by Nina Wright
Noonan glanced our way. Of course, the name Fenton Flagg would snag her interest. He was not only the founder of Seven Suns of Solace; he was also her long-estranged husband. Although they’d never bothered to get divorced, Noonan had assured me that the romance was long over. That meant I had a get-out-of-guilt card for feeling mildly attracted to the man. We’d met in the spring while Fenton was doing research for a new book—and Abra and Norman were enjoying their second fling.
“It’s not a bad thing,” Noonan volunteered from her seat at the counter. “Nothing is intrinsically either good or bad. We live in a world where we make our own values.”
“Are we making this good or bad?” I asked Tina.
“Well, it’s good because Fenton Flagg wants to buy real estate. And it’s bad because Abra’s on the loose. She got away from Chester this morning.”
“Maybe she caught a whiff of Norman and went to be with him,” Peg suggested as she poured me more coffee.
“If that’s true, all we have to do is find Fenton,” I said.
“Not quite,” Tina said. “Fenton’s with Odette. He’s the client she went to meet.”
“Then this is all good.” I exclaimed, thinking I could use a break from my dog.
“But it could be costly,” Tina whined. “Whenever Abra runs away, things go wrong.”
She was right about that. And she was tapping Velcro’s name on her palm.
“You said he was hurt?” I said. “What happened?”
“When Abra ran off, Velcro got excited. He started jumping around, and then he was yelping in pain, and he wouldn’t stop. Your cell phone wasn’t working, remember? So Chester called his driver. They took Velcro to the airport so Dr. David could examine him as soon as his plane came in.”
Chapter Six
I asked Peg to wrap the remains of my spinach pie to go, and I went.
My plan was to follow, more or less, Tina’s triage of messages: Twyla first, Abra (and Norman) second, Velcro third. The little dog was in capable hands, and the big dog was just doing what she always did. But the tenant issue could be critical. Tina had received complaining calls from three other North Side residents. Like Yolanda, they had seen the kids and the late-night traffic. One neighbor suspected that Twyla was selling either drugs or herself. It was a credit to my reputation as a responsible landlord that neighbors complained to me before calling the police. I fixed problems fast.
Arriving at the house on Amity Avenue, I counted six children playing in Twyla’s driveway. The oldest looked about four. Twyla was nowhere in sight. I waved to Yolanda sitting on her porch across the street. She nodded.
Before I stepped out of my vehicle, I glimpsed Twyla in the kitchen window wearing the same terrified expression she’d had that morning. When she saw it was me, her face relaxed.
“I come without canine,” I announced to Twyla at her back door.
“Pardon?”
“I thought that was why you looked so alarmed to see me. You expected Abra again.”
“Oh. Right.” She was still on the other side of the screen. When she didn’t invite me in, I decided to be blunt.
“Are these your kids?”
Her eyes were already on the mini-day-care class in the driveway.
“No. Well, two are mine. The rest are my sister’s. She’s real sick. So I’m helping her out.”
A baby bawled inside. Twyla glanced over her shoulder. “That one’s hers, too.”
“Your sister? I thought you didn’t have family.”
“Well, my parents are dead. And my sister and I . . . we aren’t close.” Color rose in her pale cheeks. “But when family has problems, you gotta help.”
I nodded, watching the driveway kids. “But the way I understood it, your family didn’t help you.”
She swallowed. “Well, I guess they did what they could. You know how it is. I hear you’re helping out your stepdaughter and her babies.”
She had me there. Except I didn’t believe these were her sister’s babies. The cute kids before me were of at least three different races and very close in age.
“Level with me, Twyla. You wouldn’t be running a daycare here, would you?”
Her hazel eyes widened. “No! That would be illegal.”
“So, this is short-term? This baby-sitting arrangement?”
“Yes. Just till my sister gets well.”
I wished she’d stop lying to me. It made me feel used. “I’ve had complaints that there are cars in and out of this driveway late at night. You have noisy visitors.”
Her blush deepened and her focus skittered away. “Sorry. Those were my cousins. Bringing the babies over.”
“You have cousins? Why can’t they take some of your sister’s kids? I’m sure they have more room than you do.”
“Uh, no, they really don’t. They’ve got kids of their own and ….” Her voice trailed off. Inside the house, the baby’s cries intensified. “I gotta go. Sorry.” She walked away.
I stared after her, my blood pressure spiking. I didn’t know which was upsetting me more—the unsupervised tykes or Twyla’s obtuseness. Sure, she needed to attend to the crying baby. But what about the rest of the kids? Why did she have so many? Where did they sleep? And what did she do with them when she worked her shift at Food Duck? Part of me wanted to yank open the door and confront her. Another part of me wanted to get as far away from this mess as I could.
Time to remind her of the terms of her lease—in the form of an official written warning. Stepping around the children to return to my car, I took another head count. No way I was going to risk backing over anybody. Six little heads in a circle. All watching me. I’d been told I had a nice smile, so I offered it now. Nobody in this group responded. I tried harder, pointing to the pink plastic ball they’d been bouncing around.
“Don’t chase that out into the street,” I said cheerfully. Six tiny children stared blankly at me. “There are cars out there,” I continued. “Fast, dangerous cars. You don’t want to go near the street. No you sure don’t. Keep the ball here. Right here. Or better yet, put the ball away, and play a different game. Something entirely non-lethal.”
No reaction. I sighed, waved, and climbed into my car. I had just started the engine and slid the gearshift lever into reverse when something went thunk against my windshield. It wasn’t the ball. One of Twyla’s little darlings had heaved what appeared to be a rock. It lay on my hood.
My windshield was intact, but my nerves weren’t. I shifted into park, turned off the engine, and got out. The “rock” was actually a chunk of concrete, leftover from the old driveway that had been broken up before the new one was poured. If it had been heaved with more strength, the projectile would have cracked my windshield.
I held it up for the kids to see, my eyebrows arched in a “What do you know about this?” expression. Too young to run, they simply continued to stare. The oldest one, who I silently fingered as the vandal-wannabe, showed no sign of remorse.
“Hey,” I said. “We don’t throw things at cars. Especially not my car. Got it?”
They gave no sign that they did. In frustration, I exclaimed, “Hello. Somebody say something. Do you speak English?”
The alleged rock-heaver offered a sly smile.
“Don’t do this again,” I said, shaking the concrete clod at him. Without thinking, I tossed it into the backyard of the duplex next door, my new soon-to-be “FOR RENT” property. The one I would have a hell of a time finding tenants for if Twyla was the kind of neighbor she now appeared to be.
* * *
When you don’t have a working cell phone, life delivers more in-your-face surprises. You tend to walk right into them.
Exciting news was waiting for me in the lobby of Mattimoe Realty. Fenton Flagg, Ph.D., was there with Odette, and she was wearing that brilliant smile she saves for Big Money Days. It brings out the dollar signs in her eyes. Fenton had just signed all the forms necessary to make Mattimoe Realty his official buyer’s agent. Best news of al
l, he wanted to buy something really expensive.
“Fenton would like to build a retreat and training center in Lanagan County,” Odette announced. “He needs a scenic and somewhat remote location—preferably an existing school or hotel that he could renovate to suit his purpose.”
I didn’t need telepathy to read Odette’s mind. She was already connecting Fenton Flagg and the Seven Suns of Solace with Vivika Major and Druin.
“Or I can buy some land and work with an architect to build from the ground up,” Fenton added in his Texas drawl. I liked that drawl, and the rest of the man. Despite being a New Age guru, he seemed like a regular rich guy from the Lone Star State. Fifty-some-years old with thick graying hair and flashing green eyes, Fenton was ruggedly handsome in his denim shirt, jeans, and snakeskin boots. He looked ruggedly healthy, too, which he probably was, in general. But I knew he was an insulin-dependent diabetic. And that brought us to the news that wasn’t so good. Fenton was without his canine sidekick, Norman—a certified companion dog whose job was to keep the busy psychotherapist, motivational speaker, and author current on his meds.
“I made a mistake this morning,” Fenton confessed. “I drove past your place with my windows rolled down. My boy smelled your girl. And vice versa. Before I could hit the brakes, Norman sailed out the window, and Abra broke away from the kid.”
“You mean Chester,” I said.
“Right. The dogs took off together into your woods. Chester and I chased ‘em till we wised up. No way those hounds are going to let anybody catch ‘em till they’re good and ready to be caught.”
Having been through this before, I was sure he was right. We agreed to keep our eyes peeled as we traversed the county. Those two canine athletes could cover a lot of ground. Abra had been known to make the five-mile trek from my house to downtown in less than half an hour. Or she could choose to wander for days. The only question was “What is she up to?” In this case, we knew. She and Norman just wanted to frolic. When they got hungry enough, they’d trot home.
“Frankly, I can use a break from my dog,” I told Fenton. “But yours actually works for a living. Will you be all right without him?”
“I’ll miss him, but I need him most when my schedule is hectic. That’s when I tend to forget my meds. I was planning to relax here in Magnet Springs for a couple days. So I should be okay without Norman.”
He gave me such a dazzling smile I wondered if that was my cue to invite him to dinner.
“Are you staying at Noonan’s?” I asked casually.
“No, I’ve imposed on her hospitality more than I should. She put me up last spring. This trip I decided to get a room at Red Hen’s House.”
He was referring to the classiest inn in town, a beautifully restored Arts and Crafts-style mansion overlooking the lake. Its proprietor was red-haired Henrietta Roca, partner of our police chief Jenx.
“Odette’s going to drive me around to see a few properties,” Fenton continued. “After that, I got no plans at all. Any chance you could join me for dinner? We could compare notes about what we think our canines are up to.”
That was as risqué a proposition as I’d had in months. Very tempting. Except that Odette and I had plans for a celebration dinner. I was about to say so, when she caught my eye. Standing off to the side, beyond Fenton’s sightline, she was vigorously nodding. No doubt Odette had calculated that a little schmoozing on my part might help our seven-figure deal.
“I’d love to,” I told Fenton. “Do you have a restaurant in mind?”
“The locals seem to favor Mother Tucker’s,” he said. I agreed. We settled on seven o’clock. It made sense for me to meet him there since he was staying in town.
Odette ushered Fenton out the door. I knew the drill. She would show him the less exciting possibilities first, building up to the grand finale. Whether they would have time to see Druin today, I wasn’t sure. Most likely, Odette would give him just a taste of Vivika Major’s estate, something to whet his appetite, before scheduling a second visit, which would include the full tour. That would give him time to get excited about the place. To build up expectations and desire. Lots and lots of desire.
My mind was also moving in that direction. Fenton Flagg turned me on. I was easily turned on these days, not having gotten my groove back since Leo died. Oh, I’d had a brief fling with the local jurist—a nice man who made a point of going easy on Abra whenever she broke the law. The judge and I were strictly “friends with benefits.” Although he would have preferred more, I didn’t feel drawn to him.
But Fenton Flagg. . . . Now there was a sexy man. Tall, too, which mattered to me. And he had to be rich—Texas rich—based on the sales of his popular self-help books and New Age seminars. Therein lay the rub: Could a gal who thrived on denial and repression be a match for a man who built an empire on feelings? Oddly, Fenton seemed more like a good old boy with a “Grade A” vocabulary than a spiritual guru. The few times I’d been around him, we’d discussed dogs, diabetes, and real estate. The man drove a pickup truck.
In my office, I kicked off my shoes, closed my eyes and imagined a world without cell phones. There had been one, once. Now everybody’s business depended on keeping continuously in touch. So a day without a cell phone was as close to a vacation day as I was likely to get for a long while. I savored the moment. I gave myself over to it and was just slipping into the sweet bliss of sleep when I became aware of Tina shaking me awake.
“You have a call from a man. He has an accent. He says it’s about a listing, a little boy, and a little dog. And he’s on line two.”
I pushed the appropriate button. “We can talk about the listing and the little boy, but let’s leave the little dog out of it. Correction: let’s leave all dogs out of it. Including Rupert.”
MacArthur said, “He apologizes for any inconvenience he may have caused you today.”
“Bull shit! The man couldn’t care less.”
“True enough. So I apologize. On his behalf.”
“Your apology is accepted,” I said. “What were you doing there? Besides—I’m going to assume—driving the boat.”
“I’m not just the driver, Ms. Mattimoe; I’m also the cleaner.”
I’d seen enough mafia movies to know the term. MacArthur’s duties had little to do with housekeeping except in a large and ominous sense. Actor Harvey Keitel once played a mysterious amoral man who described his job the same way. His job had involved completing botched assassinations.
“In addition to getting Cassina, Rupert and Chester where they need to go, I help solve their personal problems,” MacArthur said. “I supply the discipline the adults sorely lack. Chester has sufficient self-restraint.”
I agreed about the eight-year-old, adding, “Rupert needs a time-out.”
“That one’s complicated,” MacArthur said. “As for Chester, I can give you an update, but not without mentioning the little dog.”
“Right. You drove Chester and Velcro to the airport to meet Dr. David.”
“And Deely,” MacArthur added. He explained that Dr. David had taken one look at Velcro and asked MacArthur to drive them straight to his veterinary clinic, where the shitzapoo was admitted for treatment. From there, MacArthur drove Deely to Vestige, and Chester and Prince Harry back to the Castle.
“You mean, I have a nanny again? And no dogs?”
MacArthur vouched for the fact that my house was currently canine-free.
“What happened to Velcro?” It seemed the humane thing.
“Dr. David will give you a full report. I gather that the wee dog strained himself somehow after Abra escaped.”
“You’re sure Abra didn’t do it?”
“Chester swears Abra didn’t touch him.”
That didn’t mean it wasn’t her fault. Abra had instantly disliked Velcro as much as I did; I’d seen her snarl at him. Prince Harry was enough of an indignation. Since he’d sprung from her own golden loins, however, she couldn’t outright loathe him. But the whiny teacup dog was
an outrage.
I was sure Abra had tried to do him in. Nobody knew her deviousness better than I. She was fleet of foot and highly skilled at sleight of paw. The bitch knew how to distract and deflect human attention for her own canine gain.
I considered my own self-interest. “How long could they—I mean, will they—keep Velcro at the clinic?”
“Dr. David will let you know. Could be they’ll need to do surgery.”
MacArthur shifted the subject to himself and his desire to do real estate with me. He made it sound sexy. I assured him that Mattimoe Realty would be happy to have him as soon as he had his Michigan license. I could say that without hesitation because (a) we needed a man on board, having at present an all-female staff, and (b) he had experience, albeit “across the pond” in Glasgow. Selling real estate was the same basic business wherever you did it. Laws varied, but land was land, and people were more or less the same everywhere.
He was also welcome at Mattimoe Realty because (c) he was easy on the eyes. And ears. I’m a sucker for sexy accents, and I loved that Scottish brrrrrogue.
No sooner had I concluded my conversation with MacArthur than Tina buzzed to say that Jenx was calling, as a professional courtesy, en route to investigate complaints at 254 Amity Avenue—Twyla’s house. Our police chief knew all my rental properties.
“I’ve had two calls in the past twenty minutes about little kids playing unsupervised in the street. One caller said she almost ran ‘em over.”
“Did you hear from Yolanda?” I asked.
“Nope,” Jenx said. “I figured she’d call you.”
“She did. I checked it out. The kids were in the driveway at that point.”
I related my frustrating encounter with a distracted Twyla and her excessive number of kids. Omitting the part about the concrete projectile, I mentioned their disturbing blank stares when I warned them to stay out of the street.
“Maybe they’ve been taught not to speak to strangers,” Jenx said. “FYI, I got an unofficial APB out on Abra and Norman. The sheriff’s department’s got two pools going: one for when they’ll show up, the other for how much damage Abra will do. I’m in on all the action.”