Whiskey and Tonic, page 2
“As you know, ma’am, I’ve been moonlighting as Avery’s personal trainer. We run together three times a week.”
“What does that have to do with my dog?"
“Abra’s been running with us,” Deely explained. “Like Avery, she’s still trying to lose that last pregnancy fat. Today I let her off leash, and she bolted."
“Why?”
“I can’t say for sure, ma’am, but she may be incorrigible."
“No, I mean why did you let her off leash?"
“In The System, each student is given more responsibility than we think she can easily handle. It’s called the Learning Challenge."
“It’s called a big fat mistake! Abra went and stole Miss Blossom’s tiara! I’ll be back in court before you can say Judge Wells Verbelow!"
“Whiskey,” Odette interrupted. “The judge wants to talk with you."
I wheeled to face the jurist. “Wells! How the hell are you?”
“I’m good, Whiskey. Which way did she go?"
Odette, Tina and I pointed. Wells inserted two fingers in his mouth and whistled shrilly. From the crowd behind us burst a huge and grotesque hound. He bounded past us, copious jowls flapping, saliva spraying everywhere.
“Mooney to the rescue!” Tina exclaimed.
Wells said, “Technically, this is a retrieval rather than a rescue.”
We followed Mooney with our eyes until he disappeared behind the same shops where we’d last seen Abra. The Rott Hound, as my eight-year-old neighbor dubbed the judge’s Rottweiler-bloodhound mix, was renowned for his track-and-attack skills. But, man, did he leave a trail of drool.
“He won’t hurt her, will he?” I heard myself say. Sometimes I sound like I actually care about Abra.
“No, he’ll take her down and then use his Paw Maneuver to immobilize her,” Wells said.
I’d seen the results of Mooney’s Paw Maneuver once before. It was the canine equivalent of a stun gun.
“He presses his massive front paws into his quarry’s solar plexus—like this.” Using his own body, Wells demonstrated the move for the benefit of Tina and Odette. Tina looked horrified. Odette yawned.
“Are they going to proceed with the coronation or not?” she said.
“That will be up to Acting Mayor Goh,” Wells replied.
We heard the distinct sound of someone tapping on a microphone. Then the crowd shifted just enough to clear our view of the stage, where Peg Goh stood flanked by four lovely teen-aged girls, all of them dressed in formal gowns and all of them frowning.
“Uh—may I have your attention,” Peg said as the microphone in her hand squealed. “Due to circumstances beyond our control, we have temporarily lost possession of Magnet Springs’ historic Miss Blossom tiara. However, the judges and contestants have agreed to continue with the coronation, following a short recess. Please bear with us."
The microphone hummed ominously. Peg added, “Will Whiskey Mattimoe kindly report to the judges’ stand? Now.”
“Uh boy,” I muttered. “Here we go again."
Less than a year ago I was hauled into court because of Abra’s thievery. In fact, that was how I met Judge Verbelow, who later asked me out. Wells is a nice man, a fair man, but not the kind of guy who rings my chimes.
“Would you like me to go with you?” he asked.
It couldn’t hurt, I thought. As we threaded our way through the crowd, I felt hot eyes on me and overheard more than a few hostile comments.
“Ignore them, Whiskey,” Wells whispered. “Remember, you’re innocent until proven guilty."
Guilty? That’s when it hit me: this looked like a jewel heist. The biggest jewel heist in Lanagan County history.
I stopped. “You don’t think I planned this, do you?”
Wells laid his hand on my forearm. “Of course not. This has all the earmarks of a professional job.”
I stared. “You mean—”
“I mean, it’s not Abra’s first theft, Whiskey. She has some remarkable skills, illegal though they may be. It’s also possible that she’s been corrupted. Further corrupted." He lowered his voice. “Have you seen anyone hanging around Vestige lately?”
The judge was referring to my home three miles outside of town. I was blessed to have had enough time with my late husband Leo to transform a few lakefront acres into an idyllic rural abode. Leo wasn’t blessed to enjoy it for long; he had died suddenly almost a year ago. No wonder I was depressed. I had been trying not to remember the coming anniversary of his death. Could I have been trying so hard that I failed to notice Abra conspiring with jewel thieves? If so, where was the Coast Guard nanny, and why didn’t she control the damage?
“Whiskey Mattimoe to the judges’ stand,” Peg Goh repeated into her microphone.
At least I’ve got a judge on my side, I thought. To Wells I said, “If this gets sticky, could you—uh—represent me in court?”
“Sorry, Whiskey. I’m a jurist, not a practicing attorney. But I could recommend someone."
We arrived at the judges’ stand, where five familiar faces awaited me, all of them stern. Peg spoke first, “Whiskey, what’s going on?”
“I wish I knew. Thank God Mooney’s on the case. If anyone can bring her back alive, he can.”
“We don’t want Abra back,” whined a tall man in spandex. “We want the tiara!"
“Welcome home, Rico,” I said, trying to keep the acid out of my voice. “We didn’t think you’d arrive in time to judge Miss Blossom.”
He tucked a strand of sun-streaked hair behind one ear. I tried to ignore the four new piercings in his earlobe, each hole bearing an oversized diamond stud.
“I wouldn’t have missed it for the world,” he crooned. “I live to evaluate beauty."
Rico looked me up and down.
“Speaking of which, you don’t look half as bad as you did the last time I saw you. Now, if you could just get laid. . . .”
Wells boomed, “That’s enough." He turned to our acting mayor. “Peg, have you notified the police?"
“Jenx is off duty today, but Brady’s on his way over,” she said.
Henrietta Roca, local innkeeper and life partner of Police Chief Judy “Jenx” Jenkins, held up her cell phone.
“I called Jenx. She’s painting our dormers. As soon as she can climb down the ladder and close up the cans, she’ll get her butt over here."
“We need a moment of meditation,” announced the soothing voice of Noonan Starr, New Age guru and massage therapist. She had already assumed the lotus posture.
“I would if I could, but I have bad knees,” said shy Jonny St. Mary, the chef half of the Mother Tucker team. “And now that Rico’s here, you don’t need me.”
“Yes, we do,” Hen said quickly. “Martha never showed up for judging duty. So we’re still one short.”
“Halloooo!” We all looked toward the querulous call. Octogenarian shopkeeper Martha Glenn appeared to be feeling her way through the crowd. Probably because she was wearing a large straw hat, backwards. I knew it was on backwards because the immense pink bow would have looked better in the rear. Also, the fat satin ribbons trailing over Martha’s wizened face were obviously impeding her view. She stumbled into part-time Officer Brady Swancott and nearly tripped over his canine sidekick, Officer Roscoe. Ever the young gentleman, Brady steadied Martha on her spindly legs.
“Allow me,” I said, removing Martha’s hat expressly in order to rotate it.
“Thief!” Martha shrieked. “Officer, make her give that back!”
“Give it back, Whiskey,” Brady said.
Without a word I set it on Martha’s head, right way around.
She glared at me. “You again." The way she spoke, you’d think I was her personal tormentor.
“Yes, it’s me, Martha. Whiskey Mattimoe." I flashed my warmest smile. We all knew that Martha was slipping into senility; sad to say, she was no longer fit to run Town & Gown, the upscale women’s clothing store where most of Magnet Springs shopped.
“Why aren’t you wearing that camisole?” she demanded. “You look like a fool!”
I heard Odette’s musical laugh, followed by Rico’s raucous one. For the second time in fifteen minutes, my face flushed.
“And there’s that dog of yours. . . .” Martha said.
“Yes, well, we’re looking for her,” I mumbled.
“I said, there’s that dog of yours! Right over there!" Martha pointed a trembling finger past my shoulder.
The crowd parted itself like the Red Sea. Abra the Affie had returned, the historic Miss Blossom tiara still in her teeth. She arrived with the dignity of visiting royalty when in fact she was an out and out thief. Trotting along behind her was Mooney the Rott Hound, beaming like a paid escort.
The way people cheered, you’d think my dog was some kind of hero. I decided to pretend that none of this was really happening. Then my eyes met Wells Verbelow’s, and I knew I had penance to pay. He looked grim.
“What’s the matter?” I shouted over the roar of the crowd. “She brought it back!"
Wells nodded. “That part’s good. What I don’t understand is how Mooney got her to do it. His criminal-control repertoire clearly exceeds my understanding."
“He didn’t do the Paw Thing?”
“He couldn’t have. She’d still be immobilized."
Wishful thinking.
Wells went off to tend his dog. Abra pranced over to the sniffling young woman I recognized as last year’s Miss Blossom. The girl screamed and shrank back in terror. I surmised that Abra had stolen the crown right off her head. That would explain why my dog had the power to reduce the reigning queen to a quaking mess. Acting Mayor Peg Goh soothed Miss Blossom until she could summon the courage to gingerly remove the tiara from Abra’s grinning mouth. Another cheer went up.
“Put it on! Put it on!” the crowd chanted. Again, the beauty queen looked stricken. No doubt the antique tiara was thoroughly slimed. Henrietta Roca produced a bright red bandana, which the reigning queen gratefully used to wipe down her crown and then her hands. Keeping a wary eye on Abra, she then placed the tiara on her own head. The applause was deafening. Abra twirled around once and took a bow, whereupon Officer Swancott seized her by her rhinestone collar and yanked her from the stage.
“How’d she get away from you this time?" The voice belonged to Jenx, who was not only our Chief of Police but also the only full-time law enforcement agent in Magnet Springs. She wore painter’s overalls and a painter’s cap instead of her usual navy-blue uniform. She also wore lots of paint. Completely lacking vanity, Jenx wouldn’t care that there was more maroon pigment smeared on her face, hands, shoes and clothes than she’d applied to the dormers of Red Hen’s House. The effect was comical. I laughed for the first time all day.
“You find jewel theft funny?” Jenx asked, inflating to her maximum five-foot-five-inch height.
“Not remotely,” I said. “And I never find Abra funny." I guffawed again.
“How nice for you,” Jenx said. “I hope you’ll still be laughing when the Schuyler Trust attorney takes you to court."
“What?" That got my attention. Legal threats generally do.
“Of course, it’s always possible that he’ll waive the action. But I doubt it.”
“Back up,” I said.
Jenx explained that a trust established by Mrs. Slocum Schuyler stipulated to the ongoing maintenance and security of the Miss Blossom tiara. In perpetuity. An attorney had complete oversight of the crown. Basically, his job was to prosecute anyone who messed with it.
“Abra brought it right back!” I said.
“That won’t matter. According to the Trust, anybody who ‘mishandles’ the thing is in deep doo-doo. Why do you think the contestants always look nervous?”
Chapter three
“All beauty queen contestants are nervous,” I argued.
“Not like that,” Jenx said, indicating the trembling troupe on the Town Square stage.
I was about to protest that they were agitated because of Abra, but that wouldn’t help my case. Besides, Jenx had a point. I’d often wondered why girls competing for the Miss Blossom title seemed completely stressed out.
“I shouldn’t be telling you this, but the Trust requires them to sign a contract,” Jenx whispered.
“What kind of contract?"
Jenx scanned the crowd to make sure no one was observing our tête à tête.
“They have to provide a detailed financial disclosure: their family’s assets, debts and credit history."
“What for?”
“The Trust wants to make sure they’re not running for the title just to get access to the tiara.”
I squinted at the crown atop Miss Blossom’s red-blonde head.
“Why would anyone do that? It’s the ugliest crown I’ve ever seen. Old-fashioned and clunky. Plus, it’s green. I thought tiaras were supposed to shimmer.”
“Like rhinestones, you mean?"
I nodded.
“Here’s the thing,” Jenx confided. “Those emeralds are top quality. They were mined in Brazil more than a hundred and sixty years ago.”
“Big deal. They ain’t diamonds.”
“No, they’re worth a hell of a lot more.”
Before I could comment, a short man in a dark suit sidled up to me.
“Whitney Mattimoe?” he inquired.
“Whiskey,” I corrected him. “I don’t use my legal name.”
“You will in court,” he replied and handed me his business card. I didn’t have to read it, thanks to Jenx.
“Well, if it isn’t Attorney Kevin Sweeney,” she said.
“You handle the Schuyler Trust?” I gulped.
He looked startled. “As a matter of fact I do.”
“So . . . you’re planning to sue my ass?”
“Actually, I was going to refer some business your way.”
I glanced at Jenx in total confusion. Was I in trouble for Abra’s antics or not?
“Kevin,” I said, “did you witness the fracas with the tiara?"
To my astonishment, the stiff little man laughed.
“That was your dog, wasn’t it? I’ve heard about her. A canine criminal.”
“Not this time! She brought it right back. She’s rehabilitated, mostly. Ask Jenx." When I saw the dubious expression on the chief’s face, I hoped he wouldn’t. “Am I in trouble?"
Attorney Sweeney waved a small, well-manicured hand. “I don’t think so. In fact, this little ‘incident’ may have done us some good.”
“How so?” Jenx interjected.
“Well, first of all, the crowd saw how quickly law enforcement responded. Including the Chief of Police—on her day off. Or so I assume . . . ." He eyed Jenx’s attire distastefully. “Second, the civilian response was awesome. Judge Verbelow and his dog deserve a public commendation. The message of the day is you can’t mess with the Miss Blossom tiara and get away with it.”
“Here, here!” I affirmed. “Now, about this business you’re sending my way—?”
“Ah, yes,” said Kevin Sweeney. “Perhaps you and I could discuss that another time.”
“Don’t mind me,” Jenx said. “I’m going back to my paintbrush.”
“Don’t you want to stick around and see who wins?” I asked.
“I’m not into skinny girls. Give me a broad with muscles any day." And she was gone.
I studied Kevin Sweeney. Barely thirty, he seemed young to be attorney of record for a historic trust. But what did I know? If he could help me make money, I’d forgive him for being a lawyer.
“Are you familiar with Winimar?” he asked.
The name didn’t resonate. “Is that a town?” I said.
“It’s big enough to be. But, no, it’s a country estate. A few miles from here.”
I frowned. Having lived here all my life and worked six years in local real estate, I knew the territory. Yet I’d never heard of Winimar. Sweeney seemed relieved that I hadn’t.
“The family has kept it private—since the mid-1800s,” he said.
“How is that possible?”
“It’s very secluded. Trust me, you have to work to find it. All eighty acres. And therein lies the problem. Well, part of it.”
I waited. Attorney Sweeney cleared his throat. “It’s the old Schuyler estate. And, well, legend has it that the place is . . . cursed."
“Cursed? As in jinxed?”
He nodded uneasily.
I didn’t know whether to make a joke or make a break for it. So I asked a question. “Why would you think it’s cursed?”
“Personally, I don’t have an opinion,” he said quickly. “I’m just the administrator. But it’s only fair to tell you that some people believe it is. Some people have written about it.”
“Who? When?"
Sweeney lowered his voice. “The first book about Winimar appeared around the turn of the twentieth century. The second was written in the 1970s. Both authors were what you might call ‘spiritualists.’”
“Are the books still in print?” I asked.
“Fortunately, no. But copies do exist. And rumor has it that another book is in the works.”
“What are the books about?”
Attorney Sweeney’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down.
“Things that happened there. Or allegedly happened there.”
“Well, which is it?” I demanded.
“History provides proof of some events, but only anecdotal evidence of others.”
I waited.
“What we do know, Whitney, is that no one has lived at Winimar for over a hundred and thirty years."
“Why not?”
He looked toward the stage, where Peg Goh was preparing to restart the competition.
“Do you know the story of the first Miss Blossom?”
“Besides the fact that her mom made her wear that ugly crown?”
“Winimar is named for her. Her real name was Winifred, but her mother called her Mar. For her middle name, Margaret.”
“Mar is much better.”
Sweeney wasn’t interested in my opinion. “Mrs. Schuyler was widowed when Mar was young. From 1840 through 1845, she used most of her inheritance to build Winimar, a utopian estate dedicated to her beautiful daughter. All went well until July 1848, when Mar Schuyler was found dead in her bedroom, her throat slit. That was three months after she ended her reign as the first Miss Blossom.”
