Whiskey and Water

by Nina Wright

“You won’t want to go in there, ma’am, until you’re mentally prepared. I regret to say that my Damage Control skills were insufficient for the situation. Even Jeb’s songs failed to quiet her.”

  Where was Avery now? I craned my neck to check the guest parking pad, where she usually kept the gecko green VW bug she’d bought with part of her inheritance from Leo. I stiffened at the sight of it. Unless Avery was locked in the back of the Animal Ambulance, I’d have to deal with her now. That wouldn’t leave me enough time and energy to get all dressed up, let alone psyched for sex.

  “Avery’s gone,” Deely said. “She had a date.”

  “With who?”

  “I’m not sure, ma’am. She got picked up by a driver. And she took the twins with her.”

  Driver? Kids? Shuttle service?

  Breathless, I asked, “Did you see the car?”

  “Sorry, no. I was getting dressed for my own date. I only know she had a driver because she told me so before she left. Avery said her new boyfriend is into money. And he likes kids.”

  “Deely, how many drivers do you know who pick up kids?”

  She raised a single finger, making the Chester connection.

  “But I don’t know if it’s the same one, ma’am. Chester was long gone by then. I sent him and Prince Harry home when Avery went out of control. I don’t think the young should be exposed to rage like that.”

  Was it possible that Avery’s driver was the cleaner? If so, did that mean my stepdaughter was “dating” Rupert? I flashed back to the moaning and shrieking I’d overheard at Cassina’s cottage . . . and then shook my head to erase the memory.

  “Ear mites, ma’am,” said Deely.

  “What?”

  “The way you shook your head reminded me that Prince Harry has ear mites. Dr. David is treating him—and Abra and Velcro, too. Ear mites are highly contagious. And Velcro has so many problems.”

  “What’s the latest?” I sighed.

  Deely looked to Dr. David on this one. I couldn’t miss her reverential expression. Oh, yes, my nanny was in love.

  “When she pitched her fit, Avery woke Velcro, despite his sedation,” Dr. David said. “The little guy tried like hell to get out of your guest room. He chewed off his own splints.”

  “How about my door? Don’t tell me he chewed through that?”

  Deely shook her head. “By the time I got to him, he had worked himself into a panic. Despite his injured knees, he attempted to run up the stairs. It was pathetic. He yipped nonstop. I knew he was trying to tell me something. But without Chester to translate, I wasn’t sure what it was.”

  Dr. David continued her story. “Deely carried Velcro to the second floor. And inside your room, she witnessed a miracle.”

  “The moment I laid him on your bed, he fell asleep. Sound asleep.”

  “I was able to redo his splints without additional sedation,” Dr. David said. “Deely and I have reached a startling conclusion: Velcro needs to be with you, or with your things, 24/7. That dog has bonded with you, Whiskey, and the essence of you is what calms him.”

  “What about Jeb’s Animal Lullabies?” I said. “I thought they calmed him. I thought they calmed everybody.”

  “That’s the other lesson we’ve learned,” Dr. David replied. “Avery Mattimoe—in extremis—cancels out the calming effects of Jeb’s music. We should probably add that to the liner notes.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  I didn’t know how on earth I would handle Velcro now that he was living up to his name.

  “You don’t mean I’m supposed to let him stay in my bedroom?” I demanded.

  Dr. David nodded. “Tomorrow I’ll come by with some assisted-living devices to make Velcro’s life easier.

  “How about some devices to make my life easier? Like an unlimited supply of dog tranquilizers. If they don’t work on him, I’ll take them.”

  “We have to go, Whiskey,” Dr. David announced. “We’re catching your ex-husband’s Opening Night at the Holiday Inn in Grand Rapids.”

  “So am I.” I said.

  “We know,” Deely said, “but we’re going to get there on time.”

  Striding through the house, I tried not to notice the empty places where my Mission lamp and Sasaki vase used to be. And I tried not to think about Leah and Leo. Avery was old enough to make her own mistakes, but the twins were just babies. Pure innocents.

  Rupert was short, scrawny, and arrogant. Avery was tall, fat, and negative. I couldn’t picture those two hooking up, not only with each other but with anyone. They were unpleasant, unattractive, irresponsible people. Maybe they were perfect for each other.

  I had more immediate issues, such as the ominously named dog now residing in my bedroom. Cautiously I cracked open the door. Very softly Jeb Halloran was crooning “Itsy Bitsy Spider.” Deely must have inserted a replacement Animal Lullabies CD in my portable boom box.

  Asleep in the center of my bed, the little dog looked so sweet. Barely as big as a baby’s Teddie bear, he lay snoring softly. Really, he was pathetic. With that curly black hair, that shiny wet nose, and the splints on those two tiny hind legs. I entered and closed the door behind me.

  Suddenly he was awake, yapping nonstop. I knew he was glad to see me because his stubby tail was a wagging blur. But that was small comfort amid the high-pitched din. I tried to remember something helpful from Chester’s many informational lectures on canine behavior. The kid had learned a lot; too bad I rarely listened.

  I couldn’t remember whether the best thing to do in a situation like this was to maintain eye contact or avoid eye contact. I opted for a compromise: no direct stares but lots of furtive glances. My plan was to crank up the volume of Jeb’s voice and jump into the shower. But my peripheral vision picked up Velcro trying to jump off my bed. I knew that was a bad idea; in human scale it would be like leaping from my rooftop. And two of the little guy’s legs were already wrecked.

  I didn’t know what to do other than place an emergency call to Deely. Frankly, I didn’t expect her to answer since she was off duty and on a date. When she picked up on the first ring, I concluded that Fleggers members take an oath to protect animal rights round the clock.

  Very loudly, so as to make myself heard over Velcro’s piercing cries, I told her what was happening. She put Dr. David on the line. He suggested that I hold Velcro in my lap and pet him until he fell back to sleep. Or I could put him in a crate and find myself a pair of earplugs.

  I needed Deely back on the line; she was the only human in my household who kept track of dog paraphernalia, including crates. She dispatched me to the kitchen. There I found one and also remembered my stock of wine. I paused to pour myself a generous portion of Pinot Noir. Then I followed Dr. David’s directions, inserting dog in crate and plugs in ears. I could still hear Velcro, even in the bathroom with the shower running and Jeb’s voice at top volume.

  Very gradually the wine and warm water worked their magic on me, and Velcro wore himself out. When I stepped from the shower, all I could hear was an absurdly loud version of “Lavender Blue.” I tiptoed into my bedroom and spun the dial down. Peering into Velcro’s crate I wondered if he was even breathing. Then his round brown eyes popped open, his tail thumped, and I held my breath. But he was okay. Better yet, he was silent.

  As long as he kept me in sight, that is. The instant he couldn’t see me, he set up a howl. So I rotated the crate as I moved about my quarters. Of course that slowed down the whole date-preparation process, but it had one unexpected benefit: it distracted me from my worries about being intimate with Fenton.

  It also distracted me from the fact that I was still wearing ear plugs. As a result, I didn’t hear my date ring the doorbell five minutes before seven. When Velcro resumed whining, I naturally thought it was because he didn’t like his view. I adjusted his crate a few times before noticing that my cell phone was flashing, indicating a missed call. When I checked for messages and couldn’t hear them, I realized I still had plugs in my ears. Fenton was p
honing from my front porch.

  Knowing that Velcro would resist my departure, I made sure I had everything I might need for the evening before I bolted from the room. I tore down the stairs and paused inside the front door just long enough to recover some semblance of composure before turning the knob.

  Fenton greeted me with “What went wrong?”

  I hoped he meant Velcro’s ear-splitting yay-yay-yay chorus and not my appearance. After checking the latter in several lighting conditions, I was reasonably sure I had got it right.

  I said I’d prefer to explain after we got under way. We started for the driveway, where I spotted our shiny new ride. Fenton had hired a sleek black Lincoln Town Car. Expectations were running high tonight. . . .

  Very high. When we reached the vehicle, the driver’s door opened and out stepped a handsome man in a dark suit. We not only had us a Town Car; we had us a driver. But not the driver who was also a cleaner. So maybe my step-grandbabies’ driver wasn’t the cleaner, either.

  This chauffeur provided champagne, which instantly erased Velcro from my mind. We had music, too—surround-sound Sinatra the whole forty miles to Grand Rapids. Very romantic and not remotely like animal lullabies; I completely relaxed without feeling the least bit sleepy. In fact, I felt sexy. For the first time since my guilt-inducing nap in the sun two days earlier, I forgot all about riptides, kids, and dogs.

  Fenton Flagg, Ph.D., was a classy guy. Although he’d made his fortune peddling a New Age step program, he knew how to spoil a woman. In addition to the limo, champagne, and seductive music, Fenton had made arrangements for us to enjoy an intimate candlelit dinner at Rigi, an elite dining establishment partway up the coast. It offered a customized high-end culinary experience that Leo would have loved. Each table—and there were only four—occupied its own dark and cozy little room. Diners selected every detail of their meals in advance by either internet or phone, including not only food and drink but also the flowers on the table, the music in the air, and the flawlessly trained serving trio waiting to deliver the dinner of one’s dreams.

  Fenton had somehow learned all my dinner-related favorites, including cut flowers and music. Odette must have been his source. I entered our dark walnut dining nook to find yellow roses on the table and Susan Werner singing in the background. Our “host,” as Rigi calls its servers, was exactly as attentive as we wished him to be. He provided a fabulous bottle of Maso Canali Pinot Grigio, fresh Maryland crab cakes, a divine artichoke-heart salad, tender salmon filets served over couscous and roasted red peppers, orgasmic macaroon cheesecake and, finally, strong black Columbian coffee.

  Mindful of his diabetes, Fenton skipped the high-carb items. He assured me that there was no need to worry even though Norman the medical-reminder dog was still on the lam. We lingered over our meal for three hours. Although Jeb never wore a watch and claimed he didn’t care about time, I wondered how he’d feel if we arrived to catch only his last set. Maybe Fenton had planned it that way. Maybe that was the karmic order he’d intended.

  So it was almost midnight when we arrived at the Holiday Inn. We stepped from the Town Car to find Jeb Halloran, Deely Smarr, and Dr. David just outside the front entrance consulting with a Grand Rapids cop. Fenton asked what was going on.

  The policeman, whose badge identified him as Officer Curdy, said, “I’m investigating a report that a man missing since January was in the lounge tonight.”

  To Jeb I said, “Don’t tell me Gil came to hear you play.”

  Jeb shrugged. “Surprised me, too. I never knew he was a fan.”

  “The man is fish food.” I insisted.

  Officer Curdy said, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I slid into Lake Michigan alongside his bloody corpse.”

  A real conversation stopper. After an awkward silence, Dr. David asked the officer if he and Deely were free to go. Curdy seemed surprised to notice they were still here. Deely asked me I would like them to check on Velcro.

  “Forget about him,” I said. “The splints are in place, and he’s secured on my bed. If you wake him, he’ll just start howling.”

  The cop arched an eyebrow. “I’m going to need the exact spelling of your name. And also your address.”

  After I gave Officer Curdy that information, he asked Jeb to autograph a CD. Jeb’s always more than happy to do that, and I’m always curious to see which of Jeb’s money-losing CDs someone actually bought. Curdy had Jeb’s Celtic CD in his cruiser. The cop promised to come hear Jeb play on his next night off.

  “See? Told ya I have a following.” Jeb winked at me after Curdy left. “Animal Lullabies is going to make me a star.”

  “Sorry we’re late,” Fenton announced. “Whiskey and I had so much fun together we lost track of time.”

  “Whiskey’s like that,” Jeb replied. “She and I used to lose track of whole weeks together.”

  I changed the subject. “Who called the cop?”

  Jeb said that Dr. David spotted Gil in the lounge and slipped out to the lobby to phone Jenx, who explained they were way outside her jurisdiction.

  “She called the Grand Rapids police, and Curdy came. But Gil must have got a whiff something was up. I thought for sure I could keep him in his seat if I sang ‘Brian Wilson’ or ‘One Week’—“

  “You played Barenaked Ladies for Gil Gruen?” I said.

  “I would have played ‘em for you, but you weren’t here. Gil slipped out the rear. Dr. David wasn’t fast enough to follow him. And the cop got here too late.”

  Jeb excused himself to prepare for his last set of the evening. Then another cop arrived, in a perfect storm of electro-magnetic superconductivity. We were still outside, under the Holiday Inn portico, when the mercury-vapor security lights flickered. Then the headlights of at least fifty parked cars flashed, and their horns and alarms blared. Although it seemed like a scene from the Twilight Zone, it was only Police Chief Jenx.

  Her magnetism was the stuff of local lore. See, our hometown was built over a powerful geomagnetic field, which she involuntarily channeled. Either that field was forty miles wider than we had thought or Jenx was potent enough to make it portable. When riled, she could redirect energy to short-circuit a room, a parking lot, or maybe even the south side of Grand Rapids.

  Jeb, Fenton, and I jumped back as her cruiser screeched to a halt—siren wailing, flasher pulsing. Wide-eyed, she emerged and lurched toward us. When she drew close, I noticed with a start that horns, lights, siren, and flasher all pulsed in rhythm with an artery in her neck.

  “This is way out of your jurisdiction,” I reminded her. “And Gil’s long gone. I mean the guy who’s not Gil but looks like him.”

  “This isn’t about Gil,” Jenx wheezed. “We got enough Gil sightings of our own. Why would I drive forty miles for one more?”

  I had no idea.

  “I’m riled about Twyla,” Jenx said. “Coroner’s report came in. She didn’t drown. Somebody strangled her and tried to make us think the riptide did it.”

  Chapter Twenty

  “Twyla was murdered?” I said.

  Jenx nodded, wheezing hard. “Bruises on her head and neck. Broken blood vessels in her eyes. No water in her lungs.”

  I couldn’t find my voice to ask the next question: Does that mean her kids were murdered, too?

  Lights flashed. Horns blared. A siren howled. I was about to lose my two-hundred dollar Rigi dinner.

  Placing both hands on her shoulders, Fenton promised Jenx that he could guide her through a series of visualizations to achieve complete serenity. She agreed. The first step in that process was to get rid of me.

  “Go inside, Dear,” he said. “I’ll join you when my work here is done.”

  I informed him that I was about to puke. “Do you have a visualization to cure that?”

  He told me to go to the bar and suck ice. I didn’t make it that far. Fortunately, I made it to the restroom, where I locked myself in a stall till the worst was over. I tried not to think about Tw
yla and her final ordeal. She was last seen talking to two different men near Vanderzee Park. Did one of them do her in? I didn’t believe our former mayor existed, and I sure as hell didn’t want to believe Chester’s driver was a killer. Never mind that Yolanda had seen a man matching his description arguing with Twyla before she left her rented house for the last time.

  What was the Twyla-MacArthur connection? Did it involve the shuttle service for children that Chester had mentioned to Deely? What the hell was that?

  As for our reappearing dead mayor, one of three things had to be true: Either Gil was alive, Gil was a ghost, or Gil had an identical twin nobody had ever heard of. All three options were impossible. Born and raised in Magnet Springs, Gil had no siblings or cousins; I had personally known him and his family my whole life. He was long-divorced with no children, and his parents were deceased. That’s why the whole town wondered about his designated heir. His lawyer sure wasn’t talking. And now that the IRS was in town, I wondered what kind of a mess Gil had left.

  I inspected my post-sick self in the restroom mirror. So much for the unflattering effect of fluorescent lighting. As if puking hadn’t made me look sallow enough. I splashed cold water on my face and finger-brushed my tongue with bitter-tasting liquid handsoap. Then I cursed myself for having failed to bring so much as a tube of lipstick.

  Jeb was just starting his final set when I entered the lounge. I know that because he stopped mid-patter to inform his sparse, bleary-eyed audience that the woman they’d all been waiting for had finally arrived. Every head turned toward me.

  “I’m pleased to introduce Whitney Houston Halloran Mattimoe, my ex-wife,” he said. “Twenty years ago, I gave that woman her nickname, and it stuck. Everybody, say hey to Whiskey.”

  There was a slurred chorus of my name, followed by scattered applause. The barkeep looked confused. He probably thought Jeb was buying everybody a round.

  Since there was no sign of Fenton, I assumed he was still in the parking lot working on Jenx’s serenity. I settled at corner table and ordered a glass of seltzer to go with my chipped ice.