, recalling that Chester had mouthed the word “Abra” to Megan the waitress. “Proof that Chester was at the casino! Where did Abra find the purse?”

  “At Pasco Point,” Brady said. “Just as we were getting into the patrol car, something caught her eye, and she ran off. I thought she was gone again, but she came right back with the bag.”

  “There’s something else in here,” Jenx said, inverting the purse. A business card fluttered out. Jenx retrieved it and read aloud: “Extreme Clean Indoor and Outdoor Services. Thomas McKondin, Jr., Service Technician.”

  “They have the Iberville account,” I informed Jenx and Brady.

  Jenx read the rest of the card: “‘We’ll clean up your mess. Even if you live like a pig.’”

  “Or die like a rat,” I said. Brady nodded gravely. Abra licked her chops.

  As she did, the older FBI agent snapped on a latex glove and removed the business card from Jenx’s fingers.

  “Hey!” the chief bellowed.

  “This may be needed as evidence in a Federal investigation,” the Fibbie said.

  “Why don’t you tell us the real reason you’re here,” Jenx said, leaning back in her chair and propping her feet on her desk. “But first, what are your names again? I wasn’t paying attention when you whipped out those fancy badges.”

  Turns out that the older agent was named Smith, and the younger one was Jones. Or was it the other way around? Once again, they flashed them really fast. But Jenx seemed satisfied.

  “We’re here about the missing boy,” Smith said. “But we’re also investigating complaints about identity theft, which may or may not involve Mr. McKondin.”

  “Identity theft? As in credit card scams?” asked Brady.

  “Not necessarily,” Jones said. “Identity theft—or impersonation fraud—occurs when one individual assumes another’s identity in order to perform a criminal act. We have reason to believe that Thomas McKondin may be guilty of impersonation fraud.”

  “I can vouch for that,” I said. “He pretended to be my nurse just to get a peek under my hospital gown.”

  The room was so quiet I might as well have farted. Then one of the dogs did fart, for which I was strangely grateful. Though unbearably stinky (surely thanks to Abra’s fetid rat), it ended my Too-Much-Information moment. Jenx opened a window, and Brady herded both dogs outside. Poor Officer Roscoe. Condemned by the company he kept.

  Agent Smith asked me, “What did you mean earlier, when you mentioned McKondin talking about ‘woman parts’?”

  I sighed and told him about my office manager’s reluctance to call Extreme Clean because she had been sexually taunted during an earlier conversation.

  Jones was taking notes. “We’ll need to interview her,” he said.

  “Good luck,” I offered. �
��Tina can’t repeat those words.”

  “She can write them down,” he said.

  “I doubt it.”

  “What?” He looked up.

  “I doubt she can write them, either. Tina has a mental block when it comes to certain vocabulary. She says it’s because of Winston and Neville.”

  “Churchill and Chamberlain, the former prime ministers of England?”

  “No, Winston and Neville Breen, her toddlers. Here’s some advice: Don’t point out that she must know the words because she gave birth. That’ll only make her cry.”

  Smith and Jones exchanged glances. I knew they were silently agreeing that our whole town was nuts.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  After Smith and Jones took turns interviewing me about my embarrassing encounter with C. Richards, R.N., who was probably Thomas McKondin, Jr., they quizzed me about Chester. Jenx cut short the interrogation, explaining that I had been hospitalized for hypothermia the day before and needed rest. The Fibbies weren’t the least bit curious about that. They warned me not to leave town and sent me on my way. Me and Rat-Stink, the Afghan hound.

  Driving back to Vestige, I fought off a wave of paranoia. If I had correctly interpreted Deely Smarr’s phone call, Roy Vickers was waiting for me. Jenx had mentioned that the Michigan State Police wanted to question Roy, and now the FBI was in town. Any way you sliced it, I was probably harboring a suspected felon. Maybe a killer and/or kidnapper. Smith and Jones had asked me about the ex-con and his relationship to Chester. As far as I knew, they had no relationship, aside from Roy’s role as a retriever of messages. Whenever I thought of my new handyman, I pictured his blood-soaked jacket and hoped to God he’d ditched it before showing up at my door.

  The Coast Guard nanny greeted me and Abra as we entered the kitchen. Her first words were not quite the welcome I’d expected: “Did anyone follow you home?”

  I said no but was forced to admit that I hadn’t watched my rear-view mirror.

  “Please don’t tell me you took your usual route,” Deely said.

  “Okay, I won’t tell you.”

  She groaned.

  In my defense, I explained that my canine passenger was flatulent. And I wasn’t feeling so great myself, having passed out twice within the past twenty-four hours.

  “Your houseguest isn’t in the best shape, either,” Deely said. “I fed him, showed him the bathroom, and told him to lie down after his shower.”

  “What about his clothes?” I asked, dreading her answer.

  “Taken care of, ma’am,” she replied. “Damage control.”

  “But isn’t that tampering with evidence?”

  Deely frowned. “Roy arrived nearly naked. I found him some old clothes that must have belonged to your husband. They’re too small, but they’ll do until he can find something better.”

  “Nearly naked?” I was torn between shock and concern and prurient curiosity. Also, I wondered where Deely had found Leo’s old clothes. I thought I had disposed of them all.

  “Yes, ma’am. I treated Roy for exposure. I think he’ll be fine once he gets some rest.”

  “But what happened to his clothes?” I asked, stuck on the image of a bare-assed buff Roy.

  “Don’t ask, don’t tell. That’s the first rule in these situations.”

  My expression prompted her to explain.

  “If you don’t know, you won’t have to lie. Best not to know what Roy’s been up to.”

  That reminded me of what Abra had been up to. As her unofficial trainer, Deely had a right to know. She handled the news with her usual calm.

  “Eating a rotten rat won’t make her sick, but it will make her unpopular. I recommend keeping her outdoors until the worst has passed.”

  I agreed and noticed that the nanny had, as promised, installed a doggie door connecting the kitchen to the new fenced-in exercise area.

  “Great,” I said, “except now the dogs can come and go as they please.”

  “That’s the point: fewer interruptions for you. Plus, you can contain them where you want them.” Deely inserted a wood panel in the opening. “This will keep them on whichever side of the door you like.”

  Exactly the way things had been before she installed the doggie door, back when I mostly kept them locked outside. This was progress? Deely removed the panel, and Prince Harry instantly appeared, shaking the snow off his paws and tail. The nanny beamed.

  “He learns so fast! I only had to show him once.”

  Mother Abra trotted up to her son, sniffed his extremities, and contributed a very foul odor to my kitchen. Deely pushed her through the slot and slid the panel closed behind her. Prince Harry barked with delight at what must be a fun new game.

  “I’ll get the air freshener,” Deely said. We both knew we couldn’t count on the pleasant scent of food cooking to cancel out Abra’s stink. I never cook and rarely eat in. The same goes for Avery. My spacious kitchen, once the scene of Leo’s gourmet concoctions, now functions mainly as eye candy.

  “Did Leah and Leo’s father come by to meet them last night?” I asked.

  “Yes, ma’am, he was here,” Deely said. “But I wouldn’t recommend asking Avery about it. She’s been locked in her room ever since.”

  “You don’t happen to know where Dr. Grant is staying, do you?” I asked innocently.

  “Yes, ma’am, I do. He’s got a room at Red Hen’s House. I think he plans to stay a while.”

  “Really?” I cleared my throat to erase my enthusiasm. “Uh, did either you or Avery notice . . . or care . . . that I failed to come home last night?”

  “I noticed, ma’am. By the way, I think Jeb Halloran is cool.”

  “I wasn’t with Jeb Halloran!” I said, wondering why I was blushing. And also why I felt I needed to clarify that for the nanny.

  “Too bad. I’ve been a fan of his for a long time. He could have a brilliant career in Canine Music.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The wave of the future.” Deely smiled in a way that was almost coy. “I talked to him about it at the Jamboree.”

  From the helicopter had I spotted Deely, not Avery, talking with Jeb?

  The nanny continued, “I’ve noticed that both Abra and Prince Harry get sleepy whenever I play Jeb’s Celtic tunes. So I’m integrating his music into the System. Remember how fast the dogs fell asleep when I crated them?”

  I had wondered about that two nights ago.

  “Jeb’s version of Danny Boy is guaranteed to knock them out. David is testing it on some of his patients. If the results prove conclusive, and we think they will, we have a major find. Do you have any idea how many hyper-active dogs are out there with frustrated humans? Put Fleggers behind him, and your ex-husband’s CD could go gold!”

  “How nice,” I said, doubting that there were enough extravagant anti-speciesists to make Jeb Halloran rich. Switching subjects, I asked, “You heard what happened to Gil Gruen, right? That’s how you knew Roy was in trouble?”

  “I heard the mayor disappeared, that’s all. There’s a rumor you saw his bloody body. Roy told me himself that he’s in trouble. Like I said, I didn’t ask what for.”

  So Jenx was keeping a lid on the murder until Gil’s body was found. For now his fate was inconclusive—except to me, the only person who’d seen his corpse. Other than, of course, whoever had killed him.

  When the phone rang, Deely answered it.

  “Do you want to talk to Odette Mutombo?” she asked.

  “Do I have a choice?”

  “Now that their power’s back on, Mother Tucker’s is open,” Odette began. “Since the Jamboree was cancelled for today, I thought you might be bored and looking for something to do. Or at least something to eat. Should I pick you up?”

  “Where are you?” I asked, detecting a blur of cheery voices in the background.

  “Mother Tucker’s. I met a client for Happy Hour. And guess who’s here?”

  “Who?”

  “I’ll give you a clue,” Odett
e crooned. “He’s practically your stepson-in-law.”

  Images of the sexy professor from Florida danced before my eyes.

  “He is not! He and Avery don’t even like each other. Plus, he’s fifteen years older than she is, which makes him three years older than me!”

  “I’m relieved you know who I’m talking about,” Odette said. “And you can still do basic math. Nash Grant is the client I met for drinks. If I do my job right and rent him a house, I’ll keep him in town awhile. The rest is up to you.”

  Chapter Twenty-two

  The prospect of seeing Nash Grant again (and again) made me as giddy as a kid on Christmas morning. Never mind that sweet Chester was missing, smelly Abra wasn’t, and a convicted felon had arrived at my house nearly naked.

  By the time Odette rolled up in her Mercedes, I couldn’t wait to start flirting. I had changed my clothes, brushed my hair, and applied a little perfume and make-up.

  “Mascara!” Odette exclaimed. “Lipstick! You are in lust.”

  “It’s still legal in forty-nine states.”

  “But coveting the father of your late husband’s grandchildren? That must be taboo. Even if the guy’s closer to your age, and you loathe your stepdaughter.”

  “They can barely stand each other,” I insisted. “So no harm, no foul.”

  “There’s another problem, Whiskey: The whole town wants you and Jeb to get back together.”

  When I laughed and she didn’t, I stared at Odette. “You can’t be serious.”

  “As the Apocalypse. You and Jeb have so much history.”

  “Which is why we’re no longer in love. . . .”

  Odette made that rude raspberry sound I’ve come to know and loathe. I changed the subject. “Did you hear from Jenx? She has good news and bad news for you.”

  “No. Tell me.”

  “The good news is Abra returned your designer bag. The one you sacrificed to land the Gribble account.”

  “That’s not just a ‘designer bag,’ Whiskey. That’s a Gucci.”

  “Whatever.”

  “What’s the bad news?”

  “You can’t have it back.”

  “What?!”

  “Not right away. Jenx had to impound it. As evidence.”

  Odette said, “It didn’t have a finger in it, did it?”