Whiskey on the Rocks

by Nina Wright

  “Is she dead, too?” I whisper.

  Leo smiles. Abra turns her head toward me.

  “She doesn’t look dead,” I say.

  “Do I look dead?” Leo says.

  “No.” He seems so alive, so near, I feel my heart will burst.

  “But I am dead, Whiskey. And there’s nothing you can do about it.”

  “Why? Why do you have to be dead?”

  He smiles but doesn’t reply. Abra begins to lick his face, just like she used to. He laughs just like he used to.

  “Why did you die? Why did you leave me?” I feel the tears coursing down my cheeks.

  Leo keeps laughing as Abra licks his face.

  I say, “What am I supposed to do now? I wasn’t ready to lose you. And, believe it or not, I didn’t want to lose Abra. She’s the only living part of you I had left!”

  Leo shakes his head.

  “But I’m all alone now!”

  He smiles tenderly. “I didn’t leave you all alone.”

  Abra smiles at me, too.

  “How profound is that,” Noonan sighed as she massaged my ankles the next morning. I’d had to tell her the dream; I couldn’t stop thinking about it. And she had sensed that something was up.

  “You’re so ready for the Seven Suns of Solace, Whiskey.”

  “No way!” I rolled away from her so hard that I almost wheeled right off the table.

  “Then why does Leo say what he says in your dream?”

  “Because . . . it’s a dream! Who knows what that stuff means? If it means anything. . . .”

  “It means everything about who you are and what you can be. You hold the key to knowing your heart and owning your future, if only you’d learn to look inward.”

  “You’re trying to sell me,” I said. “I’m a salesperson, Noonan, and I know when I’m getting sold.”

  “Seven Suns of Solace tele-counseling sells itself. It’s a spiritual service, and people partake of it when they’re ready. I’m merely the medium.”

  “Technically, the telephone’s the medium,” I pointed out.

  She said, “I’m the human medium. We do it by phone so that I’m available 24/7, as my clients’ souls evolve. Spiritual growth is not bound by office hours.”

  “Well, unfortunately, my business is,” I said, checking my watch. “I’ve got to go.”

  “I only did one side,” Noonan protested.

  “We’ll even me out later. I feel fifty percent better than when I got here, and that’s good enough for a Monday.”

  It didn’t last, though. I knew as soon as I walked through the front door of Mattimoe Realty that this particular Monday would turn out worse than most.

  My usually cool receptionist appeared on the verge of tears. Every phone line was lighted, and the lobby held more people than it did chairs. But that wasn’t the problem.

  The problem introduced herself as soon as I reached my office. Jane VanDam, a Laura Bush look-alike, was waiting for me, her business card raised like a weapon. I couldn’t have been less pleased to meet her if she were employed by the IRS.

  “Miz Mattimoe,” she began, “I oversee P.S.P. for the West MichiganRealtors Board.”

  “P.S.P.?” I hoped it was nothing like ESP. Between Noonan and Odette, we seemed to have enough of that already.

  “Professional Standards and Practices,” she explained coolly. “We’ve had complaints from some of your clients, and I’ll need to examine your files.”

  “With all due respect,” I said in my most cordial tone, “aren’t you here because of a call from one of my competitors? It’s no secret that Gil Gruen and I have a healthy rivalry, which he may have carried a little too far.”

  Jane VanDam removed a manila folder from her briefcase and scanned its contents. “Mr. Gruen’s name appears nowhere on this list of complaints.”

  “List of complaints? How many are there?”

  “Three clients have filed, each citing at least one instance of negligence.”

  “Negligence? Who filed? What are the complaints? And why wasn’t I notified before the Realtors Board sent you over here?”

  “You were notified, Miz Mattimoe. First by telephone. Then in writing, by registered mail.”

  “This is the first I’ve heard of the matter,” I said, keeping my voice calm. “I need to know who in this office you’ve talked to.”

  Jane VanDam checked her notes again. “On three separate occasions, I spoke with your office manager, Tina Breen. She returned the calls I left on your voicemail.”

  I thought I returned the calls left on my voicemail. Apparently, Tina had been editing my messages. I excused myself and speed-dialed Tina’s home office. She answered on the fourth ring. Before she spoke, I heard Winston and/or Neville shrieking in the background.

  “Tina Breen, Mattimoe Realty Office Manager. How may I help you?” Her phone voice was remarkably Chester-like.

  “Tina, this is Whiskey. I’m sitting here in my office across from Jane VanDam, P.S.P. manager for the West MichiganRealtors Board.”

  I heard her sharp intake of breath.

  “Did you forget to give me some important messages and registered mail?”

  “I can explain. If the messages concern office business that I would usually handle, then I handle them.”

  “But apparently you didn’t handle them. That’s why Mrs. VanDam is here.” I softened my tone. “Anything from the Realtors Board is my business, Tina, and I need to know about it. Immediately.”

  She was starting to cry, and that made her boys cry, too. It sounded like a nursery school meltdown on her end of the line.

  “Here’s the thing, Whiskey. You’ve been so distracted since Leo died, we’ve all been covering for you.”

  “We’ll discuss this later,” I said through my teeth. “Please bring the phone log and those letters. Now.”

  “But I’ve got the boys at home.”

  “Then bring the boys,” I hissed and clicked off.

  Jane VanDam was staring at me. “I just made the connection: You were married to Leo Mattimoe. I knew him years ago, when he was married to his first wife, Georgia. I remember their little daughter. What was her name?”

  “Avery.”

  “Ah, yes. I heard she went to live with her mother when Georgia moved to Belize with that builder. I bet you’d love to have Avery around now.”

  “Why?” I wanted to say, “Why on earth?”

  “She’s Leo’s only daughter. A living reminder of your dear dead husband. It would be the next best thing to bringing him back, I imagine.”

  I imagined not. Avery blamed me for her parents’ divorce when even Mrs. VanDam knew that Georgia had fallen in love with a contractor before I came on the scene.

  “Could we talk about why you’re here?” I said. “I need to know who filed the complaints.”

  Mrs. VanDam reopened her folder. “The clients charging you with negligence are Mr. and Mrs. Robert Reitbauer of Chicago—”

  No surprise there, I thought grimly.

  “—Martha Glenn of Magnet Springs—”

  I saw Martha at least twice a month when I patronized Town & Gown, located in one of my buildings. She had never complained although, as Peg observed, she was confused.

  “—and Rico Anuncio, also of Magnet Springs.”

  “What’s his beef?” I demanded. “I’ve never sold him real estate, and I don’t own or manage the building where he lives and has his gallery.”

  She checked her notes. “He claims you’ve violated your contract. You’ve been negligent in your role as buyer’s broker.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  The charge was preposterous. I’d never made a contract with Rico Anuncio.

  Laura Bush’s doppelganger disagreed. “He claims that he contracted with Mattimoe Realty to locate a property for purchase, and you have failed to represent his best interests. He says that you have repeatedly refused to follow instructions.”

  I asked Mrs. VanDam to let me read Rico’s c
laim for myself. He alleged that we were “deliberately withholding suitable properties, including those listed by other realtors and those for sale by owner.”

  “Piffle!” I fumed, wondering even as I said it where I’d heard such a wimpy expletive. Probably from Laura Bush.

  “Piffle what?” Odette was in my office doorway. She had struck her usual irreverent pose, arms crossed over her chest, hip and head cocked.

  I introduced her to Jane VanDam and then presented Rico’s complaint.

  Odette sniffed. “What can Rico expect? He is most uncooperative.”

  Apparently, we needed to talk. I invited Mrs. VanDam to sample some coffee and pastry in our conference room. She went willingly. I wheeled on Odette. She was checking her scarlet fingernails from her perch on the edge of my desk.

  “You signed a buyer’s agreement with Rico? What were you thinking?”

  “Handsome commission. What does anyone think about in this business?”

  “I should have been informed!”

  Odette shrugged. “Tina processed the paperwork. You should have got a copy.”

  Tina again. As if on cue, our wayward office manager was at my door, darlings in tow. I don’t like children in the workplace, especially my workplace.

  “You told me to bring them,” Tina said, reading my mood.

  “Yes, well—can you put them somewhere?”

  She gave them each a juice box and dispatched them, loudly sucking, to another room. As I read the phone log and registered letters, I could hear Tina sniffling and Odette filing her nails.

  “What I don’t understand,” I began, “is why you’ve both kept me out of the loop about my own business.”

  Odette replied, “We’ve tried to keep you in the loop, but you don’t hear us since Leo died.”

  “Are you saying that I’ve been negligent?”

  “I’m saying you’ve been distracted and disorganized and a real pain in the ass. Right, Tina?”

  “Well, I don’t think I’d put it—”

  “Has Whiskey been a pain in the ass or not?” Odette demanded.

  “She’s been a pain in the ass,” Tina sighed.

  Everyone should have a pain—or be one—now and then. If only to appreciate the pain-free times when they roll around again. That’s what I told Odette and Tina, but they merely stared at me. So I suggested we review the complaints.

  Rico was a disgruntled buyer who felt we were holding out on him.

  The Reitbauers claimed that I had failed to secure their home as per the terms of our property management contract. I expected as much from Mrs. R.

  Martha Glenn’s complaint concerned a damaged waterline, which she said had ruined her entire backroom stock. But Tina insisted that we had not received a single phone call or letter from anyone at Town & Gown, and Martha had never mentioned a problem to me.

  I vowed to personally contact all three clients and find a way to make things right. As we concluded our meeting, Jane VanDam reappeared with Tina’s sticky sons. She was smiling.

  “They remind me of my grandchildren in North Dakota.”

  I assured her that I would promptly resolve every problem.

  “You do that, dear.” She no longer seemed interested. To Tina she said, “If you need a sitter, I’m available on very short notice.”

  Clients who are angry enough to complain to the Realtors Board sometimes sue. Whether they have a case or not—whether they win or not—is another matter. I found no comfort in Odette’s and Tina’s insistence that they had been covering for me. Within the past twenty-four hours, I had learned that I hadn’t looked good and hadn’t done good work since Leo died.

  First, I phoned the Reitbauers at their Chicago home. The maid informed me that neither Mr. nor Mrs. was available, but I could leave a voicemail message for either or both. I opted for both. Having faced disgruntled clients before, I knew the kind of conciliatory song and dance required. The key is a genuine willingness to solve the problem. I expressed my concern, apologized for any inconvenience they had experienced, and asked them to call me toll-free any time to discuss what I could do to correct the matter. I made a note to myself to follow up the phone call with a letter.

  Next I headed for Martha’s Town & Gown. En route, I bought a dozen pink and white roses laced with baby’s breath. Pink and white were the colors of the dress shop, and I knew that roses were Martha’s favorite flower. She gasped when I came through the door.

  “Dear me! It’s not my birthday! Is it?”

  I told her that didn’t matter. What mattered was that we figure out what I could do to solve her problem.

  “My problem?” She seemed clueless. So I reviewed her complaint. Martha blinked at me vaguely, her watery blue eyes framed by a fuzzy halo of snow-white hair.

  “Why would I make trouble, dear? I’m very fond of you. And I adored Leo.” Her voice trailed off. “What were we talking about?”

  “We were talking about your problems with this property. Apparently, you had some water damage to your stock? I want to fix everything to your complete satisfaction.”

  A few more blinks and then the light flickered on.

  “Oh! Yes! The pipe that broke! I remember now. I wondered what you were going to do about that.”

  Martha couldn’t put her hands on any receipts, but she said she’d ask her assistant manager. On the spot, I wrote a check refunding her September rent, and I promised to cover repair and replacement costs. It would probably come straight out of my pocket since I doubted that she’d be able to provide the information my insurance company required.

  “I need to know something, Martha. Did your assistant manager file the complaint against me with the Realtors Board?”

  “Oh no, dear. That was me. I complained.”

  “Why didn’t you call me first? We’re old friends. And I shop here regularly.”

  “Well, I would have, but that young man from the Chamber was in here when the pipe burst, and he told me I should go right to the top. ‘Martha, you need to complain to the Realtors Board about negligence like this.’ That’s what he said. And, well, I was so upset about the mess that I did what he told me. I’m sorry if that was wrong, but he seemed so sure of himself.”

  “Young man from the Chamber? Who do you mean?”

  “Oh, you know—the artistic one.” Martha was losing interest in our conversation as she arranged the roses in a crystal vase.

  Magnet Springs being Magnet Springs, half our local business owners were artsy. Then it hit me.

  “Do you mean Rico Anuncio?”

  Martha didn’t answer. She was fussing with a pink bud that didn’t want to stand exactly where she’d placed it.

  When I repeated myself, she glanced up.

  “Oh! I didn’t see you there. Did you need help with something, dear?”

  Rico Anuncio didn’t seem surprised when I strode into the West Shore Gallery.

  “Having a nice day, Whiskey?”

  “It’ll be nicer once I figure out what’s bothering you.”

  “What could be bothering me? I’m a happy man, about to be happier yet.”

  I recounted my conversations with Jane VanDam and Martha Glenn.

  “What’s your problem with me?” I demanded.

  “I am a man of means, Whiskey, and I expect to be treated as such. You and Odette have been holding out on me.”