Whiskey and Water

by Nina Wright

  “Am not!”

  I hate it when I blush while trying to deny something. To distract Odette, I snatched the mini-container from her hand and proceeded to do battle with it. If the door proved as hard to open as the envelope, we were in big trouble.

  “Here,” she said. In one smooth motion, she inverted the envelope and released a tagged key. “Shall I open the door, too?”

  I gave Odette the honor; I can be generous that way. Plus, it kept the focus off my face until the redness had a chance to fade. She expertly inserted the key in the lock, opened the door, and then entered the alarm code.

  We were in. But we were not alone.

  Chapter Five

  Although neither of us could see anyone, Odette and I immediately knew what we’d interrupted. We were grown-ups, after all. And we had ears.

  Having entered Cassina’s cottage through the side door, we found ourselves standing at the foot of a spiral staircase that appeared to wind all the way to the third floor. Floating down from an upper story—probably the top one—were the unmistakable sounds of male-female ecstasy. And I’m not talking about the pleasures of a really good meal.

  Since Cassina was supposed to be in Tuscany, I deduced with some relief that those moans couldn’t belong to her and Rupert. Overhearing the lovemaking of people you know is far more embarrassing than walking in on complete strangers going at it. My hope was that this was just a simple sordid liaison between two of Cassina’s band members, groupies, or servants. Two people I didn’t care a fig about who knew Cassina well enough to have access to her retreat.

  I hadn’t noticed any cars. Then again, there were woods at one end of the property, which would make it possible to conceal a vehicle. Or the party might have arrived by boat. Odette and I had remarked on the Bayline cruiser moored at Cassina’s dock; we’d assumed it was one of the singer’s toys.

  Hearing the sexual soundtrack emanating from upstairs, I automatically turned to leave. Odette, however, was unfazed by our discovery. Not only did she fail to follow me out, to my horror, she kept right on walking toward the kitchen, her notepad and pen at the ready.

  Catching up to her in three silent strides, I firmly tapped her shoulder. She dismissed me with a gesture universally considered quite rude. At that point, I appropriated her pen and notepad in order to print my message: LET’S GO

  Odette smiled patronizingly and took back her pen. In a flourish she amended my note to read: LET’S GO MAKE MONEY

  And off she went to the kitchen. Meanwhile the couple upstairs continued to make love—and a whole lot of noise. More noise than I’d ever made with anyone, which left me wondering if I was bad in bed. I dismissed that doubt, for the moment, and tiptoed into the kitchen after Odette. When I caught up with her, she said, “Nobody’s going to hear us. As long as we’re inside, we might as well take some notes.” She ran her palm along the countertop. “Soapstone. And note the Asko dishwasher. Top of the line.”

  I appreciated them, too, but not enough to risk getting shot. Who could predict the mental state of two trespassers in heat? Odette had moved on to the Electrolux Icon wall oven. Like me, she tended to avoid kitchens, except those she planned to sell. Those she could get quite excited about, as the present moment proved.

  “See how the glass-fronted cabinets echo the Big Window theme.” Odette said, writing furiously. “Cassina made fabulous choices.”

  Not in her personal life, maybe, but Odette was right about the kitchen. It was a designer showcase with the very best appliances. Odette snapped a measuring tape out of her jacket pocket to check the dimensions of the glass-fronted double-door refrigerator. Suddenly we both heard it: absolute silence—followed by footfalls plinking on the metal steps of the spiral staircase.

  We bolted for the side door. And opened it smack in the face of the former estate agent from Glasgow.

  “What do you think?” MacArthur asked calmly. “Worth more than three-point-three million?”

  “I think there’s somebody upstairs . . . on their way downstairs. . . .” I hissed, trying to squeeze past him. No way I wanted to deal with a person who’d just had noisy sex. Unless, of course, that person had just had noisy sex with me.

  As Odette suspected, I did find the Scot attractive, especially at this proximity in his present wardrobe. Unlike last night, when he’d worn a charcoal-colored suit, today MacArthur was in khakis and a short-sleeved blue cotton shirt that emphasized both the color of his eyes and the tone of his upper body. Plus, he was standing very close to me, presumably to block my exit.

  “They’re coming.” I said and instantly regretted my word choice. “Down the steps. You want us to meet naked people?”

  “You’ve already met this person. And he won’t be naked.”

  “Good to see you again,” I heard Odette say to whoever had paused on the staircase.

  I recognized the voice that replied. And, fortunately, the speaker was wearing a bathrobe. It was Rupert.

  “So Cassina didn’t go to Tuscany?” I asked. Presumably, Cassina was upstairs, which was why Rupert was having sex, and MacArthur was standing guard.

  Nobody touched my query. It hung in the air like one of Abra’s farts. I attempted to fill the void by introducing MacArthur and Odette and reintroducing myself to Rupert. The Scot and the Zimbabwean nodded curtly to each other; Cassina’s partner ignored me. His shoulder-length black hair was tangled, and his pale sharp-boned face needed a shave. Even at close range, I failed to detect a single solitary chromosome that he had passed on to Chester.

  As Rupert shuffled off to the kitchen, MacArthur called out, “You have ten minutes to get your arse out of here!”

  I’d watched enough BBC to know that was not standard servant-to-master talk.

  “So Cassina didn’t go to Tuscany?” Aimed at MacArthur, I tried the question again.

  “She did,” he said.

  “Then, who’s—? Arrggh!”

  Odette’s elbow, which should be registered as a lethal weapon, embedded itself between my ribs.

  “If we’re going to be on time for our next appointment,” she said, “we need to leave now.”

  “When can we discuss my joining your agency?” MacArthur had not yet moved from the doorway.

  “Call me at four,” I said.

  MacArthur leaned toward my right ear. “Any problems with the wee dog?”

  I shook my head. An accurate response since I had delegated the wee dog.

  “Since when is Abra small?” Odette said when we stepped outside.

  I explained that we weren’t talking about Abra. My top sales agent was appalled to learn I’d admitted another canine to my household, even if I’d done it to get this listing. I reminded her that she had made personal sacrifices for business.

  “Yes,” she said, “but none of my sacrifices required feeding.”

  Odette didn’t want to discuss what we’d interrupted at the cottage. I theorized that Rupert’s “squeeze” had to be someone who worked for Cassina. Dozens of exotic young women hung around the Castle. They all had strange-colored hair and Asian-inspired body art.

  “How can you not be curious?” I demanded. “You love gossip.”

  “I love gossip when it’s about interesting people. Or when it helps me make a sale. Rupert is irrelevant.”

  I didn’t care about Rupert, either, beyond the fact that Chester claimed to be his son. As for Cassina, she held my attention like a slow-motion train wreck. Still, I considered it my civic duty to keep current on local gossip. Or try. I tended to fall woefully behind despite regular “news infusions” at the Goh Cup, which is where we were headed next.

  Conveniently located right across the street from Mattimoe Realty, the coffee bar was a buzzing hive. If you wanted to know who did what to whom, or who was planning to do what to whom—how, where, when, and why—the fastest way to find out was over a steaming mug. Proprietor and acting mayor Peg Goh brewed the best beans while remaining neutral or at least helpful in most matters. Lucky f
or Main Street merchants and tourists alike, Peg also made the best spanakopitas (spinach pies) this side of the Greek isles. By the time Odette and I got back to town, I was hungry enough to inhale two, along with my usual double-mocha-super-latte.

  Odette had planned to join me, but her cell phone was working; it delivered a call that changed her plans. We parted after making a pact to celebrate our new super-listings tonight with an appropriately extravagant dinner.

  I went straight to the Goh Cup without stopping at my office. Nothing was going to disrupt either my healthy appetite or my good mood. I needed spinach pie, coffee and gossip. The only problem with eating at the Goh Cup was that some of my least favorite people ate there, too. One of them was sitting right by the front door.

  “Well, look who the riptide didn’t drag in,” announced Rico Anuncio.

  Magnet Springs’ most flamboyant merchant had a Latin name and Scandinavian good looks, easily explained by the fact that his real name was Richard Anderson. I was under strict orders never to reveal that, however. It was a condition of his not suing me over a frivolous real estate issue from our recent past. Rico ran the West Shore Gallery, a classy joint. But his personal life verged on icky. Rico’s in-your-face sexuality made even our most liberal residents rethink their politics. This being a very small town, I suspected he knew that he was widely referred to as Mr. OGP, short for “Obnoxious Gay Pride.” Rico favored large nipple rings that showed through his cropped, scoop-necked silk shirts. Even though he wasn’t trying to attract my type, I found it hard to ignore the bulge in his low-riding skintight pants. Clarification: I found him hard to ignore.

  “I assume the riptide dragged you in,” I said. “That’s how your clothes shrunk.”

  Not a classy comeback, but a quick one. I couldn’t believe I’d actually said it. A few folks laughed. Although I hoped that was the end of our center-stage moment, Rico had more lines.

  “Here’s a question, Whiskey: Why do people still let you watch their kids? You keep losing them. And now you don’t care if they drown. Lucky for Chester he got reeled in by a fisherman.”

  I started to defend myself, unwise with someone as glib as Rico. Fortunately, Peg Goh cut me off. Putting a heavy arm around my waist, she steered me determinedly toward the counter, where my lunch was waiting.

  “Pay no attention to the man behind the attitude,” she advised.

  I couldn’t decide if that line was a Peg Goh original or something she’d learned from her Seven Suns of Solace counseling with Noonan Starr. I could have asked Noonan herself since she was sitting right next to me. But I didn’t feel like hearing more New Age-isms. I just wanted to get my good mood back.

  “I hear Jeb’s moving to town,” Noonan said, her pale eyes wide with enthusiasm. “Have you pondered how his choice might affect your karmic flow?”

  I liked Noonan, and she was an excellent tenant. But the only sensible response to that question was a monosyllable.

  “No.” And I proceeded to chew my spinach pie.

  As I listened to the conversations around me, I gleaned that riptides were on everyone’s mind. This being a tourist town, a high threat of drowning put a real damper on beach business. Apparently Chester had been right about riptides churning up debris. Peg was in the process of organizing volunteers to clean the beach.

  Rico’s confident voice came again. “Maybe the riptide will finally wash up Gil Gruen.”

  Amid a medley of moans, someone said, “Not while we’re eating.”

  Rico replied, “Don’t worry. The man’s still alive. I saw him last week in Chicago.”

  All chatter stopped. You could have heard a plastic straw drop.

  “What are you talking about?” Peg said.

  “I saw him leaving a restaurant on Michigan Avenue. Sure looked like Gil—Stetson and boots included.”

  “Gil’s dead,” Peg reminded him.

  Rico locked eyes with me. “So Whiskey says. Nobody else saw what she saw. Ever wonder about that?”

  My face was hot, and not from Peg’s steaming coffee. Rico was referring to one of the creepiest moments of my life—when I’d slid into wintry Lake Michigan alongside our blood-covered mayor. Also known as the Cowboy Realtor, Gil Gruen was my major competitor . . . before his corpse vanished under the ice. The citizens of Magnet Springs expected his remains to turn up in the spring thaw, but that hadn’t happened. Respectfully, Peg insisted on remaining “acting” mayor until the next election. One man had died for his involvement in the attack on Gil Gruen, and another was in jail doing hard time. Although his body was still unaccounted for, nobody believed Gil was alive.

  “They say everybody has a double,” Peg told Rico. “You must have seen Gil’s.”

  “Maybe,” Rico said, still staring at me. He tucked his highlighted hair behind a diamond-studded ear. “Or maybe our former mayor outsmarted us all.”

  “Why would Gil pretend to be dead?” Peg demanded.

  “Maybe he had troubles we don’t know about. Maybe he stashed a whole lot of cash. And maybe he had help.” Rico winked at me.

  A new voice said, “Get real. Near as we can tell, Gil lost more than a liter of blood. He was stabbed. No way he survived.”

  We all turned toward the open door. Our feisty police chief Judy “Jenx” Jenkins stood with her hands on her gun belt.

  “Why, if it isn’t the butchest lezzy with a badge.” exclaimed Rico.

  “Talking to the bitchiest sissy with a bulge,” Jenx rejoined.

  The crowd “oohed” over that.

  Rico made a show of appraising Jenx’s stocky five-foot-five-inch frame. “Love the steel-toed boots, darling. They’re so ‘you.’”

  “Thanks,” Jenx said. “I think of them as a fashion accent that kicks ass.”

  She focused on me. “Head’s up, Whiskey! Tina Breen’s coming this way, and she’s hyper-ventilating.”

  “She usually is,” I sighed.

  “Yeah, but she’s got her phone. I’m guessing there’s a crisis on the line.”

  I barely had time to shudder before Tina hustled through the door.

  “Hold on, please. Her cell phone’s not working, but I’m tracking her down.”

  Tina leaned against Peg’s coffee counter to catch her breath.

  “You’d think I’d be in better shape after chasing Winston and Neville around for two years.”

  She wasn’t referring to past prime ministers. Winston and Neville were her tiring toddlers, now in the care of her unemployed husband.

  “What’s going on?” I asked, lowering my voice in the hope that Tina would, too. Peg’s customers were watching us with interest.

  “Lots of stuff. I sure wish your cell phone was working. First, you need to talk to Yolanda Brewster.” Tina handed me her cell phone. “There’s a problem in the house across the street. Yolanda says you need to know about it now.”

  That wasn’t Yolanda’s style. She was vigilant but not alarmist and never annoying. I’d just seen her two hours ago. What could have changed?

  I turned my back on the dining room and said a cautious hello into the phone.

  “Miz Mattimoe, I sure enough hate to bother you, but you want to hear this from me first.”

  “What is it, Mrs. B?”

  “That li’l gal across the street? She got seven kids now. I just counted ‘em.”

  “Maybe her kids have friends. Or visitors,” I suggested.

  “Not from this neighborhood. And Twyla don’t got no family, remember? There’s something else you should know. She got men in and out of there at all hours of the night.”

  My heart sank. Yolanda’s observations were generally reliable. Which meant I had things to sort out with Twyla Rendel. Unsavory things.

  But what distressed me most was the probability that I’d grossly misjudged a rental applicant. I considered myself an excellent judge of character. Although lacking Odette’s “telephone telepathy,” I could recognize the scent of B.S. Yet not a single mental alarm had gone off
when I interviewed Twyla. I’d felt sorry for her and her kids, and admired her pluckiness in the face of adversity. If Yolanda was right, Twyla wasn’t who I thought she was.

  Then again, Yolanda might be the one who’d got it wrong this time. Despite the neighborhood watcher’s report, Twyla might have a perfectly reasonable explanation . . . for having seven kids when she’d claimed to have two and for having a 24-hour revolving front door.

  I thanked Yolanda for the tip and promised I’d look into the matter after lunch. When I tried to return the phone to Tina, she wouldn’t take it.

  “There’s a lot more than that going on.” She checked the palm of her hand, where she’d inked some notes. “What order do you want it in: most recent, most complicated, or most costly?”

  “I have a costly problem?” I asked.

  “As far as I can tell, you have two.” When she saw my stricken face, she added, “But those also count as your complicated problems, so don’t panic.”

  That made me feel so much better. I watched Tina mentally debate how best to break the bad news. Finally she said, “You might as well read it yourself.” She held up her palm, and pointed with the index finger of her other hand to two items:

  Velcro injured.

  Abra gone.

  “Are you trying to tell me that Abra attacked Velcro and fled?”

  “No” Tina checked her own palm for the answer. “Abra’s gone because—?“

  When she found what she was looking for, she turned her palm back to me and tapped a third item:

  Norman

  Neither prospect, client nor employee, Norman was Abra’s true love—a hunky golden retriever and the father of Prince Harry. Abra had run off with Norman at least twice before; hence, Prince Harry. Since Abra was now spayed, I couldn’t see why Norman’s name spelled catastrophe.

  “He’s back! He came with his owner—I mean, his human.” Tina bit her lip. “I know we’re not supposed to think of people as ‘owning’ their pets. That would be . . . oh, what’s the word for it? That word Dr. David and Deely always use?”

  “Speciesist,” I supplied. This was not the time to invoke Fleggers doctrine. “Fenton Flagg’s in town? Since when is that a bad thing?”