by Nina Wright
“Sorry,” I said. “It’s just a shitzapoo with bad joints. He won’t hurt anything—except your ears.”
Jeb’s ill-chosen arrangement of Big Joe Williams’ “Baby Please Don’t Go” was starting. Within seconds, Velcro had dialed down his yowl.
“Wow,” Twyla said. “It’s like that song turned the dog right off.”
“It’s the voice, not the song,” I said. “Puts dogs straight to sleep. The singer’s Jeb Halloran.” Then another thought struck me. “Hey, if his voice works on a dog as uptight as this one, it ought to put kids to sleep, too. You should try it. On your own two.” I stressed the last word.
Twyla’s glance shifted back to her chipped toenails. Without comment, she slunk into the house.
* * *
My good luck with Velcro lasted all the way to Vestige, where Deely Smarr was on duty. I entered the kitchen with Velcro, and without a Jeb Halloran soundtrack. But the Coast Guard nanny was standing by. She had her official Jeb Halloran Animal Lullabies CD cued up in a boom box, her finger poised on the play button. As soon as she saw us, she hit it. To my extreme delight, strains of “Lullaby and Good Night” filled the kitchen. Velcro went right back to sleep.
I heartily welcomed Deely back home and asked how she knew I’d need the CD.
“David told me about the shitzapoo, ma’am. This was the obvious solution.” She explained that a consultant had recommended conducting market research before Fleggers signed Jeb to record Animal Lullabies. “I’d seen Jeb’s music put Abra and Prince Harry to sleep. If it worked on them, I knew we had a mega-hit on our hands.”
A snoozing Velcro was the ultimate proof. Before Deely could exit with the boom box and shitzapoo, I whispered, “Is Avery around?”
“No, ma’am. I haven’t seen her. She left a note that she was taking the twins with her for the day.”
How unlike Avery to be fully responsible for herself and her children.
Deely informed me that Chester and Prince Harry had gone back to the Castle. And of course she knew that Abra had run off with Norman.
“We’ve been through this before,” I sighed.
“Technically, this time is different, ma’am. As far as we know, Abra hasn’t stolen anything.”
“Yet,” I said. “Unless you count Norman. Fenton needs that dog.”
Deely nodded thoughtfully. “I suppose seduction equals abduction in this case.”
In other words, my dog had committed another felony.
“When she comes back, we need to get Abra her own boom box,” I said.
“I’ll see to it, ma’am.”
Upstairs I couldn’t find anything exciting to wear. Maybe that was because my wardrobe was almost entirely beige. I buy high-quality clothing; I’m just not into color. The way I see it, clothes are body cover. Plain and simple. So what I need are good fabrics that fit. Since I’m just not a “pastels” or “jewel tones” or “artsy-black” kind o’ gal—and unlike 99.9 percent of all females, I hate matching colors—what I need are neutral tones. How wrong can you go wearing mushroom, camel, or écru? With my dark hair and rosy skin, I look okay in beige. But I will admit to having learned one fashion lesson: adding a black camisole under it all can work wonders for your self-image . . . as well as your sex life.
For my dinner with Fenton, I was careful not to overdress. I’d never seen the man when he wasn’t wearing denim and snakeskin. Since those don’t usually come in beige, I defaulted to my wardrobe’s casual equivalent: khaki. And I added a plain black silk camisole, for kicks.
One benefit of being in a hurry to leave was a reduced risk of running into Avery. With a small thrill I realized that I might get through an entire day without making contact.
No such luck—although I came close. I had made it all the way to the breezeway that connects my kitchen to my garage when Avery opened the door. She was pushing the double stroller that held Leah and Leo. And, miracle of miracles, she didn’t look pissed off. At least her face wasn’t twisted into its usual grimace.
“Hey,” I said cautiously and bent down to make affectionate noises for the twins.
“Hey yourself,” Avery replied, her voice uncharacteristically neutral. Usually she greets me with a complaint. Or an expletive. “What’s with the camisole? Got a date?”
“Just business,” I mumbled, keeping my head down. I fought an urge to stay hunched over like that so I could scoot right past her. But that would be weird. So I straightened to my full height, which exceeded Avery’s by only about an inch, and gave her my best poker face. “See you later.”
“Not so fast,” Avery said, angling the stroller to block my path. She cocked her head. “Is that Jeb’s voice I hear? Why the hell is he singing?”
“Actually, that’s the recorded version of Jeb. And he’s singing because he was handsomely paid to do so.”
“ Why the hell is the recorded version of Jeb playing in our house?”
I felt my blood pressure spike the way it always did when Avery presumed shared ownership of Vestige. Her father had left the house to me, free and clear. It was only through my misplaced sense of duty that she had a room here. Make that free room, board, and baby care.
“Consider it my gift to you and the twins,” I said brightly. “That’s Jeb’s new lullaby CD, guaranteed to relax anybody. And I mean anybody.”
Avery looked startled, as if she had no reply to that one in her vast, nasty repertoire. I seized the moment and side-stepped the stroller, waving good-bye to the twins.
Avery and her brood were Deely’s problem now. I had a date.
Chapter Nine
On my drive over to Mother Tucker’s Bar and Grill, I tried not to think about how long it had been since I’d had a date. But, being in real estate, I tend to do math automatically, so the answer popped right up: 9 ½ weeks. Wasn’t that also the name of a very bad sexy movie from the mid-1980s? Just a coincidence, I was sure.
Mother Tucker’s had a well-earned reputation as a lively, classy place. Local merchants and tourists alike favored its rustic bar and upscale menu. Owned and operated by two of my favorite people, Walter and Jonny St. Mary, Mother Tucker’s was one of those rare restaurants that appeared to run itself. In truth, Walter brilliantly managed the front of the house while Jonny made sure that the kitchen promptly produced one gourmet meal after another. A charming gay couple from Chicago, Walter and Jonny had kept me fed and reasonably sane during the dark months following Leo’s sudden death.
Now that it was almost summer— “high season” on the shore of Lake Michigan—Mother Tucker’s was enjoying the return of its warm-weather regulars, those affluent folks who owned or rented beach houses in the area. I waved to a dozen familiar returnees. Several inquired as to how I was faring after a full year of widowhood. I smiled and told them that things were looking up. And how. I was moments away from a date with a handsome multi-millionaire.
Fenton was already seated at the bar, sipping a frosty cola. He rose when he saw me, like the true Western gentleman he was. Walter St. Mary had poured a goblet of my favorite Pinot Noir. I hesitated, however, when I saw that Fenton was abstaining.
“Diet soda—on account of my blood sugar,” he explained. “With Norman away, I don’t want to risk getting myself in trouble. You drink, though, Whiskey. I hear you can handle it.”
I wasn’t sure what that meant, but I decided to accept it as a friendly, maybe even flirtatious, compliment. Had Fenton heard about one of my rare post-Leo nights of excess? On two or three occasions, I had consumed a little more than I should. For at least one of those blunders, I blamed my scotch-drinking ex-husband; Jeb liked to order the “cool burn” for both of us, but one of us didn’t handle it so well.
I asked Fenton if he had any updates on the whereabouts of our wayward canines.
“One,” he said. “Jenx kindly called to say that an old woman on Uphill Road reported seeing a furry yellow-gold creature the size of a Shetland pony in her yard. It appeared to be having convulsions.”
“Huh?”
“The woman has notoriously bad eyesight. Jenx thinks she saw Abra and Norman. Humping.”
I slugged down half my wine. No doubt he’d got the order of their names right. My dog was known to prefer being on top.
“Uphill Road is part of their usual territory,” I said. “Shouldn’t be too long before they wear themselves out and come home.”
Even that remark felt vaguely embarrassing; I took another gulp of my wine.
“In the meantime, Fenton, are you sure you can get by without Norman?”
“I’ll be fine, as long as I have good friends in town.”
He smiled and leaned closer, giving me a whiff of his head-spinning aftershave, a manly mix of leather and old leaves. My momentary high was probably less the effect of inhaling Fenton’s aftershave than imbibing vino on an empty stomach. I had parked my lunchtime spinach pie in the glove compartment of the Lexus so that Velcro wouldn’t smell it and have one more reason to cry. As a result, I’d forgotten to eat it.
“Care for another?” Walter St. Mary asked, the bottle of Lynmar Pinot Noir already poised above my glass.
“Why not?” I said, admiring my own cavalier spirit. Life can be good when you’re in real estate, sitting next to a fine, fragrant, almost-single man who’s also a prospective client. After a few sips from my second glass, I felt emboldened to ask Fenton about his marital status. “What’s up with you and Noonan? Separated but still married after—how long?—almost eighteen years? Why didn’t you ever get divorced? If you don’t mind my asking. . . .”
Fenton said they’d “just never got around to it,” mainly because neither had a desire to remarry.
“And we like each other,” he added. “We have many mutual friends and common interests including, of course, the Seven Suns of Solace.”
“Of course.” I said.
“So we don’t mind still being married, in the eyes of the law.”
I couldn’t imagine still being married to Jeb. Without a break, I mean. As unpleasant as our divorce had been, it had made marrying Leo possible. And that had been very nice, indeed. Then, after Leo died, there was Jeb again. Among other men . . . including, quite possibly, this one.
“Options,” I said, realizing what divorce had done for me.
“Pardon?”
“Divorce gives you options you don’t have if you stay married. Does that make sense?” With the wine in me, I wasn’t sure.
Fenton said, “Noonan and I have a pact: if either of us ever feels we need the options that divorce would give us, then we will grant the other party their legal freedom. We want only the best for each other.”
Not the usual motivation for divorce. But in this case it made sense. Fenton and Noonan were hardly your typical couple. I found that comforting since I genuinely liked her and was beginning to lust after him. In their version of marriage, my feelings would pose no problem at all.
“Are you two ready for dinner?” Walter St. Mary asked. “I’ve saved Whiskey’s favorite table by the window.”
When I stood up, the room tilted slightly and then corrected itself. Probably a sign that I needed food. Fast. No breakfast and no lunch does not a wise wine-sipper make. As attractive as Fenton was, I needed to remember that this was essentially a business dinner. I was there to represent Mattimoe Realty, not fawn all over the man because he looked and smelled good.
Being the good friend and excellent restaurant manager that he is, Walter immediately dispatched a waiter bearing bread to our table. The waiter also suggested that I might like coffee.
“Why not?” I said more loudly than necessary. Fenton requested some, too. The waiter returned with decaf for him, espresso for me. I couldn’t remember ordering espresso, but that may have been a management decision. Between the caffeine and the carbs, I was sober by salad time.
“Did you go for a drive with Odette?” I asked Fenton.
He said they’d looked at three properties, the last of which was “intriguing.” Assuming that Odette had shown him Druin last, I tried to draw Fenton out, to get a reading on his interest level. I quickly realized that he hadn’t made his millions by channeling positive energies alone. The man was a player; he kept his cards close to his chest.
“I can afford to look till I find exactly what I want,” he said. “The west coast of Michigan feels right for what I have in mind. I listen to the land, Whiskey.”
I nodded respectfully. “It’s a spiritual thing.”
“It’s a financial thing,” he said. “I’ll have to convince my board of directors that our collateralized debt obligations can provide a versatile means of financing commercial real estate development.”
A sudden commotion at the bar claimed my attention. Fenton’s too. In fact, everyone in the dining room had turned toward Officer Brady Swancott.
“Good evening, everybody. I apologize for interrupting your dinners, but Walter St. Mary has consented to let me make this announcement.” The young part-time policeman smoothed back his black hair and cleared his throat. “A couple hours ago, two swimmers were caught in another riptide. Fortunately, they realized what was happening and managed to ride safely in to shore.”
Mother Tucker’s patrons gasped and murmured. One called out, “Why don’t you put up some signs out there before people drown?”
“Chief Jenkins and I are working with the DNR, and with Lanagan County sheriff’s deputies, to post riptide warnings along the shore,” Brady said. “But there’s no way to close the beach. If somebody’s determined to swim in the lake, we can’t stop them. That’s why I’m going from business to business tonight, to make sure everybody understands how dangerous conditions are.”
“Is this alarmist approach really necessary?” That question came from one of my fellow Main Street merchants. “You make it sound like the tourists should cancel their vacations and go home.”
“I’m not saying that at all,” Brady insisted. He focused on the out-of-towners among us. “The Lanagan County coast has a lot to offer besides water sports. The beaches are still open. You can sunbathe, hike or play volleyball. And here in town we have world-class restaurants—you’re eating at one—as well as fine shops and other guest services. If you need suggestions for things to do, I invite you to stop by the Visitors’ Center at Main and First. Thank you for your attention. On behalf of the Magnet Springs Police Department, I wish you a safe and entertaining vacation.”
I expected Brady to head out the door; instead he walked straight to our table and asked if he could join us.
“Don’t you have more merchants to visit?” I said. It wasn’t that I disliked Brady; it was that I liked Fenton more. I also liked the notion of doing business with Fenton. Brady’s doom-and-gloom announcement, tempered though it had been by a promotional message, wasn’t helping my case.
“I have two more stops,” Brady conceded, “but I thought you’d want to hear my other news.”
“Is it better than the news you just gave us?”
Brady reflected on that. “Well . . . it’s weirder.”
“In what way?” said Fenton.
“It’s one of those things that sounds too strange to be true. And yet the reports are coming in.”
“What reports?” I said, willing him to speak fast and be gone.
Brady leaned his lanky frame across the table and whispered, “Gil Gruen’s back from the dead.”
“Oh please!” I exclaimed. “Have you been listening to Rico?”
“I’ve been listening to the dispatcher. We’ve had two Gil Gruen sightings tonight.”
“That’s because Rico started a rumor.” I said. “Today he told everyone at the Goh Cup he saw a Gil look-alike in Chicago. Now he’s got people spooked.”
When Fenton asked who Gil Gruen was, I let Brady explain. To my dismay, Fenton responded that he’d once had a similar experience.
“My senior year of high school, the music teacher died in a fiery car crash. Her body was completely incinerated. Mo
nths later, students reported seeing her in the auditorium spying on rehearsals of the spring musical.”
“Why would she do that?” I said.
“Don’t you mean how could she do that?” Brady asked.
“I know she couldn’t do that. What I’m saying is why would anyone think she’d want to? Oh, wait.” I looked at Fenton. “You’re talking about high school kids, right? Case closed.”
Fenton gave me a slow, thoughtful smile. “Are you saying you don’t believe in anything you can’t explain?”
“I don’t believe in ghosts, if that’s what you’re talking about. Gil Gruen is dead! I saw his bloody body. There’s no way he’s back.”
Fenton asked Brady where Gil had been sighted. Brady said one caller had seen him near his now-closed real estate office. The other had spotted him walking along the street where he used to live.
“It’s like the high school kids seeing the dead music teacher back in the school auditorium,” I said. “Sure, people think they saw Gil where they used to see him. It wouldn’t make sense to see him anywhere else.”
“Rico saw him in Chicago,” Brady reminded me.
“Rico made the whole thing up. He’s the troublemaker here, not the ghost of Gil Gruen.”
“You’re the only one calling him a ghost,” Brady said. “The general consensus is that he’s probably still alive.”
I turned to Fenton. “Did you see your dead music teacher in the school auditorium?”
Fenton gave me that smile again. If the topic of conversation had been less annoying, I would have considered his grin sexy.
“I never saw her myself,” he said. “But years later, she was discovered to be alive and well and living in Dallas. Her visiting spinster cousin had died in the car crash that night. Our teacher found it convenient to be presumed dead. It was her ticket out. A free pass to a brand new life.”
Chapter Ten
“Nice story,” I told Fenton in response to his account of the high school music teacher who was falsely presumed dead. “Sounds like a movie of the week. Gil’s really gone, though. End of story.”