Whiskey on the Rocks

by Nina Wright

  “‘—prescribed in cases of congestive heart failure or atrial fibrillation.’”

  “’A-fib.’” This time we both looked at her. Mrs. Santy smiled. “My first husband was a doctor.”

  Brady cleared his throat and resumed reading. “‘Its presence in the quantity indicated in the blood of a healthy thirty-four-year-old man suggests a deliberate overdose leading or contributing to fatal arrhythmia. Immediate cause of death: Asystole due to Digoxin overdose. Possible contributing factor: Cocaine. Manner of death: Homicide.’”

  Three distinct handclaps. Mrs. Santy was applauding.

  “Not bad. For Hoosiers.”

  “Wolverines,” I corrected her. “People who live in Indiana are Hoosiers. You should know that.” To Brady I said, “Gallagher was about to get a massage from Noonan. Before that, he was with Lomax. How did he get the Digoxin? And from who?”

  Mrs. Santy said, “Your report doesn’t tell you that, does it? Dear, oh dear, how will they figure it out?”

  “Why don’t you shut up!” roared Brady. As if on command, Officer Roscoe threw himself against the cell bars, howling, his hackles raised. I jumped back.

  “Sorry,” Brady said to me. “Roscoe and I are taking a Good Cop/Bad Cop seminar in East Lansing. My Bad Cop needs a lot of work.”

  Roscoe continued scrabbling against the bars and barking viciously, his teeth bared. Pale as parchment, Mrs. Santy huddled against the back wall of her cell.

  “Enough!” Brady boomed. Roscoe immediately stopped, turned in a circle, and lay down.

  “When we do Good Cop/Bad Cop for real,” Brady said, “Roscoe’s always the bad cop. He’s got a gift for it.”

  Brady tapped the report and looked at me. “We need to go see Noonan.”

  The sarna bells on her front door tinkled, and Noonan parted the curtains to greet us.

  “I knew that was you,” she said. “I’ve been meditating on it. And I’m going to feel so much better after we talk.”

  I wasn’t sure that I felt better afterwards. But we did learn a few things. Brady brought along a tape recorder, which Noonan allowed him to use. Here’s her complete account of Dan Gallagher’s visit to the Starr of Noon Massage Therapy Studio:

  Brady: First, can you state for the record what you do?

  Noonan: I’m a certified massage therapist and Tele-Counselor for the Seven Suns of Solace. It’s a New Age Healing School based in Taos, New Mexico.

  Brady: Okay. And what does a New Age Tele-Counselor do?

  Noonan: I counsel those seeking enlightenment. Over the phone.

  Brady: Why not in person?

  Noonan: I do that, too, but that’s not tele-counseling. Most of my clients are tourists who take a couple massages while vacationing in Magnet Springs. I tell them about the Seven Suns of Solace, and they start the program here. Then they complete it at home, over the phone.

  Brady: Can you explain what you do, exactly?

  Noonan: I help people discover their inner and outer realities and reshape them for maximal karmic resonance.

  {Long silence punctuated by Officer Roscoe’s yawn.}

  Brady: Did you offer the Seven Suns . . . to Dan Gallagher?

  Noonan: He was dead before I had the chance.

  Brady: You never started the massage?

  Noonan: Oh, I started it. At first I just thought he was relaxed. Then I noticed he didn’t have a pulse.

  Brady: That was when you called 9-1-1?

  Noonan: Yes.

  Brady: Let’s back up. What happened from the time Mr. Gallagher arrived until the time you started the massage?

  Noonan: He came in alone. He said he had a stiff neck.

  Brady: Then what happened?

  Noonan: I showed him into my studio and asked him to get undressed. Then my Seven Suns of Solace phone rang. See, I have a dedicated line for my tele-counseling clients. It has a distinct ring—and also Caller ID—so I can prepare for a client’s special needs.

  Brady: Who was calling?

  Noonan: It was my newest client, Kimba Reitbauer. She was having a crisis.

  Brady: What kind of crisis?

  Noonan: I don’t think I can tell you that. Client confidentiality.

  Brady: That applies to physicians and attorneys—not massage therapists.

  Noonan: But I took a vow of confidentiality during my Seven Suns of Solace Tele-Counseling Training—

  Brady: Worthless in a court of law. Why did Mrs. Reitbauer call?

  Noonan: Well, I could hardly understand her, she was carrying on so. Something about her husband and how mean he was. Ordinarily, if a Tele-Counseling client calls when I have a massage therapy client, I arrange to talk as soon as the massage is over. But Kimba was hysterical. By the time I calmed her enough to schedule a call-back, we’d been on the phone for thirteen-point-eight minutes.

  Brady: How do you know that?

  Noonan: My dedicated line has a meter on it. For billing purposes.

  Brady: So you left Dan Gallagher alone for almost fourteen minutes while you talked to Kimba Reitbauer?

  Noonan: Yes. And there’s something else. My dedicated line is back here in my office, not out in the lobby where I make massage appointments. While I was on the phone, I thought I heard my Sarna bells ring. Twice.

  Brady: Meaning?

  Noonan: Meaning someone came and went, but I don’t know who.

  Brady: How long between rings?

  Noonan: Almost six minutes. I checked the meter. When I say that Kimba was hysterical, I mean she was sobbing. She was so loud I could hardly hear anything else. But I thought I heard Dan Gallagher say something. I couldn’t make it out, though.

  Brady: What happened when you went in to give his massage?

  Noonan: I apologized for the delay and asked if he’d tried to talk to me. But of course he didn’t answer.

  Brady: And you didn’t think that was odd?

  Noonan: Clients fall asleep on my table all the time. I play Cassina’s CDs. Her voice puts people right out.

  Walking back to the police station, Brady was stoked. “Witnesses saw Gallagher with Holly Lomax. They probably did coke together. Later Lomax suggested he get a massage to help him unwind. She and Mrs. R. had a plan. After Gallagher went into the studio, Lomax called Mrs. R., who called Noonan. Then Lomax slipped in and told Gallagher she had another good drug. I’m going to guess she administered it intravenously, probably between his toes where no one would see the mark. He may have protested, but Noonan couldn’t hear him. Then Lomax planted the fake ID in Gallagher’s wallet. We’ll have to subpoena phone records, but I’m betting on a Lomax-Reitbauer connection.”

  “I am too,” I said. “Is Noonan in trouble?” I hoped not.

  “Legally, I don’t think so. Ethically, she should have spoken up sooner. She put business before honor and protected the wrong party. Speaking of party, did you see that sign on her bulletin board? She’s hosting a Psychic Party on Saturday night. Does that mean no invitations are necessary? And do they show up by car or by teleporting?””

  I said, “Do you think the Cook County coroner will find Digoxin in Matheney’s blood, too?”

  Brady thought they might.

  Back at the station, Mrs. Santy was gone, but Marilee Gallagher was still there. She dabbed at her eyes with an embroidered hanky.

  “I went over Crouch’s report with her,” Jenx said, taking Brady and me aside. “And I had her look at some photos. She recognized both Holly Lomax and Kimba Reitbauer from the homeless shelter where she volunteers in Grand Rapids. They used to come in together. Mrs. Gallagher thought they were—you know. . . .”

  “Hookers? Druggies?” I offered.

  “Much, much worse.” Jenx’s eyes twinkled. “Like our good coroner, she prayed for them. One day they stopped coming. She hadn’t seen them for at least eighteen months, maybe longer. Then, a few weeks ago, Holly showed up again, just to say hi. Without Kimba. She said they were in Chicago now, doing just fine. But Marilee wasn’t sati
sfied. She sat Kimba down and lectured her about the joys of heterosexual love.”

  “Oh no!”

  “Oh yes. Mrs. Gallagher showed her a picture of her wonderful husband. Somehow Holly managed to take it with her. Mrs. Gallagher didn’t notice it was gone until much later.”

  “That’s the photo that showed up on Gordon Santy’s fake New Brunswick driver’s license!” I exclaimed.

  “Which Holly Lomax planted in Dan Gallagher’s wallet right after she killed him,” said Brady. “She and Kimba were working for the Santys, who needed the world to believe that Gordon Santy was dead.”

  I frowned. “Remind me why, exactly.”

  “The Santys were wanted for art fraud and art theft—and likely to be implicated in Warren Matheney’s death if Lomax stayed alive. Both Santys needed to disappear. So they did, using the bodies of Gallagher and Lomax.”

  “But what was in it for Kimba Reitbauer?”

  Brady said, “She goes way back with the Santys. Probably used their contacts to meet her tycoon-sugar daddy. You can take the girl out of the criminal element but not the criminal element out of the girl.”

  Jenx said, “The Digoxin fits, too. Marilee says Kimba used to brag that she could get her hands on any kind of prescription drug.”

  “Excuse me!” trilled Marilee Gallagher. “Could I have a word with Whitney?”

  “Be my guest,” Jenx said and led Brady from the room.

  Marilee limped toward me wearing only one shoe.

  “What happened?” I asked, pointing to her naked foot.

  “Ingrown toenail. So I took it off. Never liked these pumps anyway because the heel’s too high, but Dan said they made my legs look thinner.”

  She stopped suddenly and stared at the remaining shoe. Then she kicked it off with such force that it cracked against the wall, narrowly missing Officer Roscoe, who ducked.

  “Sorry!” she called out.

  “You wanted to see me,” I reminded her.

  “Yes. About something personal.”

  Inwardly I groaned, hoping she didn’t want to be my friend now that we’d both admitted being widows.

  “It’s about being widows,” she began.

  “Hey, I’m comfortable with that,” I said. “You’ll get there, too, I promise. It just takes time.”

  Her blue eyes widened. “Oh, I’m sure that’s true. But that’s not what I’m talking about. Have you heard of WUMPERs?”

  “Pardon?”

  “Widows United for Mutual Power and Energized Renewal. We’re a national Christian support organization about to found a branch in West Michigan.”

  “No thank you,” I said, trying to sound flattered. “I’m a joiner but not a self-helper.”

  “You haven’t even heard my question.”

  I began to explain that I don’t do organized religion except on major holidays and my mother’s birthday. Comprehension flashed across her face.

  “I’m not recruiting you, Whitney, although, of course, you’re welcome. We’re Interfaith, so anyone who accepts Jesus Christ as their Lord and Savior can join. I’m just asking if you’ll show us some real estate. This is a big organization, and I expect to do big things with it. Did I mention I’m running for President? They’ll elect me. I’m famous for my enthusiasm, and frankly I need a new cause. I’m sick of homeless shelters. Anyway, I plan to enlist thousands of women on this side of the state, so we’ll need a meeting place and office space by the end of the year.”

  “In Grand Rapids,” I ventured.

  “Why not Magnet Springs? It’s a resort community. And you and I both know the Holy Spirit’s here among us.”

  Chapter Thirty-one

  I gave Marilee Gallagher my card and promised to call. Then my cell phone purred. It was Odette, offering to buy me dinner at Mother Tucker’s.

  “Are you feeling sorry for me, or do we have something to celebrate?”

  “Both. I’ll be waiting at the bar with Walter and his best red.”

  I’d never sampled a finer Pinot Noir.

  “What’s the occasion?”

  Odette and Walter exchanged glances. He began. “I for one am relieved to be alive, and I’m glad you’re still here, too, Whiskey. Even though your home is inclined to become a crime scene.”

  “Don’t get sentimental on me!”

  His eyes crinkled. “Life is tenuous. But we’re halfway through Leaf-Peeping Season, and we’re all getting rich.”

  He hoisted a glass in salute.

  “Who’s getting rich?” I said. Then I took in Mother Tucker’s Bar and Grill, once again packed with tourists. “Congrats. You and Jonny must be very pleased.”

  “We’re exhausted. Now it’s Odette’s turn to share.”

  “Make me a toast!” she cried. “I’ve sold the Schlegels’ house! For cash!”

  I stared. “To who?”

  “Our very own bad boy, Richard Anderson. He fell in love with it! Offered the asking price while we were still on site. The Schlegels accepted with alacrity. We close in two weeks!”

  “To the best real estate agent I know!” We three clinked glasses. “Who’s Richard Anderson?”

  “Rico Anuncio! He’s no more Hispanic than you are. We knew that couldn’t be his real name. Turns out he never legally changed it. That’s his Big Secret. We’re supposed to help him keep it.”

  “Or what? He’ll sue us for negligence?”

  “I doubt it now that he’s into Apocalyptic art. He was entranced by the Schlegels’ paintings. You won’t believe what he paid for the lot.” She whispered an improbably high number in my ear.

  “For screaming souls and open graves?”

  “And other horrors. The Schlegels are moving to Sun City, Arizona, so that Mrs. Schlegel can have a prickly-pear Prayer Garden. By the way, Gil Gruen was at Shadow Play, replacing his FOR SALE sign. Drive-by geeks keep stealing it. You should have seen his face, Whiskey, when I added Under Contract to ours.”

  Odette and I ate at the bar—Alaskan king crab for her, angel-hair pasta with white clam sauce for me. At some point, Walter switched us from red wine to white, and then to club soda with lime. Although I’d been tempted by the crab legs, I knew I couldn’t manage them with only one good arm. Jonny’s white clam sauce satisfied completely. Walter said he makes it with chopped littleneck clams, sweet butter, sweet onion, fresh garlic, Chardonnay, and heavy cream. I didn’t need the recipe since I never planned to cook again. But it was tasty, my first feast in days.

  So I was verging on happiness as I drove home that night. The real estate business was booming, Abra was still boarding with Wells, and the bad guys I knew about were either in jail, on the lam, or dead. Then I remembered that hostile Avery Mattimoe and her ticking double-occupancy womb awaited me. I would have inhaled deeply to calm myself if I hadn’t had two broken ribs.

  I heard the siren about a quarter-mile from home. Seconds later an ambulance passed me en route to the local hospital.

  What were the odds that another emergency vehicle had been dispatched to Vestige? But the next sight was not encouraging. Every light in my house was on. Either Avery was scheming to bankrupt me via the electric company, or something had gone seriously awry. As I parked in my driveway in front of what used to be my garage, my porch light blinked on. It must have been the only lamp left to ignite. At least there’s no crime scene tape, I thought. Then the front door flew open and out leapt Chester. He was flailing his arms and jumping about in his signature Dance of High Drama.

  “Did you see the ambulance?” he cried.

  Instantly I assumed that something had happened to Cassina. Chester must have dashed over to my house screaming for help. He’d searched every room for me and finally I was here.