by Nina Wright
“Chester’s standing right there, isn’t he?”
I grunted, and Jenx continued, “Here’s the scoop: Brady and I interviewed six people who were in the vicinity of Vanderzee Park this morning. All of ‘em saw Twyla down by the water. Three said she was talking to a guy who fits the description Gamby gave us. In other words, MacArthur.”
“What about the other three?”
“They saw what Tina saw: the ghost of Gil Gruen.”
“Ghosts don’t come out in the daytime!” I blurted. Chester and Jeb looked up from their checkers.
“Okay,” Jenx said. “They saw live Gil. Is that better?”
“There’s got to be an explanation,” I whispered, walking the portable handset into the next room. “Rico started a rumor that alarmed a lot of suggestible people. Now when they see someone suspicious, they automatically think it’s Gil Gruen.”
“I wouldn’t call Odette suggestible,” Jenx said. “Besides, MacArthur’s six inches taller than Gil. And built. Nobody’s going to get them confused. Here’s what I think, Whiskey: Before she drowned, Twyla met two different guys.”
“On purpose?”
“I don’t know. If we find out, it might explain what happened to her and the kids. I still think Abra’s our best shot.”
I pointed out that Brady had found Abra near Thornton Pointe, where Twyla’s body washed up—not the beach near Vanderzee Park, where she was last seen alive.
“That dog of yours can cover a lot of ground in a very short time,” Jenx said. She ordered me to put my young neighbor back on the line.
Although he had just set an egg timer for ten-minute speed chess, Chester cheerfully stopped it. After consulting with the chief, he informed Jeb that their game would have to wait until after he “interviewed” Abra.
“She won’t like it if you wake her up,” I said, picturing the sleeping beauty.
“She doesn’t like it when you wake her up,” he corrected me. “I already told her she and I need to talk.”
Chester said Deely could stay, but he didn’t want anyone else in Abra’s room during the interview. That suited Jeb just fine. He led me out onto my deck and inserted the still-chilled Killian’s in my hand.
“Drink up, Whiskey. It’s a great day.”
“Easy for you to say. You’re drinking free beer.”
“You know what your trouble is?” Jeb said, squinting into the sun over Lake Michigan. “I can tell you because we’re not married anymore, and now you might actually listen.”
“Yeah?”
“The trouble with you is you get so wound up with things that don’t matter, you end up missing the best part of life. Even when it’s right in front of you. Allow me to fix that.”
He pulled me into his chest and kissed me on the mouth. I couldn’t stop him. The sun was in my eyes, and I had a beer in my hand.
Did I kiss him back? I might have, a little. For just a second or two. But I quickly remembered that we were happily divorced, and I had a date with somebody else.
Jeb grabbed my wrist when I turned to go back inside.
“This is what I mean about you,” he said. “You’re missing the show. Look around! The sun is shining on the water . . . no dogs are barking . . . and your handsome ex-husband has money in his pocket. Better yet, he still cares about you. He’s not afraid to show it, either.”
I looked straight at him, willing myself to resist the sparkling blue eyes and dimples that used to do me in. Although I could resist them now, I couldn’t pretend they had no effect. More important, I found myself wondering if Jeb was right. Did I miss the best parts of life?
When Leo was alive, I’d felt fully alive, too. He and I always had fun together, no matter what we were doing—loving, working, playing, eating. There was an ease between us, a lightness of spirit, that infused everything we did.
It had been different with Jeb. When we were married, we had two modes only: passionate love or passionate anger. If we weren’t falling into bed together (which we did several times a day), we were throwing things at each other. Big things, like bottles and vases and lamps. Actually, I was the one who did most of the throwing because Jeb made me mad. Looking at him now—and he looked damn fine—I was glad I’d married him but gladder still that I’d left him . . . so I could find Leo.
“How about it?” Jeb said, pulling me close again. “Are you happy to see me?”
There was no question that he was happy; I felt his firm joy. And it made me smile. Between my ex, Noonan’s soon-to-be-ex, and the cleaner, my love life was on the rise.
Chapter Sixteen
Chester was a proud though diminutive graduate of every online course offered by dogstrainyou.com, the world-renowned authority in canine-human communication. Last fall, when I hired Chester as Abra’s official keeper, I witnessed a bizarre array of bonding behaviors. By comparison, a human-canine interview seemed almost ordinary. At least the way Deely explained it. DO NOT DISTURB sign on her door.
Chester, Deely, Jeb and I adjourned to my home office, where we set up a conference call with Jenx. We were gathered in a semi-circle, with Chester in the seat“As you may know, my late father Arthur Smarr was the leading authority on interspecies communication. His most celebrated studies involved graduate students interviewing street dogs in east Los Angeles. By posing simple, non-threatening questions, the students were able to elicit amazing biographical data from the dogs. Of course, such communication provides a dog’s-eye-view only. Chester will use his canine-language skills to offer basic questions and then interpret the answers that Abra gives him. The down side is that we humans may be interested in details that have absolutely no relevance to the canine involved. And vice versa.”
“She’s exhausted, but she was very forthcoming,” Chester announced when he emerged from Abra’s bedroom with Deely at his side. The nanny hung a of honor behind my desk.
“Abra told me everything she could,” Chester said.
Deely nodded. “I’m not as gifted as Chester in canine narrative, but I can vouch for the fact that he posed brilliant questions. And of course Abra trusts him completely.”
“Norman was with Abra when she found Twyla’s body,” Chester began. “Or what Abra refers to as Dead Twyla.”
“Whoa. Let’s do this in chronological order.” Jenx’s voice crackled through the speaker phone. “First of all, did Abra see Twyla go into the water?”
“No,” Chester replied. “The last time Abra saw Live Twyla was when she stole her bangle bracelet in the driveway by Live Twyla’s house. That was a lot of fun. For Abra. She said she really enjoyed having Whiskey chase her.”
“She always does,” I muttered.
“For the record, Chester,” Jenx said, “Are you telling me that Abra and Norman were nowhere near Vanderzee Park this morning?”
“Right. Abra said they spent the night at Thornton Pointe. They’ve made a cool little den there—like a love nest—where they go when they want to cuddle up and—“
“Time out.” I interjected, glancing at Chester. “Jenx—is this line of questioning appropriate for an eight-year-old?”
“We can skip ahead a little,” Jenx conceded. We heard her flip a page in her notepad. “So, buddy, what did Abra tell you about finding Twyla?”
“Well, it happened like this. Abra and Norman were running along the beach, sniffing each other’s butts, when they came upon a whole lot of good-n-stinky stuff. They knew it had just washed up because it had that musk-of-the-lake smell on top of the stink-of-the-dead smell. Abra found it very stimulating.”
Hoping to steer the story onto safer ground, I said, “Was that when they found Twyla?”
“Yes, that was when Abra found Dead Twyla.”
“Which registered in her canine brain,” Deely added, “as something very different from Live Twyla. More interesting, in sensory terms.”
“Abra said Twyla had that ‘new-dead’ stink,” Chester reported. “Not ‘old-dead,’ like some of the fish on the beach. If yo
u’re a dog, you prefer ‘old-dead.’ But ‘new-dead’ is better than not dead. When it comes to good stink.”
“Back up a little,” Jenx said. “To the part where Abra and Norman are sniffing each other’s asses.”
“Do we have to?” I asked.
Jeb whispered in my ear, “Relax. You’re not his mother. You’re better.”
Was I? Nervously I listened as Chester answered Jenx’s question: “They weren’t alone on the beach for long. Abra said a human showed up and interrupted their fun.”
“You mean Brady?” Jenx said.
“Somebody else came first. Abra and Norman were all set to roll in good-n-stinky ‘old-dead’ fish when a human female—HF for short—showed up. She was near Dead Twyla. Abra checked her out because HF was wearing a shiny watch that caught the sun real sweet. Abra tried to grab it and run. But HF didn’t like that game. She started a new game: she picked up a piece of driftwood and threw it as hard as she could.”
“Probably at Abra’s head,” I said.
“Norman brought it right back,” Chester said. “He’s a retriever.”
Jenx asked Chester to describe the woman.
“All I know is she was HF,” he said.
“That means, she didn’t smell familiar to Abra,” Deely explained. “Or especially interesting. She didn’t stink.”
Jenx said, “Then what happened?”
“Well, HF threw the stick a few more times,” Chester said. “Once Norman caught it in his mouth. Then HF got tired of that game. So she threw the stick in the water, and Norman went in after it. That was the end of Norman.”
I sat up straight. “What do you mean?”
“I mean that was the last time Abra mentioned Norman. She said she saw him paddling out after the stick. And then he wasn’t in the story anymore.”
“Are you saying Norman drowned?”
The Coast Guard nanny cut in. “I don’t think we should assume that a dog as athletic and water-oriented as Norman drowned—although there is the threat of riptides to consider….”
“Fenton needs that dog.” I exclaimed. “We have to find him.”
“Not now, Whiskey,” Jenx said. “I’m trying to figure out what happened to Twyla.”
“HF rolled over Dead Twyla,” Chester volunteered.
Collectively we shuddered. We were so caught up in Chester’s story of dogs rolling in good-n-stinky flotsam that we automatically pictured the mystery woman getting down on all fours.
“I mean, HF turned Dead Twyla over. Like she was searching her body,” Chester said.
“You mean, looking in her pockets?” Jenx asked.
“Abra didn’t say ‘pockets,’” Chester said. “I don’t think there’s a dog word for that. Anyway, that’s the end of the story. Oh—there’s one more part. Abra found a shoe by the water and started chewing it.”
“A little shoe?” I asked.
“Maybe. Abra said she liked the way it fit her mouth, and it was a good chew. When HF tried to take it away from her, Abra took off running. HF was supposed to chase her, but she didn’t play the game. She got back in her car and left. She wasn’t much fun. Then Brady came.”
“Jenx,” I said, “that must have been the shoe Abra had when Brady found her. Do you think it belongs to one of the missing kids?”
“Too early to tell,” the chief replied. “But maybe Brady saw HF’s—I mean, the woman’s—car. Chester, did you get the color of the vehicle?”
“Abra didn’t say.”
“Aren’t dogs colorblind?” Jeb asked.
“They have trouble with greens and reds,” Deely said. “And they’re not too precise about the rest of the spectrum.”
I was still stuck on the point in the story where Norman had vanished into the lake.
“Did Abra try to find Norman?” I asked Chester.
He shrugged. “She didn’t mention him again.”
Some love affair; the guy drowns, and the girl keeps looking for good-n-stinky.
“This could be an incomplete narrative,” Deely cautioned. “We have a language and species barrier.”
Jenx thanked Chester for his service to the MSPD and the good citizens of Lanagan County. I heaved a sigh of relief that his report hadn’t crossed the line into doggie lewdness. Then Jenx excused Chester and said she’d like a word with the adults in the room. Since Jeb was a musician, I wasn’t sure he could stay. But he did. In fact, he laid one arm across the back of my chair.
“I don’t know what to make of the woman in Abra’s story,” Jenx began. “As far as we know, Brady was the first human on the scene, and he was there to post riptide signs.”
“You think Abra’s lying?” Jeb asked.
“I don’t know what to think,” Jenx said. “She might be an unreliable witness.”
“No, ma’am,” Deely said. “I was in the room when Chester questioned her. That dog was sure about what she saw.”
“That dog,” I reminded everyone, “is an Afghan hound.”
Jenx said, “I’ll go over her statement with Brady. See what he can add. Last I heard, the sheriff’s department and the State boys still had their crime scene investigation teams at Thornton Pointe. I need to find out what they found out.”
“Will they tell you?”
“I’ll insist on it.”
Jenx had long-standing issues with other law enforcement agencies, who generally regarded her as a joke. They scoffed at the idea that Jenx could solve a real crime.
She said, “Twyla was last seen alive near Vanderzee Park. That’s in my jurisdiction.”
“But she was found dead at Thornton Pointe. That’s a State Park,” I said.
“Whose side are you on?”
“I’m sure Whiskey’s on the side of truth, justice, and the American way,” Jeb said smoothly.
I nearly jumped out of my chair. Not because of what he’d said but because of what he’d done. Jeb had chosen that moment to stroke the back of my neck. Don’t get me wrong; the sensation was extremely pleasant. However, it was a move forever linked in my brain and heart to Leo. My late husband used to absent-mindedly play with the curls at the base of my skull. And now Jeb was doing it—in Leo’s house, or rather, in the house where I used to live with Leo.
“Is she all right?” Jenx asked.
I realized then that I must have yelped.
“She’s fine,” Jeb said as he resumed stroking. Part of me wanted to lean into him and let it all go. Another part of me wanted to set him straight and send him packing. For now, I decided to let the first part of me win.
“Whiskey, did you have a chance to question the cleaner?” Jenx said.
“Uh-huh,” I murmured, relaxing into Jeb’s neck massage.
“Well? What did you find out?”
“He’s for real, I think. I mean, he’s really into real estate. I believe him….” My voice trailed off, and my eyes closed. I didn’t want to think about police work when Jeb was touching me like that. I didn’t want to think at all.
“Excuse me, ma’am,” Deely said. I didn’t know whether she was talking to me or Jenx—and I didn’t care. “Are you talking about MacArthur the cleaner who’s also the driver?”
“Yeah,” Jenx said. “What do you know about him?”
“Only what Chester tells me. I’m sure he’s a good driver. Chester says MacArthur always makes him wear his seatbelt. And he obeys speed limits and stop signs. No rolling stops, ever. MacArthur’s very conscientious. That’s why they call him the cleaner.”
“Ha,” I said.
“He’s a driver,” Deely repeated. “But he doesn’t only drive Chester and his parents.”
“You can say that again,” I said.
“Let the nanny talk,” Jenx barked. “What are you saying, Deely?”
“This may mean nothing, ma’am, but I thought about it when Ms. Mattimoe mentioned the missing kids. Chester said MacArthur runs a ‘shuttle service’—for children. He ‘delivers’ them where they need to go.”
&nb
sp; Chapter Seventeen
“Maybe the driver’s a cleaner even when he’s a driver,” Jenx mused. Over the speaker phone, we could hear her writing something down.
“You think MacArthur made Twyla’s kids disappear?” I jerked myself away from Jeb’s massaging fingers.
“I don’t know what to think yet,” Jenx said, still writing. “But he might not be the nice guy you wish he was.”
“Who is this guy?” Jeb asked.
“Some hunk Whiskey wants to hire,” Jenx said.
“He was an estate agent in Glasgow,” I told Jeb. “Now he’s Rupert and Cassina’s conscience. And their driver.”
“Or so he told you,” Jenx grunted. “Deely—did Chester identify the kids MacArthur ‘drives where they need to go’?”
“No, ma’am, he didn’t,” the Coast Guard nanny replied. “But Chester made it sound like it was something MacArthur just started doing.”
My watch reminded me that I still had an entire afternoon of work to squeeze into the next two hours. It was almost three o’clock; I was sure that my cell phone, parked in my car, would have several messages requiring my immediate attention. So I concluded the conference call with Jenx and dispatched Deely to tend the various life forms under my roof. Deliberately not making eye contact with Jeb, I coolly acknowledged that I’d see him later. Sure, that neck rub had been nice. But why oh why did Fenton insist on a karma-based date? Things could get complicated.
I had just opened the front door on my way out when something whizzed past my nose. In that split second, I caught the distinct whiff of Jif peanut butter, and I recognized my own name in a long string of expletives. Apparently Avery had gotten her lazy butt out of bed because she needed a snack. She had located the peanut butter, but it was in her favorite boot . . . in Prince Harry’s jaws. I thought it best to keep moving.
When I played my voicemail messages, I found two from Odette about Felicia’s lack of cooperation regarding showing Druin, one from Roy requesting that I inspect his final work at the new North Side duplex, and one from my part-time receptionist that made no sense at all. I called her back, but she didn’t answer; the Mattimoe Realty number rolled over to my recorded message. Not a good sign on a Thursday afternoon. Since the receptionist’s message had sounded hysterical, I made an executive decision to exceed the speed limit. Getting a ticket seemed unlikely, given that riptide alerts were keeping most local law officers busy at the beach.