Whiskey on the Rocks

by Nina Wright

We had traveled five miles on a two-lane road when the Beamer turned west. I slowed and took the turn, too. Our new way was narrow, still paved but less than two lanes. In minutes the surface degenerated into gravel. I gave the Beamer more headway, knowing I’d be doomed if anyone looked back. After a few minutes, the road got rougher. Clouds of dust obscured my view. I couldn’t see the Beamer, so I assumed the Beamer couldn’t see me. I slowed, hoping not to miss anything. Like a rear bumper or the grill of an oncoming truck. I lowered my window and listened; I thought I heard a car ahead of me, maintaining more or less the same speed. The road wound and undulated; I could make out a dense woods and slowed again for safety’s sake. When I nearly missed a turn—and narrowly missed a tree—I stomped on the brake. Gradually the dust settled, and so did my pulse rate.

  Trees arched over the road, the morning sun leaking like liquid gold between their interlaced boughs. Birds sang. Leaves drifted down. It was a lovely fall morning, and I was lost in Indiana.

  Then I heard an engine. A new dust cloud appeared down the road, shrouding the oncoming vehicle. I tried to pull off, but there was nowhere to go. The cloud rolled noisily toward me. Whatever was inside was approaching fast, and I knew they couldn’t see me. Survival instincts took hold: I squeezed my eyes shut and leaned into the horn.

  Brakes shrieked. The cloud cleared. It did not contain a Beamer. But I didn’t know that yet. I didn’t open my eyes till I heard the voice at my window. The voice said, “You all right?” I screamed in response. Then I opened my eyes and instantly felt better. The man was no one I knew, and his vehicle was a pick-up truck that looked older than I was.

  “I’m fine!” I declared. “I’m wonderful! How are you?”

  He ignored the question. “You lost?”

  “Not really.” I smiled warmly. He didn’t smile back. He was scowling at my Lexus.

  “Where you headed?”

  “Uh—well—uh—” That was a tough one. I took a deep breath and decided to try the truth: “Actually, I was following someone, and we got separated.”

  “I don’t suppose you mean the BMW I just passed back there?”

  “Yes! Did you happen to see where it went?”

  “Didn’t have to,” the man said. “Cars like that are only going one place.”

  I thought he meant Hell, but he said, “Archer Road. That fancy new development’s over there.”

  “What development?”

  “That resort development—on Lake James.” He spat a wad of tobacco clear across the road. “Damned real-estate vultures. They’re wrecking this state. I ain’t selling my farm, no matter how much they offer me.”

  I nodded sympathetically. “About that BMW—”

  “Turn right at the next road. It’ll take you clear out there. ‘Lost Fog’ or something, they call it. Used to be Fred Swenson’s farm, now it’s all condos. Oughta call it Lost Farm. Only nobody gives a damn.”

  I thanked him, and he waved me on. The road didn’t seem wide enough for his old truck and my SUV. Inching past, I cringed, expecting the grate of metal on metal.

  “Keep going!” he roared. “You’re all right!”

  In my rear view mirror I saw him spit again. Who could blame him? Proceeding slowly enough not to kick up much dust—and noting that a resort area needs better access—I turned at Archer Road. This was a scenic region of low hills, patchy woods and rocky streams. No wonder my fellow vultures had seized it. Ahead a tasteful sign announced that I had arrived at “Lost Mists—The Resort Overlooking Lake James.” Beyond, three high-rise condos, one still under construction, framed a shimmering expanse of blue water. That was all I could see from my side of the guard house. Next task: getting past security.

  “Good morning,” I said cheerily to the uniformed man at the gate.

  He returned my smile, expecting more information. I handed him my business card.

  “I’m here to see Management. On behalf of the Chicago investors.” My voice rose just a tad at the end, as if to remind him that I had an appointment. He studied the card a little longer than necessary. That didn’t alarm me, but his reaching for the phone did.

  “I called ahead on my car phone,” I said. “They’re in a meeting and won’t appreciate another interruption.”

  He replaced the receiver. “First building on your left. Park in the back.” He raised the gate for me to enter.

  I noticed at once that each condo had its own garage, and most of them were closed. Finding the Beamer might be harder than expected. I circled the development twice without success. My next idea was to park by the unfinished building and investigate on foot. I pulled on a baggy cotton jacket, a broad-rimmed hat, and oversized sunglasses. Then I surveyed the scene. The air was crisp and invigorating, the fall colors stunning. I really should spend more time outdoors.

  Something snagged my peripheral vision. I whipped my head around in time to see Darrin Keogh, one parking lot over, sail past on a bicycle. He didn’t see me. Where was the Beamer? And where was Keogh off to in such a hurry? He pedaled away from me along the lakeshore toward what looked like a distant park. Then I remembered that I had a bike, too. I popped the hatchback and hauled mine out. Now that her tires were properly inflated, Blitzen could handle anything. I climbed on, hoping Keogh wasn’t out just for the exercise. It was a lovely day, and I needed a workout, but first I needed answers.

  In a minute I realized that I could pass Keogh without half trying, so I down-shifted and willed myself to enjoy the scenery. The working world was gainfully employed, as I should have been. I realized that I had no cell phone with me. Odette and the rest of my staff must be wondering where I was. And for Pete’s sake, who was running For Arts Sake while Keogh was out having fun? Ahead of me he faded into the shadows of a woodsy glen. I slowed to consider what might await me. If he knew he was being followed, would he ditch me? Or attack me? Or invite me home to meet his mom?

  By now he was invisible while I was still bathed in sunlight. Lame disguise, don’t fail me now. Blitzen and I glided into the cool of the trees; when my eyes adjusted, I caught a glimpse of Keogh rounding the bend ahead. The trail had degraded from a paved path to a dirt one that was still relatively smooth. I shivered as the temperature dipped ten degrees.

  The path became increasingly uneven and winding. Lake James could have been miles away; for all I knew, I was deep in a forest. Birds sang in the richly hued leaves overhead. The woods smelled of must and decay. Occasionally, I spotted Keogh ahead, dappled in sunlight. He was pedaling hard on a bike whose gear ratio couldn’t compete with Blitzen’s. Then, on a straightaway, I saw him starting up a steep incline. He was laboring, so I let myself fall back another fifty yards. What if he chose this spot to stop suddenly and look around?

  But he made it over the top of the hill, so I put some oomph into my efforts. Approaching the crest, I tensed. What if he were resting there? I doubted my disguise would work under close scrutiny. I decided I’d pretend to be scouting the area on behalf of a client who planned to retire in Indiana. I’m a real estate professional. I know how to shade the truth.

  But I didn’t have to. Darrin Keogh’s bike lay on the trail before me. He stood a short distance away on a rocky outcropping. But he was too busy pleading for his life to notice my arrival. The man I had known and lusted after as Edward Naylor held him at gunpoint. Keogh inched backward toward the edge of ledge, whimpering pathetically. Gordon Santy aimed his rifle with the confidence of a trained assassin.

  Keogh said, “Let’s talk about this. You need me, Gordon!”

  For the first time, I heard Santy laugh. It wasn’t a happy sound. “You’ve made enough Matheneys. Thank you very much, but your services are no longer required.”

  Keogh took another step backward and stumbled. Santy laughed again.

  “Get up. You’re making this way too easy!”

  Keogh took a long moment before he moved. I assumed he was wondering what difference it would make. If he stood up, he’d get shot. If he stayed down, he’d
get shot.

  “I said, get up! Now!” Santy released the safety.

  Either Keogh had bigger balls than I’d imagined, or he just wanted to be done with it. He rolled forward onto his knees and pushed himself upright. As he did so, he glanced my way. In the fraction of a second when our eyes met, I realized that my hat had slid off. Attached by a string, it now rested on the back of my neck exposing my infamous unfunny hair. My curls are my calling card, and Darrin Keogh read it out loud.

  “Whiskey Mattimoe!” he gasped.

  Santy reacted as if Keogh had picked that moment to order a cocktail. He followed his gaze.

  “Well, well. It’s the dog lady with the hots for me.”

  I’ve been called worse, but that hurt. The Canadian swung his rifle in my direction. “Drop the bike now and get over here!”

  “He’ll kill us both!” Keogh cried. “And Avery, too. I told her about the forgeries! He’ll never let her live!”

  Santy said, “You told who?”

  “Whom,” Keogh corrected him. “Whiskey’s stepdaughter. You saw her the other day.”

  “Former stepdaughter,” I said quickly. “Now that her dad’s dead, I don’t think it counts.”

  “The fat chick who got in the way of my shot?” Santy asked.

  “She’s pregnant,” I explained. “Though she was never thin.”

  Santy was once again advancing on the antiques dealer. “You told her what?”

  “Everything—about the paintings and the blackmail. You name it, she knows about it.”

  “You little fuck. I don’t care whom you told. You’re dead. And so is she.”

  Then Blitzen and I were bearing down on him, tearing across the rocky ground toward the ledge as if planning to hang-glide over the side. Those big yellow wings would have come in handy. Keogh saw us coming. His watery eyes widened, but this time he said nothing. In the last instant that we accelerated toward Santy’s unsuspecting back, Keogh leapt deftly aside. I squeezed my handle grips tight, and we slammed our target. Santy’s shoulders and head flew back; his spine flexed into an inverted C. The gun fired. He lifted into the air with me and Blitzen. The last thing I recall—besides his surprisingly girlish scream and the eerie sense that my wheels were no longer in contact with Earth—was the altimeter on my handlebars. The digital readout said 329. Feet or meters? I wondered.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  I don’t care what actors say on TV. When you wake up in a hospital room, you know that’s where you are. There’s no confusing it with anyplace else. I asked where I was, though, because I had no memory of getting there. The nice nurse said I was at Cameron Memorial Hospital in Angola, Indiana.

  I moaned, more from frustration than pain, although my head hurt and so did my right side. The nurse explained that I had a concussion, a fractured ulna (elbow), and two broken ribs.

  “Only two this time?” I asked weakly.

  She nodded. “But your X-rays say they’re two of the same ribs you broke before.”

  “I’m matchsticks. At least I broke a new arm.”

  She assured me that I’d be fine, that they were keeping me for observation. Then she adjusted some tube running into me somewhere, and I was gone again. The next time I opened my eyes, Darrin Keogh was staring at me. He didn’t look much better than I felt.

  “What the hell happened?” I said.

  “You saved me. And probably Avery, too.”

  “I mean, what the hell happened to me?”

  He recapped my impetuous Bicycle-as-Battering Ram maneuver.

  “So Blitzen and I took Gordon Santy over the edge of a cliff. . . .”

  “More like the edge of a ravine. You fell sixty feet.”

  “My altimeter said 329.”

  “Meters above sea level. We were at one of the highest points in the state.”

  “How come I’m not dead?”

  “Your bike saved you. That and the tree you fell into.”

  “What about Santy?”

  Keogh shook his head. “He didn’t have a bike. Or a tree. He hit a rock.”

  I had killed a man. I must have passed out again. When I woke, Darrin Keogh was still there looking anxious.

  “Thanks for saving me, Whiskey. I’m not a bad guy.”

  My brain buzzed, reconnecting a couple synapses.

  “Santy said you made Matheneys. You’re a forger?”

  “Let’s say I’m good at following directions.”

  “What does that mean?”

  Keogh poured me water and started explaining. “A few years ago, my uncle hired me to finish his paintings. He couldn’t sustain an interest, didn’t have the focus anymore. I think he was doing a lot of drugs. All I knew for sure was he had a problem, and I could help. And I needed money. My antiques business was going under.”

  “You can paint?”

  He shrugged. “Clouds aren’t that hard.”

  “How does finishing paintings turn into forging them?”

  “I don’t consider what I did a forgery,” Keogh said. “My uncle hired me to do it.”

  “You signed his name to works that weren’t his but were sold as his. I’m thinking that’s forgery.”

  Keogh wiped a bead of sweat from his brow.

  “Please listen. Before long Uncle Warren couldn’t paint at all anymore, but he had commissions to fulfill. He said he was in a lot of trouble. He begged me to do the paintings, and he promised he’d pay me more than I’d ever dreamed of earning. So . . . I took over. At first, he gave me a lot of feedback. After a few months, he didn’t say much at all. But the orders kept coming.”

  “So,” I concluded, “you’re the real Cloud Man.”

  “No way! Warren Matheney was Cloud Man. Whether he could paint anymore or not, it was his mystique that sold the pictures. His appearances on TV and at galleries. I was . . . the hired help.”

  “Then why did Gordon Santy want to kill you?”

  “He was afraid I’d talk.”

  “To who?”

  “To whom,” Keogh said automatically. “I’m . . . not sure I should say. I think I might need a lawyer.”

  “You think?”

  “I never meant to do anything wrong!”

  “Nothing worse, that is, than forging art?”

  I was doing my best Imitation Bad Cop. But it’s hard to look menacing in a hospital bed.

  “I never met Santy till after Uncle Warren died, but I recognized his voice. He’d been the one who phoned me with ‘commissions’—only then he used a different name.”

  “Do you remember it?”

  “Robert Reitbauer.”

  “The cement tycoon? Why would Robert Reitbauer call you to order art?”

  “Because his wife hung out with my uncle.”

  I tried to picture the adolescent-acting Mrs. R in the company of a world-famous artist, but the image wouldn’t come. It was hard enough picturing her married to a mogul.

  Keogh mumbled, “Kimba’s my sister.”

  I gestured frantically at my water glass. I needed a drink, and I’d take what I could get.

  “So, Mrs. R—Kimba—is your sister, and the man pretending to be her husband on the phone is Gordon Santy? ”

  “That’s right.”

  “How the hell . . . ?”

  “The real Robert Reitbauer is in a nursing home. He’d had a few strokes before Kimba married him. Then he had a massive one. The guy’s a vegetable.”

  I recalled Odette’s insistence that the live voice of Mr. Reitbauer didn’t match the recorded version on their home answering machine, but that the live voice had seemed familiar. It should have seemed familiar to me, too, but I had missed the link.