Whiskey on the Rocks

by Nina Wright

  “Why did Gordon Santy pretend to be Robert Reitbauer?”

  “Because, in the beginning, the real Robert Reitbauer asked him to. He hired Santy to be Kimba’s escort. He knew my sister needed more of a social life than he was able to give her. But he didn’t know Santy would actually pretend to be him. Santy took advantage of the situation. He started selling forged art to Reitbauer’s business contacts. My sister helped him pull it off. “

  “What was their hold over Matheney? Why would he agree to play?”

  Keogh lowered his voice. “Like I told you, my uncle had problems. He did drugs. But that wasn’t all he was into. He liked strange sex.”

  “How strange?”

  “He liked to hurt his partner, and he wasn’t particular about the partner he had.”

  Keogh’s stories about Avery as a young art student and Pashtoon as a puppy came back to me. Then I replayed knocking on the door of Keogh’s store. Wells had said that Mrs. Santy probably expected someone tall like me, which is why I’d passed muster through the frosted panes.

  “You and Mrs. Santy were expecting Kimba the day I came to your store!”

  Keogh nodded. “It was Kimba’s idea to hide the Santys. She leased the condo at Lost Mists in her name so they could stay there. She makes me share my Beamer.”

  “What do you know about the murders?”

  Keogh paled. “I don’t know anything!”

  “You think your uncle died of natural causes?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then how’d he lose his finger? The one with his famous Celtic Cloud Ring? Dan Gallagher’s widow found it in her motel room—minus the ring—and then my dog ran off with it. Actually, we think my dog had the finger first, while the ring was still on it. She probably buried it, and then someone dug it up—”

  My story had a surprising effect: Keogh puked on the floor, narrowly missing his shoes. I didn’t mind because we were in a hospital. Someone else would clean it up.

  Now I knew how Keogh could afford the Beamer and who had picked him up this morning. What I wondered was why he’d bicycled into the woods. I delayed asking till the nurse’s aide had mopped the floor.

  Keogh said, “Last night, Gordon Santy came to my mother’s house and stole the Cumulus off our wall. Right in front of me. He just laughed when I tried to stop him. Said he now had everything he needed. This morning Kimba called from the condo to say Gordon was going to stash it at the ice house.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “In the woods, near the spot where you found us. There’s an old ice house built out of stone. It used to be part of a farm. I delivered my last few paintings there.”

  “Why not to the condo?”

  Keogh sniffed. “Have you been inside? The security stinks.”

  “But why would you confront Santy?”

  “You think I couldn’t take him?”

  I raised an eyebrow. Keogh said, “Kimba told me to get the painting back. It’s part of our inheritance. Santy had gone too far. Like I said, I follow directions.”

  “Why didn’t you bring a weapon?”

  “I don’t own a weapon. I have a naturally calming effect.”

  That I believed. Afghan hounds aren’t known for their tranquility, yet his were as docile as rabbits.

  “When was the last time you calmed Avery?” I said.

  “Those aren’t my twins!” he protested.

  I hadn’t thought they were. Keogh struck me as asexual.

  “What about the burglary attempt at my house? Was that you?”

  “That was a complete misjudgment, which we both regret. Especially me—since I got away, and Avery didn’t.”

  “What were you looking for?”

  “Avery was working with a healer who told her that the Second Sun of Solace is to claim what’s rightfully yours.

  Noonan.

  “You mean the photo of Leo in Rio?”

  “Avery said you thought the picture was taken in Michigan.”

  “I did. Just out of curiosity, what’s the First Sun of Solace?”

  “I think Avery said it’s admitting what you want.”

  “She’s never had a problem there. What did you want?”

  Keogh hesitated. “Let’s say I had both a good motive and a bad motive.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “I wanted to help Avery, and I thought maybe I could. . . ”

  His voice trailed off, but I knew the answer.

  “You thought you could get Abra to leave with you! You didn’t know she was away that night, and Mooney was with me. So, you are the dog-napper! ”

  “I breed Afghan hounds. I don’t steal them. Grabbing Abra was Kimba’s job. She was the one driving around Magnet Springs in the Beamer. But she’s no good with animals. Abra got away from her twice.”

  “Abra’s a handful,” I conceded.

  “I was going to borrow her,” Keogh insisted. “The Santys put a lot of pressure on me to find out where she buried Warren’s ring. I thought I could get her to lead me to it. Then I was going to bring her back to you. In perfect condition.”

  He looked ill again, and suddenly I understood.

  “If you didn’t come through, the Santys were going to harm your dogs.”

  “Gordon said he’d put out Pashtoon’s remaining eye. He wrote the note you found about torturing Abra. I thought I could make her trust me, and then we could end this thing. Once and for all. I just wanted to finish my business and walk away.”

  I leaned as far toward him as the tubes would allow. “Did you get back the family Cumulus? The one Santy stole last night?”

  “Thanks to you and your bicycle. It was in the ice house.”

  “What about the Cumulus at Shadow Play? What happened to that one?”

  He smiled with pride. “I painted that one. It was so good, Kimba fooled the insurance company.”

  “And you don’t think that’s wrong? Not to mention that the Santys killed someone named Holly Lomax that night and pretended she was Mrs. Santy. Mr. Santy had already killed Dan Gallagher and made us think it was him.”

  Keogh stared at me, slack-jawed. Either he was truly in the dark or he was an excellent actor.

  I said, “You didn’t know that?”

  “I didn’t know any of that,” he insisted. “I just did what I was told and didn’t ask questions.”

  “Ignorance isn’t the same as innocence. Your sister’s wicked, but you’re no saint. If the cops don’t get you, I’d be afraid that your sister will.”

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Who should walk into my hospital room just then but my very own mother, Irene Houston. With the dreaded Chicken Soup. Once upon a time, someone—probably my late sainted father—gave her the misguided impression that she could cook. Ever since then my mother has descended upon those in need with what she considers her curative broth. The stuff is vile. It even smells vile, thanks to the generous portions of slimy okra she includes. Edging toward the door, Darrin Keogh wrinkled his nose at the covered dish.

  “What’s in that?”

  My mother winked at him. “Secret ingredients. But we can put you on the list.”

  “What list?”

  “The Recipe List. After I die, Whitney is going to mail out copies to everyone who asked.”

  “I’m her executrix,” I explained.

  Recipe distribution wouldn’t be onerous. No one had ever requested a copy. “Mom, how did you get here?”

  “Your nice beau brought me. You should have told me you were dating the Judge. I had to hear it from my Card Club.”

  I was a beat or two behind.

  My mother continued. “Chief Jenkins came to see me when she got the report of your accident. Then she told Judge Verbelow about it, and he called to offer me a ride. I’d never been in a Beamer before!”

  I tried to imagine Wells stuck in his car with my mother, her nonstop talk, and her stinky soup. The hundred or so miles must have been torture.

  “Where is the Ju
dge?” I asked.

  “Parking the Beamer! He dropped me off. Would you like your soup now? There’s got to be a microwave around here.”

  “I have to leave,” Keogh announced. “Get well soon, Whiskey.” And he was gone.

  My mother said, “He seems nervous. What’s with him?”

  Then Wells appeared in the doorway.

  “Whiskey! You don’t look half bad, considering.”

  “What’s this about killing a man with your bicycle?” said my mother, stirring her soup. “Chief Jenkins said it was self-defense, but how does something like that happen?”

  I wish I could say that my heart soared when I saw Wells Verbelow, but it didn’t. I was pleased to see him, especially since another person in the room helps dilute the tension with my mother. But I wasn’t thrilled or elated. I didn’t remotely feel what I used to feel when Leo arrived on the scene. Or, for that matter, during the early part of my ill-fated marriage to Jeb Halloran. To put it bluntly, I didn’t feel passion. Wells is a good man, a prominent man, and a reasonably attractive man. But he doesn’t stoke my furnace. Gazing at him from my hospital bed, I wondered what the hell was wrong with me. Maybe my “equipment” was failing.

  Wells tactfully cleared the room of both my mother and her soup by summoning an aide who could find a microwave. As soon as the employee sniffed the brew, she looked at me in alarm. I mouthed the words thank you, but what I meant was throw it away.

  “The local police arrested Ellianna Santy at Kimba Reitbauer’s condo,” Wells said. “Darrin Keogh called 9-1-1 for you and then turned her in.”

  “What about his sister?”

  I told Wells about Kimba Keogh Reitbauer and her brother’s visit to my hospital room. His face darkened.

  “The police want to talk to both Mrs. Reitbauer and her brother. The FBI has a few questions, too, about art forgery. And I have on update on Avery.”

  I held my breath. “Did she deliver?”

  “No. But she confessed to breaking into your house. Since she didn’t steal anything, it’s up to you whether you want to press charges.”

  “Did she name her accomplice?”

  “No, and that’s a problem. Jenx and the MSP think the other party might have been involved with the Santys.”

  I sighed deeply, letting myself sink into my pillow. The stench of Irene Houston’s Chicken Soup was almost gone from the room. Wells touched my hand.

  “Was I out of line, Whiskey?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Bringing your mother here. I thought it was the right thing to do.”

  I waved away his concern. “There’s no way you could have known about the soup.”

  “I meant that I thought it was my role to come as soon as I heard. And to bring your mother. My role as someone who cares about you, who’s involved in your life. What I’m seeing in your eyes, though, tells me you don’t feel that way.”

  I squeezed my lids shut. “I’m sorry, Wells. Maybe I’m just too tired.”

  “I don’t think so, but it’s all right. Honesty counts for something.”

  I opened my eyes. “You’re a judge. What counts more than honesty?”

  He smiled. “Reality.”

  Neither of us spoke for a moment. Then Wells changed the topic. “Jenx executed her warrant for the Schlegels’ Prayer Garden. She’ll want to give you the details herself. But the short version is . . . they found a ring.”

  “A ring or the ring?”

  “It matches the description of Warren Matheney’s Celtic Cloud Ring. Man, that thing’s ugly.”

  I said, “Any idea how Abra got hold of it?”

  “The Chicago police think Holly Lomax was with Matheney when he died. She probably stole whatever she could from his apartment. When she couldn’t get the ring off, she removed the finger. We know she worked for the Santys, and we know she was a prostitute. The Chicago police say she visited Cloud Man on numerous occasions.”

  I thought about Matheney’s dark side and then tried not to.

  Wells continued, “Either she planned to sell the Santys the ring, or she planned to sell it to someone else. In either case, Jenx thinks Lomax had it in her purse the night she was murdered. Maybe she realized the Santys weren’t going to pay her for it or let her leave without a fight. So she tossed the purse. Abra picked it up—and we know the rest.”

  “Do we?” I sat up as straight as I could. “How did the purse and the finger, minus the ring, end up in Holly’s motel room?”

  “The buried ring was in a purse, yes, but not that purse. Jenx thinks Lomax managed to get the ring off the finger before she went to Shadow Play. She hid the finger in a different purse, probably with the intention of discarding it later.”

  “Only she didn’t have a ‘later,” I said.

  “Jenx thinks the Santys saw Abra run off with Lomax’s purse, and they figured the ring was in it. Either that or they forced Lomax to tell them. The Santys knew Abra’s ‘criminal history’ and thought she would lead them to it.”

  “Here’s what confuses me,” I said. “How could anyone sell Matheney’s Celtic Cloud Ring without causing an uproar? Everyone knows it belongs to his estate.”

  “You don’t sell something like that on the open market,” Wells said.

  I remembered Brady’s account of Matheney’s posthumous popularity and the ascendant value of his art.

  “So there are collectors, and then there are collectors,” I ventured.

  “Soup’s on!”

  I turned to see my mother standing in the doorway with the nurse’s aide. Both were smiling broadly, holding steaming bowls. I inhaled cautiously. “What happened to the smell?”

  “Hm?’ My mother set a spoon and bowl on my tray as the aide served Wells.

  “This smells good,” I said, confused. “What happened to the okra?” I looked to the aide for an explanation.

  “We had us a little accident. When I was stirring the soup before I put it in the microwave, I accidentally spilled it all.”

  My instinct was to high-five the woman, but my arm was in a sling. We winked at each other instead.

  My mother said, “The nice gals working in the kitchen let me have some of their soup. It’s different from mine, but you’ll like it.”

  The aide grinned. “I am so clumsy. But this worked out all right. Your mama got herself a brand new recipe.”

  I tasted it. Possibly the best soup I’d ever eaten. Wells agreed.

  “We’ll be adding names to my Recipe List, for sure,” my mother declared, rubbing her hands in anticipation. “Remember, Whitney, nobody gets a copy till I’m dead.”

  The doctor in charge of my case insisted that I spend the night in Angola. I gave Wells my keys, and he promised to make sure that my car was moved from Lost Mists to Cameron Memorial. I was confident I would be able to get myself home. I had driven broken before.

  Wells assured me that he’d keep Abra at his house until I was stronger. I wished he’d keep her forever. As he and my mother were leaving, I remembered to ask about Blitzen.

  “Can she be saved?”

  Wells said, “I hear she looks bad but is probably repairable. You knew that the police impounded her?”

  “Why?”

  “She killed a man, Whiskey.”

  The Angola police interviewed me the following morning. Although I didn’t get to meet Darrin Keogh’s loyal friend and choir-buddy, the Chief, the officer who came to my hospital room was respectful. He declared that no charges would be filed concerning the death of Gordon Santy, alias Edward Naylor. It’s always nice to know that there’s no warrant pending against you.