Whiskey and Water

by Nina Wright

  The driver motioned me over. “Here’s the thing,” he began and handed me a certified check for one thousand dollars. I handed it back.

  The driver said, “Miss Cassina and Mr. Rupert are having a row, don’t you know. He gave her this pup to win back her love, but she’s leaving the country for a month at a Tuscan spa. She knows you have a dog, so…here’s another one.”

  Did he honestly think that made sense? He produced a second check, this one made out for two thousand dollars, and gave it to me, along with the first one.

  “For the charity of your choice,” he said.

  “No.” I said and gave both checks back.

  “Think of your nanny,” he pleaded. “How she loves dogs and all creatures. How would she feel if you left this little one out here in your driveway?”

  He pulled an exaggeratedly sad face.

  I said, “First of all, I’m not going to leave him in my driveway. I’m going to give him back to you. Second of all, this isn’t my nanny’s house. It’s my house. And I already have one dog too many.”

  …which reminded me I hadn’t seen Abra since the hat-eating incident on my deck. I made a mental note to look for her. Later.

  The driver reached into the front-seat console and removed yet another check, this one made out for five thousand dollars.

  “No!” I shouted. “I am not taking a bribe!”

  “Just think, Ms. Mattimoe, of all the good works Fleggers could do with eight thousand dollars.”

  I shuddered. He was referring to Four Legs Good, the animal rights advocacy founded by my nanny and my vet—and the very reason Deely wasn’t here to help me right now. Fleggers asserted that all animals were created equal and should be so recognized under the law. An alarming credo. I shared my life with a felonious Afghan hound who already had more clout than I did.

  “Absolutely not.” I declared.

  “I see,” the driver said. He turned his gaze straight ahead and contemplated Lake Michigan. “In that case, how about a lucrative real estate listing? Miss Cassina owns a five-thousand-square-foot ‘cottage’ twenty miles up the coast. She sometimes goes there to…”—he cleared his throat—“work. But she’s bored with the place and wants something new. She’s asked me to find her a Realtor.”

  He presented a manila folder, which I opened. It contained the paperwork required to list a property. Plus four photos showing a magnificently secluded three-story cedar-sided home in the dunes.

  “A comparable property sold last month for three-point-three million,” he said, dramatically rolling his Rs.

  “Are you an agent?” I demanded.

  “I was, back in Glasgow. MacArthur’s the name. I’m studying now for my Michigan license. Are you hiring?”

  I tucked the folder under my arm and told him to call me at the office. Then, against my better judgment—and all reasonable standards of sanity—I scooped up the rocking box and carried it into my house.

  Chapter Two

  I found Cassina sprawled on my living room couch, half my scotch gone and most of her cotton body wrap unraveled.

  “Whiskey, don’t be so damn cheap,” she slurred. “Crank up your air conditioner.”

  Yards of flame red hair fanned out across my ivory jacquard pillows. Since her sunglasses were still in place, I couldn’t tell if Cassina was on her way to passing out or simply in position to contemplate my ceiling. She had spilled most of her current drink on her now exposed white teddie…and my couch. Hey, I had no right to complain. She wasn’t going to sue me. What are a few whiskey stains between neighbors?

  She ignored the LIVE ANIMAL box I set down on the coffee table next to her shoulder. The box, or rather its contents, had progressed from panting to whimpering. A moment later, it graduated to yipping.

  “Cassina?” I inquired. “Do you hear that?”

  “Yes, and I wish you’d turn it off.”

  “This is the box you left in my driveway. Can you please explain it?”

  She lifted her head just enough to suggest eye contact. “You of all people should know what a dog sounds like.”

  “But why this dog at this time in this place?”

  “I don’t have time for riddles,” she moaned, letting her head fall back onto the pillows. “I have to go to a spa in Tuxany.” I assumed she meant Tuscany and wondered if “spa” was code for “rehab.”

  “Why oh why does Rupert torture me like this?” she wailed. “He knows I hate dogs, and Chester loves dogs. So he gives me a dog, and now I have to get rid of it without Chester knowing I got rid of it.”

  Cassina crooked a finger and motioned for me to come closer, presumably so that she could share a secret. “Chester wants a dog. But he can never, ever have one because I won’t have one. So you have to take this one. And you can’t tell Chester. Ever.”

  “But—“

  “It’s just a little dog,” Cassina insisted. “You can hardly even see him.”

  Apparently Cassina hadn’t seen Prince Harry although he’d been living at her house for months. Three cheers for Chester. But I had no intention of keeping this pup, however cute he might be. The truth was I didn’t like dogs one bit more than Cassina did. I had inherited mine and felt obliged by my love for my late husband to keep her. When Abra’s criminal tendencies became clear, I briefly hoped she would land in jail, and I’d be free. It turned out, though, that the courts held me responsible for what my dog did.

  A foul stench blasted through the breathing holes of the box into my living room.

  “Whew!” I cried. “What did he do in there?”

  “Shat a shitload, probably,” Cassina said. “That’s why they call ‘im a shitzapoo….”

  “A what?”

  She didn’t answer and didn’t look inclined to speak again anytime soon. Cassina was unconscious.

  “Technically, he’s a shih poo. Says so right here.” I turned to see MacArthur the driver standing in my foyer, reading from a small card. “A cross between a shih tzu and a toy poodle. A sissy breed, but he’s sweet.”

  “Did you ring the bell?” I asked.

  “Sorry, no. Miss Cassina paged me.”

  “No she didn’t.”

  “You’re right. Sorry. We have…an arrangement. If she goes in somewhere I know she can get a drink, and she doesn’t come out in fifteen minutes, I go in after her. Generally, I dispense with formalities like doorbells and knockers. I found this card, by the way. It was supposed to go in the box with the dog.”

  Fanning the air, I said, “Good thing it didn’t. By now we wouldn’t be able to read it.”

  Then he delivered the card, which gave me an opportunity to watch him cross the room. A too-brief visual treat. MacArthur the driver was a hunk. Alas, Cassina the singer was a drunk. The ethereal harpist-singer snored like a bull elephant.

  “So you’re not really a driver,” I said. “I mean, you were hired to… do more.”

  “I was hired by Mr. Rupert to get Miss Cassina where she needs to go. And right now she needs to get on a plane to Tuscany. But first let me help you with the pup.”

  I could hardly believe my ears. A tall handsome stranger was standing in my living room, and he was willing to take care of shit. True, he had delivered two problems, but he was going to make them both better. If the real estate lead he’d given me was legit, I stood to earn a six-figure commission. And if he wanted to train as an agent, he would enhance the scenery at Mattimoe Realty.

  MacArthur suggested we adjourn to my laundry room to clean up the pup. Good plan. I don’t deal well with the gross and stinky—including the twins’ diapers. Body excretions in any form (except sweat) make me sick on a scale from light-headed to nauseated to passed-out flat. Managing the shitzapoo was no exception. As soon as I lifted the lid, I felt woozy. Fortunately, MacArthur was there with a steadying hand and a box of baby wipes, plus disinfectant spray and lots of paper towels. He took over while I stepped back to admire his work. Well, his ass. He looked just as fine from behind as he did from in
front. Six-foot-four, solid, and trim. When he turned around again, I fixed on his sparkling blue eyes. How did a gorgeous guy from Glasgow end up babysitting an American superstar? I had to know.

  MacArthur said, “I knew Rupert, back in the day, and he owed me one.”

  That further stirred my curiosity, which I would have to satisfy later. For now I was grateful that the tiny black dog and his box were clean. MacArthur set the creature on the floor. It immediately started circling my ankles and whimpering.

  “Adorable puppy,” I said insincerely.

  “He’s older than he looks,” MacArthur said. “About a year, I think.”

  “He’s…full-grown?” My innate distaste for small dogs kicked in hard. This one was barely six inches tall. Although I can’t handle the big ones, the little ones make my teeth itch. Especially when they whine. This dog was getting louder.

  “Teacup-size, they call them,” said MacArthur. “By now his personality’s probably fully formed, too. He’s a tad needy. Name’s Velcro.”

  The little guy peered up at me, whimpering. Framed by curly black fur, his dark brown eyes shone like buttons. And his little stub of a tail wagged hopefully. Oh, sure, he was cute…in the same way ladybugs are cute: in moderation. We were almost past that point already.

  How I wished Deely was here. I’d have to get through almost twenty-four more hours on my own—with two dogs, two babies, and one whacked-out stepdaughter. My eyes lighted on the doggie door that Deely installed last winter. Gently I picked up Velcro and pushed him through it. His whining became a piercing howl. Although he was probably too small to push his way back in, I wasn’t taking any chances. I seized the partition and slid it into place, rendering the in-and-out flap useless. Even through a solid wall, the dog’s “yay-yay-yay” was nerve-shattering.

  “He has remarkable lung power,” MacArthur observed. “And energy. He can keep going and going.... Speaking of which, I’ve got to get Miss Cassina to the airport. There’s a private plane waiting in Grand Rapids.”

  “You can level with me,” I said. “Is she really going to a spa?”

  “She’s really going to a spa.”

  “No way! Rupert hired you to keep her sober, but it’s not working, which is why you want to get back in the real estate game.”

  He smiled. “I want to get back in the real estate game because I like making money. I also enjoy this job…because I like making money. I intend to do both jobs and make lots and lots of money.”

  I had to respect that, especially if he signed on to make money with me. “But a ‘spa’ in Tuscany—. Come on. What’s the story?“

  “Sometimes, Ms. Mattimoe, a spa is just a spa.”

  MacArthur excused himself to prepare Cassina for departure. I was impressed by the delicate yet professional manner in which he “rewrapped” her, managing—or so it looked from my angle—to touch neither her sheer silk teddie nor her exposed alabaster skin. A lesser man might have copped a feel. Then without so much as a grunt, he hoisted the unconscious singer over his shoulder fireman-style and bid me adieu.

  “When you’re ready to show that property, the key is under the wood-nymph sculpture near the side door. So’s the alarm code. I’ll call your office when I get back.”

  “You’re going to the spa, too?”

  “My job is to hand her off, then I return. Rupert has more work for me.”

  I couldn’t imagine what that might be. As far as I knew, Rupert’s only work was to manage Cassina. MacArthur wished me luck with the wee dog and left. Listening to Velcro’s earsplitting howl, I knew I’d need way more than luck. I’d need Deely and Chester and probably a case of Pinot Noir. I poured a second goblet and tried not to guzzle it; I had another dog in my life, her current location unknown. Not that I minded losing Abra. I often fantasized about her staying lost, yet she always turned up. The problem was what she turned up with. In the past it had ranged from a priceless tiara to a missing finger. I quaffed the last of my wine just as the doorbell rang.

  Who could that be? If MacArthur hadn’t rung the bell before, he wouldn’t ring it now. And Avery had her own key. That meant I either had a friend at the door who for some reason hadn’t called first, or I had a stranger, whom I had no desire to see. If it had been Girl Scout cookie-selling season, I wouldn’t have hesitated. Love those Thin Mints.

  When the doorbell rang a second time, I decided to use the peephole. Chester—dry, dressed, and no longer blue—stood on my front porch, waving up at me. I opened the door.

  “Where’s Prince Harry?” I said.

  “Playing along the fence line with that little black dog.”

  Now I would have to explain Velcro. Where could I say he’d come from? Chester knew me too well to believe I’d adopt another dog, even at gunpoint. Should I admit that I’d done it for a real estate commission . . . and to stave off a lawsuit?

  “He used to be at my house,” Chester said.

  “You…know this dog?” I tried to keep my voice neutral.

  “Rupert forgot that Cassina doesn’t like dogs. We couldn’t keep him, but I’m glad you’ve got him now. He and Prince Harry can play every day.”

  Chester beamed a big smile up at me, pale eyes shining behind thick lenses. His resourcefulness amazed me, especially his talent for recasting Cassina and Rupert’s behavior so that it passed for normal.

  “How are the twins?” he asked. “Need help changing diapers?”

  I told him I was managing so far but appreciated having him around. Velcro’s yips had stopped. Maybe Prince Harry as playmate was the answer. Not that I wanted a third dog around to keep a second dog happy. That reminded me…where was the first dog? Trying to sound casual, I mentioned to Chester that we should probably look for Abra.

  “You lost her? Again?” he said.

  “I never ‘lose’ her. Abra tends to take off without filing a flight plan.”

  Maybe I was as good at denial as Chester. He was better with animals than I was, especially with that one. Abra adored Chester. She liked Deely and our vet Dr. David, too, and a few other folks. But she was indifferent to most people and openly rude to me. She and Avery had that in common. They both deeply missed Leo, Abra’s first owner and Avery’s father. Although Abra couldn’t say it, and Avery hadn’t said it yet, I knew they both wished I had died instead of Leo.

  “Which way did she go?” Chester shaded his eyes against the sun setting over Lake Michigan. I admitted that I hadn’t seen her since she ate my hat.

  “She doesn’t usually consume what she steals,” I said. “So either she needs more straw in her diet, or she’s pissed off.”

  “I vote for pissed off,” Chester said. “What did you do to her?”

  I mentally replayed my day. What had I done that might offend Abra? Other than allow a riptide to carry off her son and her favorite human. Abra had showed zero interest in Prince Harry since weaning him, but Chester she would have missed. Still, she knew he was fine, so punishing me seemed petty. Especially after she’d had pleasure of watching Mr. Gamby chastise me.

  “Maybe Abra resents having Avery and the twins back again,” Chester said.

  “Not half as much as I do,” I muttered.

  “I mean, maybe Abra resents you for giving them so much attention.”

  “Like I have a choice?”

  Maybe Chester was on to something. From April to early June—except for a brief invasion by about forty stray cats—it had been just Abra and me here at Vestige, my country home by the lake. Perhaps she’d gotten used to being the only one I cursed at. Perhaps, in her world, all attention was good attention, and now she was getting less. Could that explain her eating my hat? Or were more sinister forces at work? Abra had a history of consorting with criminals. But what kind of sick mind would train a dog to consume fashion accessories?

  My thoughts stopped abruptly when Chester shouted, “There she is!” I followed his pointing finger and saw what he saw: At the water’s edge, down the bluff from my house, my blonde b
imbo Afghan hound rolled ecstatically in the wet sand. Probably on a dead fish. She stopped long enough to make sure we got a good picture; then she resumed rolling. From here, her pleasure looked sexual. Obscene. I wanted to cover Chester’s eyes.

  “I’ll go get her.” my young neighbor volunteered, his enthusiasm compelling.

  As the adult in our duo, and the legal owner of that dog, I felt obliged to help. Prince Harry, already bored with Velcro, tagged along. Stuck in my side yard, the teacup dog howled inconsolably.

  It wasn’t a dead fish that Abra was rolling in. It was two dead fish and half a dead tern. I suspected Abra of deliberately compiling a stack of stinky things for her own erotic pleasure. But when I scanned the beach, I noticed much more flotsam than usual. Chester must have made the same observation.

  “Maybe another riptide rolled in,” he said. “I’ve read that they churn up lots of debris and then dump it on beaches. They’re cyclical, you know.”

  When I was eight, I don’t think I knew the words “debris” or “cyclical,” and I certainly couldn’t have used them in a sentence.

  “I’m just glad the riptide didn’t churn you up,” I said. Watching Prince Harry join his mother in a smelly somersault, I added, “or your dog, either. I’m sorry I fell asleep.”

  “It’s all right, Whiskey. I know you’re doing the best you can within the framework of your own limitations.”

  That sounded like Noonan-speak, i.e., the lingo of Noonan Starr, our local massage therapist and New Age spiritual counselor. I knew for a fact that Cassina kept Noonan on retainer, so Chester was often exposed to her aphorisms.

  “Thanks,” I said. “Now how about doing the best we can with these dogs?”

  “You’re going to need a lot of help with Velcro,” Chester sighed. “He’s smaller than Abra, but even more high-maintenance.”

  From the direction of my yard on the bluff above us came the sustained high-pitched howl of an itty-bitty dog.

  Chapter Three

  Chester was probably right about Abra resenting Avery. Hell, I resented Avery, and I could appreciate how cute her kids were.