Whiskey and Water

by Nina Wright

  “Jenx is checking out the sightings,” Officer Brady Swancott said. To my chagrin, he signaled our waiter to bring him coffee.

  “I thought you had two more Riptide Alerts to deliver tonight.” Translation: “Please leave.”

  Brady seemed blissfully oblivious to the fact that he was no longer welcome. If he went on much longer about either riptides or our mysteriously reappearing mayor, he would completely derail my evening with Fenton. Until the young officer had arrived with his dark news, I was on the cusp of wooing Fenton—as a client and possibly more.

  “Yeah, two more stops to make, and my energy’s flagging,” Brady yawned. “I’d better order a couple of Jonny’s Choco-Gonzo cookies.”

  “To go,” I said.

  Finally, one of my subtle hints caught his attention. For the first time since settling at our table, Brady seemed to sense that he’d interrupted something.

  “Right,” he said, standing. “Got to keep moving. Lots of laws to enforce out there. . . .”

  “Magnet Springs isn’t as dangerous as it seems,” I told Fenton after Brady left.

  “I don’t think it’s any more dangerous than anywhere else I’ve been,” Fenton said. “Where there are people and forces of nature, things happen.”

  Undoubtedly true. Still, I wanted Fenton to understand that riptides were rare. And reappearing dead mayors were completely unprecedented.

  He insisted on picking up the check for our dinner—my curried chicken and his lobster tails, plus strawberry shortcake for me and a sugar-free lemon-crème tart for him. Then Fenton walked me to my car. Under a starry early-summer sky, he did the most charming thing: he asked if he could kiss me good night. It was all I could do not to swoon.

  I wasn’t as moonstruck by Fenton as I had been by, say, Nash Grant. . . or a couple other handsome clients who’d come along since Leo’s death. By now I had recovered from the initial shock of widowhood. I felt less vulnerable and lonely. Losing Leo had briefly unhinged me, making me doubt my ability to carry on, let alone hook up with another human being. Gradually I’d noticed that new people continued to enter my life. And about half of those people were men. Some were even eligible—or semi-eligible, like Fenton Flagg.

  Back to the good-night kiss: it was almost chaste. But that was all right. That was proof, in my mind, that Fenton was a gentleman as well as a guru. The notion of dating a client who was married to another client who also happened to be a friend didn’t daunt me. Much. Nothing in Noonan and Fenton’s world quite fit the usual rules of morality. Ergo, I didn’t foresee a big problem. Either Fenton and I would see each other again, or we wouldn’t. I knew that Noonan had had relationships with other men. Moreover, she’d assured me that she and Fenton were no longer “in love.” As for Fenton, he was far too successful and charming to ever be lonely for long.

  To be frank, I was more concerned about the potential mess of adding sexual sparks to a business deal than of dating a man who was still technically married . . . to a friend. Hell, Noonan was cool. Too cool, most of the time, for my brain to compute. I didn’t anticipate trouble on that front.

  Trouble on the homefront, however, was something I anticipated day and night. Even with Deely in place, I still had to face the reality of living in the same house as Avery. Fortunately, Fenton’s sweet good-night kiss, plus Mattimoe Realty’s lucrative new listings, put me in a deliciously upbeat mood. Without Velcro in the car, I was able to drive home playing CDs I wanted to hear.

  My relaxation was short-lived. Upon entering my kitchen, I found Avery waiting for me. She had positioned herself at my Vermont farmhouse table squarely facing the door. And she had brewed herself a pot of very strong coffee, nearly half of which she’d already consumed. Avery on caffeine, especially at night, was as combustible as gun powder.

  I had to make a split-second decision: try to talk her down or make a break for my bedroom. Summoning Deely was not an option since she was off duty—and off site—till six AM.

  My mental calculations went like this: With an after-dinner brandy and a full meal in my stomach, following a long hard day doing real estate, my reflexes weren’t at their sharpest. I wasn’t fast enough to compete with cranked-up Avery. Or to escape her. Ergo, my best approach was deflection.

  “Gee, that coffee smells delicious. If it weren’t bedtime, I’d be tempted to have some,” I yawned, edging toward the hallway that led to the rest of the house and my freedom. “But it’s late, so good night.”

  “What the hell is this about?” Avery said, whereupon she flung something at me. Something white. I flinched as it struck my face.

  Happily for me, the projectile was made of cloth. Unhappily, I realized it was the guest towel Odette had given me to give to Avery. Only I hadn’t given it to Avery. So how had she gotten it to throw back at me?

  “’Do not mistake endurance for hospitality?’” Avery roared. “These are my father’s grandchildren! The heirs he never knew he had! How dare you?”

  My strategy shifted from deflection to ignorance. I genuinely didn’t know how Avery had found the towel. I couldn’t even remember bringing it home.

  And then, cringing, I did remember. Before leaving the office with Velcro, I’d stuffed most of the folders and loose papers on my desk into my already overfilled briefcase. Odette’s package had been among the clutter. Later, when I removed my belongings from the car, my briefcase contents spilled on the garage floor. I scooped up what I could and laid it on top of Velcro’s carrier, which I handed off to Deely. No doubt the nanny found Odette’s gift—including her note which said, “Hang in Avery’s bathroom. Immediately!” Being the obedient helper she was, Deely must have followed directions. Fortunately for me, she had left them pinned to the towel.

  “Check out the note,” I told Avery. “Is that my handwriting?”

  Very carefully, so as not to strike her in the face, I tossed the towel back.

  Avery studied the note. “It’s the kind of thing you’d write, all right.”

  “Except I didn’t. You know my handwriting. And that’s not it.”

  She flicked her tongue. “So? You got somebody to write it for you. Big deal.”

  I calmly removed the wall phone receiver from its cradle and handed it to Avery. “Odette gave me the note and the towel. You can call and ask her.”

  More tongue flicking. “You put her up to it! But she’ll back up your story cuz she has to. You’re her boss.”

  That made me laugh. “Odette may work at Mattimoe Realty, but she doesn’t take orders from me. She’s there for the money. If you don’t believe it, ask her.”

  Avery stared at the phone, which she gripped so tightly that her hand quivered. Then her lips quivered. Then she burst into tears.

  “Why do you hate us? We’re part of my dad, and you used to love him!”

  There was no winning or even coping with Avery. I didn’t let myself look at her as she sobbed and moaned. The girl was more melodramatic than Fox News.

  Quietly I said, “You know I don’t hate you and the twins. I won’t be baited into an argument, either. What’s the point? Let’s talk another time, preferably when I’m less tired and you have less caffeine in your bloodstream.”

  With that I scooped the towel from the table, pushed the foot pedal on the trash can, and deposited Odette’s offending gift. I had almost reached the staircase when Avery called out, “I can take care of myself and my kids, ya know! I don’t need your help!”

  I stopped but did not turn around. There would be more. I would wait for it.

  “Guess where I went today, Whiskey? Come on, take a wild guess!”

  I glanced over my shoulder. She was wiping her snotty nose on the back of her hand. Too bad I’d discarded the guest towel.

  “I’m clueless, Avery.”

  Her bloodshot eyes brightened. “Yes, you are clueless! I won’t tell you, and you can’t guess! Men love me—they do.—and that’s why I won’t need your help. Before you know it, I’m going to leave here with t
he twins and never look back.”

  “Is that a promise?” I shouldn’t have, but it was just too tempting.

  “Absolutely. I’m way more woman than you’ll ever be! That’s why I won’t end up alone. Like you!”

  Here we go again, I thought. That was her refrain when Nash Grant invited her and the twins to stay with him . . . before he discovered that the twins weren’t his. For about a month, Avery had flaunted the fact that she was having sex, and I wasn’t. Specifically, that she was having sex with someone she knew I found attractive.

  “You’ve got another lover?” I said without inflection.

  “Yes I do!”

  “Well, that didn’t take long.”

  “No it didn’t!” She glared at me triumphantly.

  “Nash barely threw you out, and you’ve already landed in some other guy’s bed! Wow. Congratulations.” I started up the stairs.

  “Congratulations for sure!” she shouted after me. “He’s not only hot, he’s rich!”

  “How nice for you, Avery. Good night.”

  Safely locked in my bedroom, I changed into a cotton nightshirt and then washed my face and brushed my teeth. I should have felt pleased at the way I’d handled Avery. Mostly, I’d stayed cool. I checked my reflection; the veins in my forehead weren’t even pulsing. But I couldn’t stop thinking about her announcement. Odds were she’d made up the new boyfriend just to mess with my head. Then again, she might really have one. Her twins were proof that even a big klutzy girl with a sour attitude and a nasty mouth could get laid. If the boyfriend was real, who was he? Between full-time residents, part-time residents and tourists, there were a few thousand men around Magnet Springs, most of them fairly affluent. Even if Avery had exaggerated when she said he was rich, chances are he was at least solvent. If he was real. . . .

  Why did I care? Why was I even thinking about Avery’s sex life when mine appeared to be heating up? Even if Fenton didn’t make another move, Jeb was back on the scene. And if I decided not to rekindle those flames, I might want to get to know MacArthur. Granted, a carnal relationship would be inadvisable if he worked for me. But if Cassina and Rupert’s cleaner wanted to rekindle his real estate career, I could surely enjoy the scenery.

  * * *

  I knew Deely was back on duty the next morning because strains of Jeb singing “Day is Done” greeted me as I stumbled down the stairs for my morning coffee. Although listening to lullabies ran counter to my efforts to jump-start my day, the alternative—whining, howling, whimpering—was unbearable. So far the Fleggers CD was working. My home was blissfully free of doggie sounds. I peered into Velcro’s carrier, where the teacup pup was unconscious.

  “Is he alive?” I asked Deely.

  “He’s doing fine, ma’am. I’ve already had him out for gentle stretching exercises, as prescribed by Dr. David. And now he’s settled back down for his morning nap.”

  I yawned. Jeb’s rendition of “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star” was making me sleepy. I was tempted to turn around and go straight back to bed. But I had real estate to manage and sell, plus a social if not legal obligation to find my missing canine. As Jenx had pointed out last night, Abra wreaked havoc when she was on the loose. At the very least, her current sexual exploits were depriving Fenton of his medical companion dog. Last spring, when Norman fled with Abra, Fenton fell into a diabetic coma. No way I could let that happen again. Maybe I could make up for the current inconvenience by offering to stand in for Norman. Surely, I could remind Fenton when to take his medication. I mentioned my brainstorm to Deely.

  “Admirable, ma’am, but inadvisable.”

  I asked why.

  “Because you can’t keep track of the details in your own life. That’s why you hire Tina Breen and me. And Chester.”

  She was right, of course, but I secretly believed I would have no problem keeping track of someone else’s details. Especially if I was hot for that person.

  I was surprised to find Tina Breen in her office before eight, and I told her so. “You don’t usually come in till nine. Do you?”

  “Sometimes I don’t come in till noon. I work flex-time, remember?”

  Deely was right; I didn’t pay attention to the details I delegated. But I delegated well, dammit. At my desk, I buried myself in the never-ending stream of paperwork that is part of being a real estate broker and landlord. Before long, Tina buzzed me.

  “There’s a Felicia Gould here to see you.”

  It took a few seconds for my brain to register the name—probably because I’d wrongly assumed that a chatelaine’s duties were limited to the chateau. What had brought her my way? And so early, without an appointment?

  I welcomed Felicia to my office, which she quickly and dismissively perused. My furniture was apparently unfit for human use—or at least use by the kinds of humans accustomed to a historically intact chateau; when I offered her my leather guest chair, she glanced about for an alternative. Not finding one, she sat in the original, but not happily. She also declined coffee, which was unfortunate. I could fault Tina for the way she did or, more often, didn’t do lots of office management tasks, but there was no question that she made excellent French roast coffee. And Felicia looked as if she might benefit—and in turn I might, too—by the mood lift afforded by Tina’s brew.

  “What can I do for you, Felicia?” I began, relying on my smile to relax the woman. It didn’t work.

  “I’m afraid, Ms. Mattimoe, that I’m here to lodge a complaint.”

  “Really? Please call me Whiskey.”

  She didn’t. “It concerns showing the property.”

  I asked her to tell me what was on her mind. Felicia Gould explained that Odette had brought someone around late the previous afternoon for a brief look at “the grounds”—the lawns, the gardens, the bluff, the beach.

  I said, “It was my understanding that she phoned you ahead of time, never entered any buildings, and was on the property for a total of twenty minutes or less.”

  “That is correct,” Felicia replied. “And completely unacceptable.”

  “I can assure you that the client is eminently qualified and extremely interested—“

  “That’s not the issue,” Felicia said, shaking her head for emphasis.

  “Then please tell me what is.” I willed myself to be very, very good when in fact I was becoming extremely annoyed.

  “Ms. Major has gone to great lengths to insure the security of her person and her business at Druin. No doubt you noticed the gatehouse.”

  I nodded.

  “That is the obvious security,” Felicia said, “the tip of the iceberg, so to speak. It may surprise you to learn that Ms. Major has at least three security officers on duty at all times.”

  So the woman was paranoid. So what? Wearing a neutral expression, I waited for Felicia to continue.

  “Therefore, you must understand, Ms. Mattimoe, that short-notice visits are beyond the pale.”

  Clearly she was not ready for a first-name relationship. Or to facilitate the rapid sale her boss had commissioned us to accomplish.

  Next step: a little Deely-inspired damage control. “I apologize, Ms. Gould, for any conflict caused by our attempt to execute Ms. Major’s instructions. From now on, I’m sure Odette will work closely with the security staff to prevent such complications.”

  I sorely wanted to point out, but didn’t, that Mr. García had abandoned his post by the time we left Druin yesterday. So much for Ms. Major’s stellar security force.

  Chapter Eleven

  “I realize I could have telephoned, but I like to conduct important business face to face,” Felicia Gould said, rising.

  “I’m glad to know the chatelaine occasionally gets to leave the chateau.”

  My attempt at a light-hearted conclusion failed. Felicia slid her shoulder briefcase back into place and extended a chilly hand. When I offered to show her out, she replied that she remembered the way. Of course she did. It was a short walk, a mere fraction of the distance she no
doubt covered every day at Druin. This morning Felicia had chosen sturdy flat black shoes as perfectly silent as the navy pair she’d worn yesterday. Apparently stealth footwear was de rigeur for chatelaines.

  Tina buzzed immediately to inform me that a Mr. MacArthur had stopped by while Ms. Gould was in my office.

  “He had an accent.” Tina said. “The same accent I heard on the phone yesterday. He sounds like Sean Connery.”

  “That would be because he’s the same man who called yesterday, and, like Sean Connery, he’s from Scotland,” I said.

  Although MacArthur had told Tina he could wait to see me, he stayed only a few minutes.

  “Yolanda Brewster called. Again,” Tina whined. “I was talking to her when Mr. MacArthur got up and left. She said she saw Twyla this morning, and something’s not right over there. Twyla was loading trash bags into the back of her Ford Taurus—so many she couldn’t even close the trunk. And get this: Mrs. Brewster said there was no sign of kids. Not a single one. She said she hoped Twyla hadn’t damaged the property…”

  Groaning, I leaned back in my desk chair, which tilts far enough for me to count my ceiling tiles, a calming distraction when the going gets rough. “Did Twyla leave? Or was she still there when Mrs. Brewster phoned?”

  “Mrs. Brewster said Twyla went back in the house.”

  I told Tina to call Roy and have him meet me at the property ASAP. So much for getting to the office early. It wasn’t yet nine, and I’d already received two complaints and missed the sexiest visitor I was likely to have all day.

  * * *

  En route to Twyla’s house, I spotted an oncoming green Ford Taurus that looked like my tenant’s car. One block ahead of me it made a screeching turn down the road toward the shore. I was briefly tempted to follow; if in fact it was Twyla, I wondered where the hell she was going with a trunk full of trash bags. However, I had told Roy I would meet him at the property pronto. I wasn’t near enough to identify the Taurus’s driver or to tell whether the trunk was latched.

  As I expected, Roy was already on site, his pickup truck parked in the double driveway between my two properties. Twyla’s car was gone.