Whiskey and Tonic, page 3
“Did they arrest somebody?”
“Yes. One of the men who built the place. He was convicted and hanged in 1849. One year later, Mrs. Slocum Schuyler died exactly the same way.”
“Her throat was slit?”
“Yes."
“And then the house was abandoned,” I surmised.
“Temporarily. It remained unoccupied until Mrs. Schuyler’s grand-nephew took up residence there in 1872.”
“What happened to him?" The question filled me with dread.
“Nothing happened to him.”
I let out a small sigh.
“But in 1875, his wife’s throat was slit. No one has lived there since.”
“Understandably.”
Sweeney said, “There have been squatters, however.”
“Don’t tell me—”
“We can’t authenticate those stories. But both books about Winimar include accounts of trespassing hunters finding unidentified skeletons or corpses on the property. Male and female. Some with their skulls crushed. Frankly, the place is a boneyard.”
“A jinxed boneyard. You want me to sell it, don’t you?"
Sweeney nodded. “The Trust is willing to pay triple the standard commission. And I’m authorized to insure your life for up to one million dollars through the duration of our contract."
“I don’t need more life insurance,” I said, sounding bold beyond belief. “Make it quadruple the commission and you’ve got yourself a deal."
“Done,” said Sweeney, extending his right hand.
What the hell. I was feeling lucky today. Abra and I had drawn a get-out-of-jail-free card.
Chapter four
Attorney Kevin Sweeney said he’d fax me the paperwork from his office in Grand Rapids on Monday. Peg Goh was tapping her microphone, about to restart the Miss Blossom competition.
I had one more question for Sweeney before the fun began: “If there have been at least three murders there, how come nobody in Magnet Springs knows about Winimar?”
My newest client blinked. “Who said nobody knows about it?”
“I didn’t know about it. And I’ve lived here all my life.”
“Then you understand what makes a resort community run,” Sweeney said.
“The scenery?” I guessed.
“The secrecy,” he replied.
“You’re right. Nobody who runs a business in this town would want to talk about a thing like that.”
“Nobody can talk about it. Sign here.”
From his breast pocket, Sweeney withdrew a pen and a folded contract. With my name on it.
“What the hell is this?” I said.
“Gag order. Standard stuff." He held out the pen, which I couldn’t help noticing was a Montblanc. I looked again at his charcoal gray suit. European cut. Sweeney seemed extremely successful for such a young lawyer. From my standpoint that could be either good or . . . very, very bad.
“I don’t sign anything my attorney hasn’t seen first,” I said. That was a lie. I signed contracts every day without calling my lawyer. But most were boilerplates. This would be my first-ever gag order. And my first cursed property. I could probably use a little legal back-up. Bluffing, I said, “Maybe Judge Verbelow should look this over.”
Attorney Sweeney said, “Whatever makes you feel comfortable.”
Hmm. If he was so sure the local jurist would approve, I was probably safe. I scanned the short document. Basically it banned me, the undersigned, from divulging anything I knew or thought I knew related to the history of Winimar.
“What about the full disclosure required by law when selling real estate?” I asked Sweeney.
“Of course, we’ll fully disclose the known condition of the property,” he said. “This is to prevent fear-mongering and negative publicity. It’s in our mutual interest to get the best price possible, isn’t it, Whitney?”
I penned my signature with his Montblanc as Peg Goh introduced the three Miss Blossom finalists. All were eighteen years old, which was part of the tradition. One, Faye Raffle, worked for me. Another, Brandi LePadanni, had a mother who worked for me. The third was no one I knew or cared about. She wasn’t especially good-looking, either. Sure to be second-runner-up.
But I couldn’t predict the winner. Faye had classic girl-next-door beauty: sleek brown hair sweetly styled to frame her face, luminous skin, big green eyes, and a thousand-watt smile. In a straight-off-the-rack pink satin gown, she looked like the prettiest of bridesmaids. Brandi, on the other hand, was gorgeous verging on exotic. Voluptuous without being fleshy, her curvy figure filled out every fiber of her strapless snow-white gown. The contrast against her olive skin was stunning. Brandi wore her mane of blue-black hair in a daring upsweep. She smiled alluringly at the assembled crowd, her lush ruby lips gleaming. My eyes moved back to Faye: Prom Queen versus Miss Universe. If this were only about beauty, Brandi would win. But if Odette was right and Brandi couldn’t talk, then Faye had an excellent shot. Captain of the Magnet Springs High School Debate Team, my office intern was a whiz with words.
Reading from index cards, Peg Goh addressed the girls on the stage:
“Contestants, as acting mayor of Magnet Springs, Michigan, I am proud to recognize your achievements today. Even though only one of you will be chosen to wear the Miss Blossom crown, all of you are winners in the eyes of your fellow citizens.”
“What a crock! Two of them will be branded as losers forever."
Odette had joined me. Lest I missed her point, she made an L with the thumb and index finger of her right hand and pressed it to her forehead.
Peg Goh kept reading from her cards. “Whether or not you win, this experience will leave you with greater maturity, compassion, poise and pride—and probably a new hairstyle. Thus, you are a winner regardless of whether or not we crown you Miss Blossom.”
Assuming she had finished, the crowd automatically applauded. But Peg had more cards to read. “Remember that life is a continuous competition. Learn to accept defeat with grace and success with humility. And always, always bear in mind that your greatest competitor is yourself. Wearing the crown is not nearly as important as how you make it shine. Being a gracious winner can be more difficult than being a gracious loser—or, as we prefer to say, non-winner. And now, let the judging begin.”
Again, there was applause, but it died as soon as Peg flipped to the next card. She read, “I have already introduced our judges, who have prepared one question for each contestant. Ladies, when I call your name, please step forward, listen closely and prepare to give your answer. After I hand you the microphone, you will have thirty seconds to reply.”
Peg cleared her throat.
“Emma Kish—here is your question.”
The girl I had pegged to finish third moved to the edge of the stage. A bony, sharp-featured blonde in blue taffeta, she listened intently as Peg spoke: “If you were to become the next Miss Blossom, how would you make sure that your friends did not feel inferior?"
Emma’s dress rustled as she reached for the microphone. In a shockingly flat voice, she said, “First of all, my friends have a lot more money and stuff than I do, so there’s no way they would care if I won Miss Blossom. I mean, they’re not even here, so I think that proves they wouldn’t care if I won or not. There’s just not that much cash involved. It’s not like winning is really going to change my life or anything. So I’m sure it’s not going to change my friends."
Polite applause as the blonde handed the microphone back to Peg.
“Thank you, Emma. And now, Brandolina LePadanni, here is your question."
The vision in white tossed her head and swept to the lip of the stage as the Town Square crowd roared. Brandi might as well have been Catherine Zeta Jones for her effect on the audience. She waved and nodded, more intent on building her fan base than attending to Peg’s question:
“The marks of Miss Blossom are good manners, good taste, good sportsmanship, and good hair. Please name four other qualities that you would bring to the role.”
Brandi was still waving to her audience when the question ended, so there was a moment of dead air as Peg held out the mike. When Brandi finally took it, she cradled the microphone like a spray of roses.
“Four other qualities?” she asked.
Peg nodded.
“That I would bring? To the role? Of Miss Blossom?"
Next to me, Odette stifled a snicker. Brandi’s dark eyes searched the blue sky above. Her fans held their collective breath. Finally, in a clear voice, Brandi queried, “Good shoes? Good dancer? Good manicures? And . . . good teeth?”
No one applauded immediately, possibly because they thought someone might answer Brandi. When Peg thanked her, the crowd took that as their cue to clap.
“And now, Faye Raffle, here is your question.”
Our office intern stepped confidently downstage, beaming her bright smile out over the audience.
Peg said, “Sometimes it’s difficult to distinguish in others the difference between tears of laughter and tears of sorrow. How do you tell the difference, and what do you do about it?”
Faye took the microphone with the grace and confidence of a TV anchorperson. In a well-modulated voice, she replied, “Both are contagious, but tears of joy are more so. Tears of sorrow make me want to offer tissues rather than cry along. When someone is in emotional distress, they need something to cry into more than they need someone to cry along with. I try to be there for both kinds of criers, offering whatever they need. That’s why I always carry extra Kleenex."
Applause filled Town Square and reverberated from the surrounding buildings. At six-foot-one, I could easily scan the crowd. Our girl was the people’s choice. Now we’d find out if she was also the judges’.
Chapter five
The Miss Blossom contest judges adjourned to deliberate.
Odette said, “Uh-oh. Here comes Tammi, and she’s not happy.”
I looked where Odette was looking until I spied our part-time agent, mother of the world’s most inarticulate beauty. Tammi was striding straight toward us, her eyes fixed on me.
“Whiskey!” she called out. “What’s this I hear about Mattimoe Realty betting against my daughter?”
“I’m the wrong person to ask about that,” I replied truthfully. “I never read the office bulletin board.”
Tammi glared at Odette. “You. I heard you started it.”
Odette offered her trademark shrug, the lightning quick rise and fall of her narrow shoulders that meant “Who gives a shit?”
“Is that all you can say for yourself?” Tammi demanded.
“Better prepare your daughter to be a non-winner,” Odette advised. “My money’s on Faye, and I’m phenomenally lucky at games of chance."
Tammi clenched her fists, sputtering so incoherently that I understood the source of Brandi’s disability. Then she stalked off, no doubt in search of other traitorous Mattimoe Realty employees.
“For Faye’s sake, you should hope she doesn’t win."
I spun around to face Attorney Sweeney, who was apparently small enough to slip under my radar.
“Who are you?” Odette said.
Introducing them, I found myself itching to say the word Winimar. But I resisted, identifying Kevin Sweeney only as administrator of the Schuyler Trust.
“You’re here to oversee the Miss Blossom competition?” asked Odette.
“Yes, mainly,” Sweeney said. “That’s why I made that remark about hoping your young friend Faye’s a non-winner.”
Then he blushed clear down to the roots of his curly hair, and I concluded that he had come perilously close to violating his own gag order.
Odette was staring at Sweeney in that crazed-stalker way of hers. “Faye will win. How can we protect her?"
His eyes shifted to the retreating form of Tammi LePadanni. “Whatever you do, keep that one away from her.”
“Tammi?” I echoed. “Oh, she’s a bitch, but she’ll get over it.”
Sweeney shook his head ominously. “This much I can tell you: If there’s one element we don’t need in this competition, it’s an overzealous mother. Now if you’ll excuse me—."
“You’re not going to watch the coronation?” I asked.
“Not from here. Looking forward to our meeting on Monday, Whitney.”
He shook my hand. I couldn’t help noticing that his palm was sweaty.
Odette and I watched the stiff little overdressed lawyer fade into the crowd. She said, “You let him call you Whitney?"
“From his mouth, it sounds like money."
She snorted. “It sounds like trouble. What did you agree to that you need to see a lawyer on Monday?”
Choosing my words cautiously, I said, “I’m going to sell a property that he administers."
“Not Winimar, I hope!”
I gaped. “You know about Winimar?”
“Everyone who sells real estate in west Michigan knows about Winimar.”
“I didn’t! I’d never heard of it!”
“That’s because Leo didn’t want you to know about it.”
“Why not?”
Odette raised a pencil-thin eyebrow. “Why do you think? He tried to spare you every unpleasantness so that you could focus on doing what you do best.”
“Which is what?" I genuinely wanted to know.
“Getting deals done. You’re a closer, Whiskey."
As opposed to an opener. Or a schmoozer. Odette didn’t have to say it because I knew it. Leo was the charming half of our duo. I was the “sign on the bottom line” half. Now that he was gone, I was trying to do it all. And not doing much of it well. Fortunately, I had Odette in the field and Tina in the office. Between the two of them, many of Leo’s responsibilities were covered.
“There will never be another Leo,” Odette sighed, as if reading my mind. She probably was reading my mind. Sometimes Odette manifested an alarming clairvoyance, particularly when screening prospects on the phone. I called it her telephone telepathy. I also called it creepy.
Peg Goh tapped on her microphone again. Instantly, the Town Square crowd hushed. We were about to witness a coronation. Peg read from a new index card.
“It is traditional, at this point in the ceremony, to pay tribute to the first Miss Blossom, Winifred Margaret Schuyler, and her mother, Mrs. Slocum Schuyler, without whom this pageant would not be what it is today.”
Peg signaled the reigning Miss Blossom to step forward. Warily the young woman scanned the crowd. Satisfied that Abra was no longer in the vicinity, she moved downstage.
“Without the generosity of the Schuylers,” Peg read from her card, “today’s Miss Blossom would not have the honor of wearing the historic Miss Blossom crown.”
Like a QVC spokesmodel, the current Miss Blossom pointed to her oversized green tiara. The crowd clapped because they were supposed to. Louder than the applause were numerous sarcastic comments about how ugly the thing was. Pretending not to hear them, Peg moved on to her next card.
“Before I announce the judges’ decision, let us take a moment to offer a silent tribute to all the Miss Blossoms who have gone before. May they rest in peace.”
Peg lowered her head as if in prayer, and everyone followed suit.
To Odette I whispered, “Rest in peace? She makes it sound like they all die!”
“Not all. The ones who move away often live to be quite old. That’s why we’ll have to get Faye out of here.”
Before I could comment, Peg said, “It gives me great pleasure to announce the judges’ decision for this, the one hundred and sixtieth Miss Blossom Contest." She cleared her throat. “The second runner-up is . . . Emma Kish.”
Since her friends weren’t here, and the winner’s pot was small, Emma obviously didn’t care how the pageant turned out. Yawning, she crossed to Peg and accepted her small bouquet of red roses. Then she retreated to the far edge of the stage, where she took out her cell phone.
Peg resumed speaking. “May I remind contestants and audience alike that first runner-up is a vital position. Should Miss Blossom, for whatever reason, be unable to fulfill her duties, the first runner-up will stand in for her. And now . . . the first runner-up is . . . ”
I noticed Tammi LePadanni standing in the first row of the audience, arms held high, all her fingers crossed.
“Brandolina LePadanni,” Peg announced.
The crowd went crazy—whistling, clapping and hooting. I assumed that most of that noise was a tribute to the as-yet-unannounced winner rather than the first runner-up. Faye must have had a lot of school friends present. Plus, Mattimoe Realty employees know how to make noise. The sway of the masses momentarily blocked my view of the stage. When people settled, and my sightline cleared, Tammi was no longer in position. I couldn’t see her anywhere.
The sneer on Brandi LePadanni’s face suggested that she was not a gracious non-winner. The slant of her head and the swish of her walk confirmed it. Crossing the stage, Brandi managed to collide with stationary Faye. The bump, which knocked Faye off base by six inches, looked suspiciously like a ram. Brandi did not apologize. She haughtily accepted a mid-sized rose bouquet from our acting mayor and then curtsied deeply to the audience. Given the tightness of her gown, I was amazed that the seams held.
“Bravo, bravissimo, Brandolina!” Tammi cheered.
Yes, the stage mother from hell had reappeared. Now standing next to Peg on the platform, she was operating a camcorder at close range. Peg whispered for Tammi to please leave, her request unintentionally broadcast via microphone to the entire assembly. Ignoring Peg, the mother of the first runner-up circled her daughter and then slowly crossed the stage, camera running. Waving her bouquet, Brandi curtsied two more times for the videographer’s benefit. “You’re the real winner, baby!” Tammi shouted as she finally exited.
Though completely justified, Peg’s vexed expression startled those of us who knew her best as proprietor of the Goh Cup, Main Street’s humming coffee and lunch shop. In her late fifties, Peg was a naturally genial, maternal type. Nothing ruffled her. Yet Tammi LePadanni just had.
