Whiskey and Water

by Nina Wright

  If Deely had been on duty today, I wouldn’t have had to hear the other three voice-mail messages from home. They were Avery’s, noting that I was out of dog food, people food, and toilet paper. Not in that order. And not without hostility.

  But there was one message missing. The one from Avery screaming about the new little dog. Where was that message? Amid her many complaints about my household, she hadn’t even mentioned Velcro. Now that I thought about it, neither had Chester. Maybe I’d dreamed the dog? Nah. I hardly ever had nightmares.

  There was one message from the office. A mellifluous voice said, “I saw what’s on your desk, and I know it’s worth three million dollars.”

  Leave it to Odette to snoop while I was out in the field. She’d found the folder for Cassina’s “cottage.” Based on its location, size and amenities, I figured the property was worth all of that—before we factored in “star power,” the built-in prestige of its famous current owner. That should add a few hundred thou to the ticket.

  I knew Odette would have peeked at my schedule and then parked herself in front of Mattimoe Realty with Cassina’s folder, ready to accost me when I came back. She was there, all right, and she wasn’t alone. Tina Breen, my disorganized office manager, fidgeted by Odette’s side, wringing her hands. As soon as she caught sight of me driving toward them down Main Street, tiny frizzy-haired Tina jumped and waved. I felt like the pilot of a med-evac helicopter swooping in to save the day. Only I had no idea what was wrong, and I didn’t want to find out. In fact, I considered driving right on by.

  Odette’s face wore its usual bland expression. She just wanted to go make money, which was my goal, too. I decided to stop so that she could get in and help me.

  “Vivika Major has been calling you all morning.” Tina whined as I powered down my window. “Why isn’t your cell phone on?”

  “It’s always on,” I said, quickly checking. Oops. The one bar had become none. “Sorry. I didn’t recharge. Who did you say has been calling?”

  “Vivika Major. She needs to see you.”

  The name still wasn’t resonating.

  “Your first multi-million-dollar sale,” Odette said helpfully. “They say you never forget your first. But maybe you do.”

  I remembered. Four years ago, with a little help from yours truly, Vivika Major had bought a small inn on the shore of Lake Michigan for her fabulous second home. Her fabulous first home was across the lake, in a rich-out-of-sight Chicago suburb.

  “Ms. Major is ‘tired of this side of the lake,’” Tina quoted. “She wants you to sell Druin for her—and she wants you to get the highest price the market will bear. As soon as humanly possible.” Tina’s voice buzzed like one of those remote-controlled toys you desperately want to step on.

  I sighed, both pleased and annoyed. I always got the highest price the market would bear. But my definition of “as soon as humanly possible” might not gibe with Vivika’s. She had given me the same orders, in reverse, four years earlier: “Find me the most incredible place, at the most incredible price, as soon as humanly possible.” I had met that goal by discovering the perfect unlisted property and convincing the owners to match Vivika’s numbers within Vivika’s timeframe. It hadn’t been easy, but it had proved worthwhile.

  “You’re on your way to see her now,” Odette informed me. “I’m along for the ride—and my share of the commission. I’ll get this deal done.”

  Of course she would. That’s how Odette and I worked: I put the package together; then she put the people together who could buy the package.

  Vivika Major was an internet marketing genius. Though hardly a household name, she had started several spectacularly successful online businesses, including one that most families used every day. Nobody who clicked on a certain search engine had any idea they were making Vivika Major even more obscenely rich than she already was.

  “This could be the luckiest week of your life,” Odette cooed. “Two mega-rich divas are bored with the shore and ready to unload high-end homes.”

  My luck did look incredible. If you didn’t count the return of Avery, the absence of Deely, and the arrival of Velcro. Or the illegally expanding family of tenant Twyla Rendel. Even if you did, those hassles couldn’t dim my profitable prospects. World-class properties like Cassina’s cottage and Druin don’t come up for sale very often, let alone with the same realty in the space of one week. Assuming that Cassina’s cottage was worth three mil, Vivika’s mini-hotel should fetch more than four. She had bought it for two-point-eight mil and replaced or upgraded everything, including the roof, garage, docks, boathouse, guesthouse, patio, and pool.

  Of course, nothing sells till you find the right buyer. That was where Odette came in. She had uncanny connections and schmoozed as naturally as she breathed. She also worked harder than anybody else in the biz. I sometimes suspected that Odette lived to do real estate. Her clients got more of her time than her physician husband did. But he was usually busy, too. Maybe it was the perfect marriage.

  “More good news,” Odette announced, sliding into the passenger seat. “Vivika’s place is just up the road from Cassina’s.”

  “How convenient,” I murmured, glancing at the Druin folder that Tina had passed through my window.

  “Convenient, my ass,” Odette said. “This is destiny, Whiskey. We’re fated to get a nice thick slice of the fat money pie.”

  For an instant I could have sworn Odette’s pupils were the shape of dollar signs. Not that I was complaining.

  * * *

  En route up the coast to Druin, I phoned Vivika Major. The call was answered by her receptionist, who transferred it to her personal assistant, who transferred it to her personal secretary, who transferred it—finally—to Vivika herself. Although I hadn’t talked with the internet guru in almost four years, I immediately recognized her voice. The word “authoritarian” best describes it. Vivika speaks with a low intensity that oozes power and privilege. After hearing but a few syllables, the listener knows that the speaker will call the shots. Vivika asked for my ETA at Druin, then consulted with several attending associates, and announced that she could give me three to five minutes’ “face time.” After that, her assistant would conclude the business with Mattimoe Realty. I assured Vivika that we would handle everything to her complete satisfaction.

  “Of course you will,” she remarked. “If you don’t, I’ll take my business elsewhere.”

  About twenty miles north of Magnet Springs, I pulled off Coastal Highway and made a series of sharp turns onto narrower and rougher roads. Finally Odette spotted the landmark we were searching for—a waist-high sign almost hidden by greenery identifying Internet Way, Vivika’s private driveway. Moments later, I had braked at the gatehouse and was explaining our business to a solemn security guard whose nametag identified him as Mr. García. After phoning two or three members of Vivika’s personal staff, Mr. García ascertained that we were legit; without smiling, he pressed the magic button. Voilà. The metal gate before us swung open, and I guided my Lexus RX-330 down the lane. I had been here only twice before. Once to schmooze the people who agreed to sell. And once to show the property to Vivika. The gatehouse was a subsequent addition. As was the heavy overgrowth along the property’s perimeter. Clearly, Vivika craved privacy.

  “You’d think she was as famous as Cassina,” Odette observed.

  “She’s richer,” I said, “and she’s probably made more enemies.”

  The driveway, paved in beige brick veneer, curved again and then widened before us, fanning out to its elegant conclusion. A chateau in Lanagan County might be as misplaced as an A-frame in Manhattan. But Druin was made of such classic and harmonious proportions that it seemed to rise naturally from the bluff overlooking Lake Michigan. The stately mansion—built as a home in 1927, converted to a mini-hotel in 1974, and recently redone as a 21st century estate—struck me as the essence of “grand.” The limestone portal that framed the double front doors seemed built for visiting royalty.

&nb
sp; An athletic-looking woman with short, prematurely silver-white hair responded to our door chime. Wearing an expensive navy-blue suit and good flat shoes, she introduced herself as Felicia Gould, the chatelaine of Druin. Then she excused herself to notify Ms. Major of our arrival.

  “Chatelaine? Do we believe in putting on airs?” I whispered to Odette.

  “She’s more than a housekeeper,” Odette replied. “I hear she has a Stanford law degree and rigorously trains Ms. Major’s personal staff.”

  While waiting for Ms. Gould to return, I looked around as best I could without actually snooping. The central hall, where we stood, seemed to demand a processional. Its French doors opened theatrically into a luminous living room decorated entirely in one pale shade of amber. Peering through the glass partition, I felt like a naughty exiled child. But no child I knew, save possibly Chester, could have identified the matching gilt-leg sofas as nineteenth-century Russian. I owed my late husband Leo for that part of my education. In addition to real-estate acumen, he’d accumulated a wealth of wisdom about furniture design, and he’d enjoyed sharing it. If I’d known how prematurely I was going to lose Leo, I would have paid closer attention.

  Odette busied herself taking notes on the architectural details within our view, features of the house that would stay when Vivika moved on. Neither of us heard the chatelaine re-approach. Her flat shoes must have had silent heels.

  “Ms. Major has requested that I give you a quick tour before she meets with you.” Her voice befitted a chatelaine—or a head mistress. It was precise, calm, and instructive. “Follow me, please. We’ll see the upstairs first.”

  I knew that would delight Odette. Her notebook at the ready, she simultaneously looked, listened and jotted down phrases destined to appear in our Druin listing. Felicia Gould was a more than capable tour guide, covering exactly what we’d need to know in order to get the best price for this world-class residence.

  “Ms. Major has a deep respect for historic architecture and design. In renovating the home, she has preserved its integrity by using only those materials that were originally specified: the same wood, the same stone, even the same fabrics. During the years when Druin served as a hotel, those elements were regularly disregarded. One might even say, violated.”

  Despite the strong word choice, Felicia’s smooth face remained impassive. She opened doors into two of the six large bedroom suites on the second floor. Both were spacious and airy, featuring pastel monotone color schemes—much like the living room below—as well as cove ceilings and intricate wood trim. We glimpsed one attached bathroom, a small but state-of-the art facility with a glassed-enclosed Roman shower, a double-sink marble-top vanity, and an ivory toilet with matching marble pediment. As we moved through the house, Felicia described upgrades in plumbing, wiring, heating and air-conditioning, as well as the remodeling choices made in the kitchen and wine cellar. The cellar was still being renovated, so we bypassed it. But she did lead us through the kitchen—an expansive wheat-colored room with matching granite countertops, diagonally laid oak floors, painted cabinetry and professional-grade appliances. The ranges, ovens, refrigerator, freezer, and dishwasher were all tinted to match the room’s subtle single-hue palette.

  Following our brief perusal of the kitchen, Felicia led us back out to the marble-floored central hallway, past the closed glass doors that sealed off the living room. I was already thinking of that impressive though isolated pale amber room as the Salon in a Bubble. Although Druin was theoretically Vivika Major’s weekend home, nobody really seemed to “live” here. I doubted that the mogul ever stopped working. Felicia explained that the entire north side of the chateau, where we were headed next, was devoted to business.

  She wordlessly led us through three outer offices—probably past the three people whose gauntlets I had to run before reaching Vivika by phone. After swiping her coded cardkey, the chatelaine pushed open a grandly carved oak door to reveal the original library. Built-in shelves on two walls now held banks of televisions and computer monitors instead of books. Two sofas—demi-lune, late nineteenth-century, and rare, if I remembered Leo’s lessons—formed a modified V (for Vivika?) facing the wide leaded-glass window that overlooked Lake Michigan. Behind the sofas was an ornate burr elm desk, at which sat the internet entrepreneur. Although two notebook computers were open and running on her desk, Vivika Major busily jotted notes by hand. Using an old-fashioned lead pencil.

  “Whiskey Mattimoe and Odette Mutombo. From Mattimoe Realty,” Felicia announced. At that moment I knew how it felt to be presented to the Queen. I refrained from curtsying. We all waited for what seemed like a full minute while Vivika finished writing. Finally she glanced up.

  “Hey,” she said.

  A “hey back at ya” wasn’t on my lips. But I managed not to be caught completely off guard. At least I didn’t spray spit or trip over my own feet as I stepped forward to shake her hand. Her very large hand.

  I had forgotten about Vivika Major’s unusual proportions. When she stood, she was almost as tall as me, though “bigger-boned,” as my mother would say. In my family we never used that phrase as a euphemism for fat. Mom always meant what I mean here: that the person had large limbs—broad shoulders, huge hands, enormous feet. Although Vivika Major moved with reasonable grace, her physique had the rough shape of a linebacker’s. Her face had big bones, too. It was broad and long with prominent cheekbones, an aquiline nose, and a Jay Leno chin.

  “I trust Felicia gave you a quick tour and an overview of the renovations we’ve done at Druin,” Vivika said.

  “Very helpful,” Odette chimed in. “I’ve already compiled a list of potential buyers—qualified clients interested in magnificent older properties that have maintained their architectural integrity. Druin combines that element with a panoramic lake view. I’m confident, Ms. Major, that we’ll get you the price you want.”

  Damn, she was good. Odette hadn’t had time to compile anything yet… beyond a to-do list. But schmoozing was always Job One. As a business icon, Vivika surely spoke the same language. Our about-to-be-official client nodded once and then glanced at Felicia, who produced a three-ring binder.

  “That’s a detailed overview of the property,” Vivika said. “Everything you’ll need to begin doing your job—except, of course, the papers requiring my signature. You’ll find those in Felicia’s office. I’m asking five-point-five million, and I need to close by Labor Day. We’re opening a new office in Auckland, New Zealand, so I’m usually there. Between business and travel demands, I can no longer make use of this coast.”

  An odd way to put it, I thought. And five-point-five million by Labor Day was an extremely tall order. I was about to launch into my respectful though sobering “Reality Check” spiel when Odette interjected, “I think you’re right on the money with that number. And the timeframe shouldn’t be a problem.”

  * * *

  I waited until we had concluded our business and were on the other side of the double front doors before I turned to Odette.

  “Are you nuts? Five-point-five million with a closing before Labor Day? In this economy?”

  My agent didn’t blink. “I’ve done more amazing deals.”

  “Name one.”

  She proceeded to name two. “O ye of little faith,” she sighed. “Stand back and let me do what I do best.”

  I fully intended to. Although Mattimoe Realty bore my name, I wasn’t its best representative. Leo, who had started the company while married to his first wife, Avery’s mother, was a natural at sales. A real meet-and-greet kind of guy. Everybody loved him. Everybody wanted to buy from him. My specialty, if I had one, was follow-through. I could usually see where we needed to go and how to pave the path so we’d get there. But I was keenly aware that I couldn’t do it alone. Hence I prided myself on hiring the right people. At work and at home—which reminded me, happily, that Deely was due back from Amsterdam tonight. If Vestige had a chatelaine, Deely was it.

  Climbing into my car, we heard
a far-off chorus of barks. I estimated at least a half-dozen dogs, maybe more.

  “Do you suppose Vivika employs a kennel master?” I asked Odette. At my house, Deely performed that job, too.

  As we drove out, the security gate was open and unattended. “So much for Fort Druin,” I said.

  Odette speculated that García may have been needed elsewhere.

  “Right. For a mine-sweep along the southern perimeter,” I joked.

  “Or a security breach,” Odette said. “Maybe that’s why we heard the hounds.”

  Odette had been right about the proximity of Cassina’s cottage to Druin. Within minutes of leaving Vivika’s vast compound, we were pulling into a narrow dirt driveway that led to a cedar-sided home. I parked between a pair of very tall cottonwoods.

  “This would have looked grander if we’d come here first,” I said. “Funny how a chateau can diminish almost anything.”

  Cassina’s hideaway was far from shabby. Wedged into the bluff and framed by white pines, it rose like an arrow from the sand. On the side facing the lake, all three stories featured floor-to-ceiling glass opening onto spacious cantilevered balconies. I paused by the side door, next to a waist-high granite sculpture of an unusually voluptuous wood nymph.

  “That’s got to be the statue MacArthur meant. He said I’d find the key and alarm code under it.”

  I had already told Odette about Cassina’s driver and his real estate aspirations. She had showed zero interest. But then Odette rarely reacted unless a commission was involved. Now she watched me try to lift the sculpture.

  “You don’t have the right health insurance to do that,” she said and reached under the nymph’s stone-cut billowing skirt. Her hand came back holding a tiny clear plastic envelope.

  “I believe this is what your Scotsman meant.”

  “He’s not my Scotsman,” I said.

  “Not yet. But you’re wishing for it.”