by Nina Wright
How had this day gone so wrong? Yesterday I’d landed the two most lucrative listings of my whole career. Plus, I’d had a date with someone not only attractive but almost eligible. Then tragedy had struck one of my tenants—and possibly all of her kids—and now I felt guilty.
I decided to tell Jenx what was bothering me and ended up blathering on about not only Twyla, but also Macarthur the cleaner and Velcro the nightmare.
“Sorry about your luck with the shitzapoo,” Jenx said. “We get twenty calls a month from people complaining about their neighbor’s little yipper. Welcome to Small Dog Hell.”
I reminded Jenx that I already lived in Big Dog Hell.
“Yeah, and your big dog likes to spread her hell around. That’s one of the things we gotta talk about. Thanks to Abra, I got an injured canine officer and a tourist with a missing companion dog. Remember what happened the last time Norman got away from Fenton?”
“He ended up in the hospital,” I said.
Jenx cocked an eyebrow at me. “And I understand you care more about him now than you did then. “
“Odette told you about the commission we could make if Fenton buys Druin?”
“I’m not talking about real estate. I’m talking about romance. Everybody who was at Mother Tucker’s last night saw you two ogling each other.”
“You mean I wasn’t ogling alone?”
Between my wine buzz and my lack of dating practice, I hadn’t been sure whether my “chemistry” with Fenton was based mostly on wishful thinking. In any case, I didn’t want Abra’s fling with Norman to cause Fenton another health crisis.
“You seem to be feeling guilty enough,” Jenx concluded with satisfaction. “So here’s the deal. I need you as volunteer deputy. Starting now. Don’t give me any crap about this being your busiest season. It’s my busiest season, too, and at least half of my problems are related to you or your dog.”
“But—“
Jenx rattled her handcuffs. “I got sufficient cause to lock you up, just for violating local leash laws. So work with me, Whitney.”
Through gritted teeth, I said, “Okay, Judith.”
“About MacArthur the cleaner,” she began. “He fits the description of the guy Yolanda saw scaring Twyla this morning. And he sounds like the guy Gamby saw with Twyla at the shore.”
I told Jenx what I knew about him, including his job as Rupert and Cassina’s mobile conscience.
“And now he wants to sell real estate?” Jenx asked.
“Yeah, but he still wants to be a driver and cleaner. He’s into making big money.”
“So are most crooks I know.” Jenx told me to interview MacArthur, find out everything I could about him, including his relationship with Twyla.
“I don’t think they had a relationship,” I said. “Unless—“
“Unless what?”
Reluctantly, I told the chief about the tryst Odette and I had interrupted at Cassina’s cottage.
“That couldn’t have been Twyla,” I added quickly, “unless she was in two places at the same time. But if Twyla sold her ‘favors,’ so to speak—well, maybe she knew Rupert. And MacArthur.”
“I thought you said MacArthur was Rupert’s conscience—not his pimp.”
“He says he is. But Rupert’s not a nice guy.”
Jenx said, “MacArthur might not be, either.”
We heard voices on the other side of the kitchenette door. Voices that were ordinarily never loud. One belonged to Brady, who was almost always calm. The other belonged to a person frequently hired for her calming effect. Noonan Starr burst into the room, shouting. At me.
“Whiskey, we need to talk.”
“Not now, Noonan. Jenx is interviewing her,” Brady said.
“Why? Did she bust up someone else’s marriage, too?”
Uh-oh. Maybe Fenton wasn’t quite as eligible as I had thought.
Jenx glared at me. “You didn’t say you were serious about Fenton.”
Brady added, “I assumed you were just flirting last night. You were a little drunk.”
“You two got drunk together?” Noonan demanded. “Do you have any idea what that could do to his diabetes?”
“Fenton drank Diet Coke,” I said. “And nothing inappropriate happened. Fenton is a client. I often have dinner with clients.”
“And how often do your clients go home to their wives and tell them they want a divorce?” Noonan demanded.
Then she burst into tears à la Avery. I had never seen anything like it. Except, of course, with Avery.
“Fenton told you that?” I asked. “I swear, I had no idea. Better check the guest list at Red Hen’s Inn. There’s probably somebody hot staying there.”
“No. He wants to get to know you. Incredible, isn’t it?”
Tears were coursing down Noonan’s pale cheeks. Jenx got up from the table to comfort her. Brady had already wrapped an arm around the New Age healer, who now seemed in need of a healer herself, which reminded me…
“Noonan, I thought you were driving Tina to Coastal Med. For her herbal tea burns . . . ?”
That was also the wrong thing to say. Noonan emitted a fresh batch of wet, wrenching sobs. Jenx gave me the closest thing to an evil eye anyone completely lacking in Italian blood could muster.
“That was the turning point,” Noonan said. “We were on our way when Tina shouted for me to stop. She said her burns weren’t bad. Nothing a little aloe applied in her own kitchen couldn’t fix. Suddenly I realized that I was doing no one in this town any good!”
“Now just a minute,” I began, but Noonan wouldn’t stop.
“I made Tina’s problems worse, not better. When she came to me after her sighting at the beach, I made her more agitated, not less. If I hadn’t gotten her so worked up, she wouldn’t have spilled the tea. And then, if I hadn’t made such a fuss over the spill, I would have realized that she wasn’t really burned. She kept trying to tell me, but I just wouldn’t listen.”
I tried again to soothe Noonan, but she wouldn’t let me.
“Don’t you see? I’m making everything worse. And that’s the opposite of what I’m supposed to do. Of what Fenton trained me to do. I’m supposed to be a healer.”
“You are a healer.” I said emphatically.
“Not today. Not since Fenton told me about his interest in you.”
“Oh come on,” I said. “That thing with Tina was a fluke. Don’t tell me you’ve never made a mistake until today.”
“I’ve never made three mistakes in a row until today,” she declared. “Before Tina came in, I was on the phone with a woman I tele-counseled to sell candles from home. While we were talking, her house burned down. Because she followed my advice. Then I convinced a German tourist that he needed a deep-tissue massage. I reactivated his old groin injury, and he left my studio on a stretcher.”
“Shit happens,” Jenx said. “You’re just jealous of Whiskey. As weird as that sounds.”
Noonan turned her wide pale eyes on me. “What I can’t handle is that my soulmate and guru would leave me for someone as un-evolved as you.”
I was speechless, but Jenx and Brady made sympathetic noises. Rico Anuncio, who had been listening from the lobby, entered the kitchenette to cast his vote.
“Who’d have thunk it? The founder of the Seven Suns of Solace woos Whiskey Mattimoe, Queen of Denial.”
“That’s why I have to leave town. Immediately,” Noonan said. “Until further notice my massage studio is closed. Also, my tele-counseling practice. I can’t help others until I help myself.”
A stunned silence filled the tiny kitchen. Then the mini-fridge clicked on, which alarmed me. Based on prior experience, I feared that Noonan’s announcement had triggered Jenx’s magnetic energy. Whenever that happens, electrical appliances—and humans—can go haywire. But the mini-fridge was just in the midst of a self-defrosting cycle, and so was Jenx. We all started talking at once, trying to convince Noonan not to leave. But she tearfully insisted that she had to find a ne
w spiritual guru.
I must admit it was distressing to see the calmest person in town completely lose it, especially since she was blaming me. Never mind that, while married to Fenton, she had personally admitted having at least one messy affair herself. The petty part of me wanted to point that out. Except that the practical part of me knew it would only make me look petty. Pettier.
Finally Jenx said, “We all feel for ya, Noonan, we really do, but this is a police station. Unless you plan to press charges, let’s move it along.”
The chief glanced meaningfully at Brady, who steered Noonan and Rico out of the kitchenette.
“Is there anybody you haven’t pissed off today?” Jenx asked me.
“It’s still early.”
The chief reminded me that my first job as volunteer deputy would be to find out more about MacArthur the cleaner—where he’d been and who he knew, besides Rupert and Cassina.
I agreed, relieved to be off the topic of me as marriage buster. “I already know he’s from Glasgow.”
When Jenx didn’t respond, I added, “That’s in Scotland. He’s Scottish. You can tell by the way he talks.”
Jenx snorted. “Like nobody fakes an accent? Rule One for being a deputy: Bring some healthy skepticism to the job. For all you know, MacArthur the cleaner is an unemployed actor. Assume nothing. That’s where your work begins.”
Like I needed one more reprimand before lunch. With all the self-righteousness I could manage, I said, “And where does your work begin?”
“I’m gonna try to figure out what happened to the kids who lived in your rental house.”
Chapter Fourteen
Ordinarily I enjoy eating lunch away from my office. But not today. After the ordeal at the police station, I didn’t think I could bear one more accusatory or even curious glance. So I hunkered down at my desk and dispatched my part-time receptionist to bring me back my usual from the Goh Cup.
When I heard a knock, I was deep into a spreadsheet and didn’t bother to lift my eyes from the computer screen.
“Just set it on my desk,” I said.
It wasn’t my receptionist at the door, after all. And what was set on my desk turned out not to be lunch but a tush. A very nice tush belonging to the man I had just been drafted to investigate.
“Could I buy you lunch?” MacArthur said. “While we eat, we can talk about real estate. And how I’m going to sell lots of it.”
I had been planning to put off doing him—I mean interviewing him—until after I ate, but sometimes Fate hands you other plans. Besides, he was offering to buy. So I closed down the spreadsheet, grabbed my purse, and informed the just-returning receptionist to put my lunch in my mini-fridge.
MacArthur suggested we go to Mother Tucker’s. Only the best for the cleaner and his friends. I liked that idea, not only because I knew we’d have a splendid meal with a fine view of the water, but also because people would see me there. Some of the same people, no doubt, who had seen me last night with Fenton. Given how gossip works in Magnet Springs, two contradictory sightings within twenty-four hours would cancel each other out. Ergo, my dinner with Fenton followed by my lunch with MacArthur would yield me a big fat zero on the local social radar. Two men at two more or less consecutive meals meant I had friends and/or clients but no lover. In everybody’s busy little mind, I would be still be Whiskey the lonely widow.
Things didn’t go quite according to plan.
First, as we passed through the bar on our way to my favorite table by the window, Walter St. Mary intercepted us.
“Fenton was just here looking for you, Whiskey. I sent him to the Goh Cup because that’s where you usually have lunch. Unless you’re going to start dining twice a day with us again? Wouldn’t that be nice.”
Walter was referring to my basket-case days just after Leo had died, when he and Jonny kept me fed and calmed with the best local meals and vino. Back then, I’d even eaten the occasional breakfast at Mother Tucker’s, and they’re not open for breakfast.
“Hello, hello!” he called. “Out to break some more hearts? Who knew you could. You go, girl.”
Rico made an elaborate show of checking out MacArthur and then punctuated his response with a low whistle. Fortunately, my lunch companion seemed oblivious. Maybe we were a good match. MacArthur seemed as into denial as I was.
“I’m taking my licensing exam Friday,” he said when we were seated. “Any last-minute tips?”
“Cram till you think your head will explode, and then do your best.”
I smiled at his incredibly blue eyes, wondering if they were the color of the North Sea and then wondering if the North Sea bordered Scotland. Did I know enough about anything to know if he was lying?
Time to play volunteer deputy. As MacArthur’s prospective boss, I had a legitimate excuse for quizzing him.
“So. You say you’re from Glasgow. And you were an estate agent. Tell me about it.”
“What would you like to know?”
“Everything. Start with your childhood—parents, friends, hobbies, sports, grades in school, girlfriends—and then go into how you became an estate agent, how you got licensed, and all the properties you sold. You know, the usual job-interview stuff.”
I beamed at him, wishing really hard that he was the moral compass he claimed to be. And also a stellar Realtor. I could use another one of those.
“You always ask about girlfriends?” MacArthur’s eyes twinkled.
“Always. I’ve found they make wonderful character references.”
“If it’s character references you need, why not call Rupert? He and I go way back—to when we were wee lads.”
“Yes, well, I could do that. But I’d like the names of people who don’t pay you to be their conscience. By the way, what does Rupert think about your plan to sell real estate?”
“He likes the idea. It fits well with his own plans.”
“And what are those?” I said.
“Rupert’s on a learning curve. He’s almost ready to take responsibility for his own actions.”
“How mature of him. So—no more need for a cleaner?”
MacArthur leaned forward confidentially. “Rupert’s coming to terms with his identity as a father figure.”
“Don’t you mean as a father, period? I mean, he is a father. He’s Chester’s father.”
MacArthur nodded. “There are other factors, too. Other children who may require Rupert’s attention.”
“How about his own child?” I demanded. “Chester gets almost no attention from Rupert.”
“That you know of,” MacArthur said. “To you, the inner workings of the Castle probably appear labyrinthine.”
“Labyrinthine? You learned that word from Chester, didn’t you?”
“Actually, I had an excellent public school education.”
“All I know is Chester spends way more time at my house than at his own house, even when his dad’s in town. What’s that about? Not to mention Rupert’s unseemly extra-curriculars. The man makes time to make whoopee—and cheat on his partner, I might add—but can’t spend quality time with his son!”
MacArthur gave me an amused, almost affectionate, look. It sucked the hot air right out of my lungs.
“If I weren’t interviewing for a job right now, I’d tell you that you look damn cute when you’re angry,” he said.
I felt my face getting rosy. “I want to know about your real estate career in Scotland,” I said, when in fact I would have loved to hear him go on about how “damn cute” I was.
“Commercial or residential?” He proceeded to give me plenty of details about both. MacArthur was either a superb actor who had spent many hours researching his role, or he was as Scottish as Sean Connery and as much into real estate as I was.
I was inclined to believe the latter. But I found my brain repeatedly looping back to his earlier remark about Rupert working on himself as a “father figure” because there were children other than Chester who might need his attention. Children tha
t MacArthur had removed from Twyla’s care, perhaps? As temporary volunteer deputy, I doubted I had either the skills or the authority to pursue that line of questioning. So I made a mental note to pass it on to Jenx, along with my impression that the guy was legitimately Scottish and licensed to sell property in the U.K. He also seemed to know enough about Michigan real estate law to convince me he’d handily pass his exam. As long as his personal ethics checked out, I wanted him on my sales team.
We managed to get most of the way through the interview and all the way through our meals—gazpacho with shrimp and rice salad for me, a pressed pesto and havarti cheese sandwich for him—before my cell phone rang. When I saw my own home number on Caller ID, I knew it couldn’t be good news. But when I discovered that the caller was Chester, I felt better. He had been recruited to translate for Abra.
“Is there a break in the case?” I asked.
“Sorry, no,” Chester said. “Not yet, anyway. Things got crazy here when Abra saw Velcro. That’s why I’m calling. Deely thinks you should come home. Now.”
When I asked to speak to Deely, Chester told me she had her hands full trying to calm two dogs and two crying babies.
I said, “I thought Avery took the twins with her . . . wherever she went.”
“She brought them back,” Chester said. “And then she went to bed. Frankly, Whiskey, everybody who lives at your house is upset.”
“Why isn’t Deely playing Animal Lullabies?” I said. “It worked before.”
“Velcro ate the CD,” Chester said. “Avery got sick of hearing lullabies, so she put in her own CD and left Jeb’s on the floor.”
More like she threw Jeb’s CD on the floor and stomped on it. Not that I really blamed her. Nonstop lullabies could make a person crazy.
“How many dogs am I listening to right now?” I asked Chester.
“Three. Prince Harry’s here, too. I got him under control, mostly.”
After I hung up, MacArthur asked, “Problems at your house?”
“Labyrinthine,” I sighed.
As Fenton had done the night before, MacArthur insisted on picking up the tab. I wouldn’t have minded if, like Fenton, he had also walked to my car and kissed me. But that wasn’t going to happen—for three reasons. First, it was broad daylight. Second, MacArthur was on the cusp of coming to work for me. And third, Fenton was heading straight toward our table. I’d almost forgotten that Walter had said he was looking for me.