Whiskey Straight Up

by Nina Wright

  She was referring to a disturbing incident that had occurred the previous fall. It had also involved Abra.

  “No! Just a business card and a poker chip, I swear.”

  Despite still-icy road conditions and scattered power outages, Mother Tucker’s was almost as busy as usual for a Friday night. We circled the parking lot looking for a space.

  “Do you think he’s still here?” I asked Odette.

  “When I left to pick you up, Nash was settling in at the bar for a long night of sipping.”

  “He was getting drunk?”

  Odette claimed a spot and turned off the ignition. “I said sipping, not tippling. Nash Grant doesn’t strike me as a heavy drinker. More like a man who wants to meet people.”

  “He teaches in Florida,” I said. “And he grew up in Mississippi. Why would he move to Michigan in midwinter? Don’t tell me he’s giving up his job just to be near the babies?”

  “He’s on sabbatical till August,” Odette replied. “That’s how long he plans to stay.”

  Inside Mother Tucker’s a party atmosphere prevailed. The crowd, made up of equal parts tourists and locals, was rowdier than usual, all that pent-up Jamboree energy seeking immediate release. Proprietors Walter and Jonnie St. Mary obliged by slashing drink prices in half. A banner announcing the discount festooned the foyer.

  Odette and I made our way toward the bar, pausing every few feet to exchange greetings with tipsy friends and neighbors. Because my desire to find Nash Grant exceeded my interest in making small talk, my eyes swept the room like radar. I realized that I’d seen the professor from the back just once, when he walked out of my hospital room with Jeb the night before. I had been aiming low, and both their butts made favorable impressions. Now, if Nash were sitting at the bar, I’d have to recognize his upper half.

  And I did. It was easy because his was parked next to a very familiar upper half: Jeb’s. I surprised myself by feeling a completely illogical sting of jealousy. As if I were competing with Jeb for Nash’s attention.

  “Hey, guys,” I said, inserting myself sideways between Nash’s right shoulder and Jeb’s left. I smiled at Nash.

  To my annoyance, Jeb put his hand on my waist and turned me toward him.

  “I hear you broke out of the hospital,” he said. “Against medical advice.”

  “Was it on the news?” I asked.

  “My cousin’s neighbor works in admissions. Do you remember pissing off a thin blonde chick with freckles on her nose?”

  “I remember her pissing me off.”

  “Then you probably won’t care that you’ll never get her real-estate business.”

  That made Nash laugh. I refocused my best smile on him.

  “How’s Magnet Springs treating the boy from Biloxi?” I asked.

  “Just fine, thanks.” Nash rose and offered me his bar stool. I glanced at Jeb, wishing he would give his seat to Nash. No such luck.

  “I hear you met Leah and Leo last night,” I told Nash.

  He nodded enthusiastically. “I spent two hours with my kids, and it changed my life.”

  “Really?”

  “I couldn’t sleep a wink afterwards. ’Round about three in the morning, I figured out what I need to do.”

  “Which is—?”

  “I can’t believe Odette didn’t tell you,” Jeb interjected. “Nash is going to spend the rest of his sabbatical here. If somebody at Mattimoe Realty can find him a house to rent. . . .”

  I glanced at my ex-husband as he put his beer mug to his mouth, thereby covering the sly grin that we both knew was there.

  To Nash I said, “You’re in good hands with Odette. She’s the best agent I have.”

  “I’m sure she is,” he agreed. “But I was hoping you might find time to lend me a little assistance.”

  My face flushed. Since I hadn’t yet consumed a single drop of alcohol, I attributed the heat to pure lust. Before I could reply, Jeb took it upon himself to build Nash’s case.

  “After all, he’s the daddy. And you’re the grandma.”

  “Whiskey’s too young to be anybody’s grandma,” Nash said gallantly. “But she’ll always be important to the twins. I’ll see to that.” His copper-colored eyes sparkled seductively. “Leah and Leo give us something in common, don’t they? Right from the get-go.”

  Good thing I was already sitting down.

  “What do you drink, Whiskey?” Nash said, signaling the barkeep.

  “This one’s on me,” said Jeb. He told the server, “A cool burn for the hot lady. Better make it a double, and put some ice in it.”

  “You like scotch?” Nash asked me.

  “I used to,” I said, glaring at Jeb—who winked. He paid for the drink, and then excused himself to join some friends at their table. Nash took his stool.

  “What do you think of my plan to bond with my children?” he said.

  “I think it sounds great, although I don’t really know your plan. . . . ”

  I took a big gulp of my drink and felt the fire spread from my throat to my gut. Once again, thanks to Jeb Halloran, I was drinking scotch on an empty stomach. Where would it lead?

  “I’m on sabbatical for six more months,” Nash said. “Technically, I’m working on a book, but I can do that from anywhere.”

  “A book about what?”

  “Advertising. ‘Media Planning for the Sole Proprietor.’ I reckon that sounds pretty dry.”

  “Oh, no,” I said, unable to imagine how anything Nash Grant did could be boring.

  “Advertising is sexy, Whiskey. Analyzing it isn’t. True confession: I’d rather be creating ads than dissecting them, but that part of my life is behind me.”

  “You used to write ads?”

  “Once upon a time, I was Creative Director for a big agency in L.A. But things change.” He gazed into his beer mug for a long moment. “I went back to college, got my Ph.D. Now I’m an academic and a pretty darned good one. The tenured life can be a good life.”

  I nodded although I had no clue what the tenured life was like. My life involved running a business that required daily reinvention.

  We talked about what Nash was looking for in terms of a place to live while in Magnet Springs. I was both touched and amused when he said he wanted the “whole white-picket-fence scene: big porch, fenced-in yard, lots of room to play.”

  I reminded him that his children were three months old. Nash sighed, finished his beer and ordered another one.

  “Maybe I’m chasing some kind of fantasy here, but I’d like to prove that I’m going to be a good father. The best I can be, under the circumstances.”

  He looked at me so intensely that I automatically reached for and downed half my drink.

  “I know you and Avery aren’t close,” he said.

  “That’s an understatement.”

  “But she does live under your roof. Listen, Whiskey, I hate to put you in an awkward position. . . . ”

  Just tell me the position you prefer.

  I didn’t say that out loud. At least I don’t think I did. I kept staring into Nash Grant’s eyes and squeezing a cocktail napkin in each hand.

  He continued, “Avery is threatening to block my access to the twins. I may have to take her to court. Unless you can reason with her.”

  “Ha!” With that I swallowed the rest of my scotch. Nash offered me another, which I loudly declined.

  “Avery reasons with no one, least of all me,” I announced. “Why else would we need the Coast Guard?”

  He frowned and offered to order me food. I gave him my blessing. I don’t remember what he ordered, what we talked about, or what I ate. But I know I felt better after I’d eaten, even when the subject of Avery came up again.

  “You may not like her, and she may not like you, but I think she respects you,” Nash told me. “If only because she knows Leo loved and respected you. Avery adored her daddy.”

  The last sentence was true although I doubted that Avery would ever adopt any part of Leo’s attitud
e. So far there wasn’t a single sign of that happening despite my ongoing efforts to be nice—or at least helpful.

  “I don’t want to take the children away from her,” Nash said. “As a matter of fact, I intend to be generous in terms of financial support. In return, however, I want what she doesn’t seem willing to give me: access and time. They’re my children, too, Whiskey.”

  I nodded. Suddenly his plight reminded me of my own. Although Chester wasn’t my son, I felt responsible for him and ached to see him again. My keenly honed emotional-repression skills momentarily deserted me. Probably because Nash was so close, so handsome, so vulnerable, and he smelled so damn good. Without thinking, I placed my right hand on top of his left hand and squeezed. He placed his right hand on top of mine, and squeezed back. I added my left hand to the pile. By now our noses were inches apart. I felt his breath on my face.

  “Well, well. If it isn’t the Enemy, plotting their next move.”

  We literally jumped. Avery Mattimoe stood behind us in her olive-green parka. Her blotchy face was streaked with tears and snot.

  “One man’s not enough for you, Whiskey?” she demanded shrilly. “You need to sneak around town with your ex and my ex?”

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Nash dropped my hands as if they were scalding him.

  “Avery, calm down,” he said, rising to meet her.

  “I’m not calming down until you get her out of here,” my stepdaughter said. She flicked her pink tongue in my direction, probably out of spite although it could have been her tic.

  “Man stealer! Child-care fake! Why don’t you go make some babies of your own instead of borrowing other people’s?” She was shrieking now. The once noisy bar had turned deadly quiet. Somebody touched my shoulder.

  “Come on, Whiskey, let’s go,” Jeb whispered.

  I ignored him. “I’m not borrowing your babies. I’m providing you and them with a good place to live, plus full-time care.”

  “We’re in big trouble if you care for us the way you cared for Chester. By now the whole town knows he’s missing, and Cassina fired your ass!”

  “She couldn’t fire me. I volunteered!”

  “That’s enough,” Jeb said, louder than before. But I wasn’t finished.

  “Avery, the babies’ father wants to do the right thing—by you and by them. Why don’t you let him?”

  “Why don’t you listen to Boyfriend Number One and get the hell out of here!”

  Jeb made sure I did. He grabbed my coat and my arm and steered me toward the exit. The bar crowd parted before us like the Red Sea.

  “Why give her the satisfaction?” I fumed as he opened the door. The blast of air that greeted us was so frigid that it sucked the breath out of me. Jeb took advantage of my silence to speak his peace.

  “The last thing you need right now is more trouble, especially with the people living in your house. Why can’t you see that?”

  “Deely likes me,” I whined.

  “Deely takes a check from you. But she takes orders from Avery and would probably follow her out the door. You may not like Avery, but you love her babies. And you need Deely to help you keep track of the dogs. Don’t blow it, Whiskey.”

  He led me to his vehicle.

  “You’re still driving this?” I said, nodding at the rusted out Nissan Van Wagon, a relic of the late ’80s. Even in the dim light of Mother Tucker’s parking lot, I could see the wires holding the rear bumper in place.

  “It gets me where I need to go, mostly.”

  The passenger door groaned when Jeb pried it open, and the interior light failed to come on. I didn’t move.

  He said, “Are you going to stand here till someone with a better car offers you a ride?”

  I climbed in and promptly jumped out again. “There’s something on the seat—and it’s big!”

  “Sorry.” He reached past me to rearrange the interior. Hearing the squeaks, crunches and crashes, I wondered what the hell was in there. “Okay, try again.”

  Cautiously I entered and found the seat bare. With difficulty, he shoved my door shut. The car took a few tries to start, but eventually we were rolling.

  “Where to next?” Jeb asked. “I’m guessing you’re too wired to go home. How about a drink at my favorite dive?”

  “Can I get something besides scotch?” I said acidly.

  “As long as it comes in a can. The Blue Moon serves shots and beer. Cheap beer.”

  A whole lifetime in Magnet Springs, and I’d never set foot inside the Blue Moon, a ramshackle dive down by the docks. There wasn’t even a sign outside, just a faded plywood crescent moon hanging crooked under a single floodlight. No parking lot, either. Patrons walked from their boats in summer, their ice shanties or snowmobiles in winter. We found a spot along the street. The place looked closed. I said so to Jeb, who laughed.

  Closing my door, he said, “Just curious: Who’s Evelyn Huffenbach, and what’s she got on you?”

  “She’s got nothing on me!” I snapped. “Who said she did?”

  “Everybody knows the Fibbies are in town. Rumor has it Cassina called in Grandma Evelyn from Iowa because you lost her little boy.”

  The grapevine in this town never failed to amaze me.

  “I didn’t lose Chester,” I said through clenched teeth. “Even Evelyn didn’t accuse me of that. At least not in those exact words.”

  “I hear she’s his new legal guardian.”

  “Maybe. I didn’t see the paperwork. Trouble is, Chester told me he didn’t have a grandmother. Or any family at all. If Evelyn’s story is true, then my client Mrs. Gribble the Third is Chester’s great aunt. And possibly his kidnapper.”

  We had reached the Blue Moon’s front door.

  “Ready?” Jeb said with a mischievous grin. He swung it open to reveal a scene that wasn’t nearly as dark or deserted as I had imagined. A pool table occupied the middle of the room, surrounded by card tables and chairs. The bar ran along the back. Vintage neon beer signs glowed on the walls, and every stool was taken.

  “Where’d everybody come from?” I said.

  “Most drove their snowmobiles. They’re parked around the corner by the boatlift. What’ll it be, Blatz or Schlitz?” Jeb asked.

  “Is there a difference?”

  “Oh yes.”

  “Then I’m in a Blatz mood tonight,” I said. He fetched the brews while I located a couple card-table chairs near the pool table. Everybody knew Jeb’s name. I recognized almost no one.

  “Who are these people?” I said when he returned with the frosty cans.

  “Blue Moon regulars: farmers and factory workers from this side of Lanagan County.”

  “They know you because you’re a regular, too?” I asked.

  “They know me because they’re fans of my music. Some of these good folks own all my CDs. They follow me from gig to gig.”

  I tried to imagine which of Jeb’s several musical incarnations would have attracted this crowd. They didn’t look like Celtic music types to me. More likely they’d found him during his Country or Rock-a-Billy days.

  “Excuse me a minute,” Jeb said.

  I popped open my can and took a cautious swig. Blatz beer, all right. Nothing quite like it. That was one of the differences between Leo and Jeb: Leo liked the finer things—including imported beer, wine, and food; Jeb liked whatever he could get.

  “I don’t care what they say, Gil Gruen’s dead.”

  The voice came from the pool table, where two middle-aged guys in snowmobile suits were chalking their cues.

  “They ain’t found a body,” the second man said.

  “That don’t mean nothing. He’s dead. And Roy Vickers killed him.”

  “I heard they had a showdown at the Town Hall.”

  “That’s not why I think Roy did it,” the first man said. “I saw Roy yesterday, and he wasn’t right.”

  “How so?”

  The first man dropped his voice so low that I had to lean hard toward the pool table to c
atch his answer. “When Big Jim arrested Roy for stabbing Leo Mattimoe, I was right there. I’d just come out of First Federal Bank next door. Roy looked the same yesterday as he did that morning.”

  The second man noticed me leaning and misunderstood.

  “Did you want to join us in a game?” he asked.

  “No thanks.” I looked at the first man. “You knew Leo Mattimoe?”

  “He was our real-estate agent when me and the wife bought our farm. Fourteen years ago now.” The man squinted at me. “Say, aren’t you Leo’s widow? Never seen you in the Blue Moon before.”

  “That’s because she needs me to show her all the best places,” Jeb said. He shook hands with the men and introduced them as Bud and Chuck.

  “Sure you don’t want to play?” Bud, the first man, asked.

  “Come on, Whiskey,” Jeb said. “Let’s see what you remember from our Glory Days on the road.”

  It had been that long since I’d shot pool. Jeb used to wind down after gigs by drinking a six-pack and shooting as many games. I played, too, mainly to keep the groupies at bay. Because I’d once been good, I figured I could still pick up a cue without embarrassing myself. Plus, I liked the prospect of learning more from Bud and Chuck about what Roy had been doing the day before.

  Although, as rusty pool players go, I wasn’t half-bad, Bud and Chuck were a couple of sharks. When Jeb and I got a chance to shoot, which wasn’t often, setting up the right shots took all our concentration. By the time we finished, Chuck had run more consecutive racks of balls than I wanted to count, and Roy’s name hadn’t come up again.

  I was reaching for my nearly empty third can of Blatz when Bud said, “Chief Jenkins says there’s been no murder till we find a body, but I disagree. When I saw that blood on Roy, I knew somebody was dead.”

  “When did you see blood on Roy?” I asked, my heart thumping.

  “Right around lunch-time yesterday. I don’t wear a watch when I fish. I was in my shanty, in Fishburg, but nothing was biting, and hardly anybody was around. So I decided to stretch my legs and go check out the shanty to the north that went up the night before. I wondered who the hell would have set it there.”

  “Why?”