Whiskey and Tonic, page 9
“Hold on,” I told Jenx.
Leaning close but not touching, I read aloud the words finely etched in the darkened gold:
In loving memory of Winifred Margaret Schuyler
1829-1848
Then Faye found the initials WMS inscribed on one acorn cap in each earring.
“The jewelry’s got to be what we think it is!” I exclaimed into the phone. “You’ll need an expert to analyze the note. Maybe he can figure out who added the postscript.”
“And all the fingerprints. How many are yours?" Jenx sounded weary. “I don’t suppose you thought about putting on surgical gloves before you and Faye groped everything? Even though you were in a hospital…."
“Sorry,” I said, wincing. “If Chester had been here, he would have stopped me."
“That’s because Chester’s a good volunteer deputy,” Jenx said.
She instructed me to drop the package off at the station before driving to Vestige. “I want to reassess the threat to Faye. This is an alarming development.”
Sparing Miss Blossom that verdict, I said instead that Jenx collected Victorian jewelry and couldn’t wait to see Faye’s. I don’t think she bought it.
Faye stayed in the car while I dashed into the police station. Brady was on duty. Or at least on the computer.
“Where’s Jenx?” I said.
“In a meeting. She told me to help you."
I surveyed the area around Brady’s desk. “Where’s Officer Roscoe?”
“Taking a mental health day. Abra’s recidivism depressed him.”
I was sorry to hear that. Peering over Brady’s shoulder at his monitor, I asked what he was doing.
“More online research into Winimar. Trying to find out who’s writing the book in progress. If there is a book in progress. Noonan gave me website addresses for a couple New Age bulletin boards devoted to legendary cursed properties."
He tore himself away from the screen long enough to don plastic gloves and scrutinize what I had brought. First I showed him the note from Mrs. Schuyler and the Sharpie person.
“You’re in grad school,” I said, pointing to a phrase on the page. “What does that mean?”
“Memento mori? Literally it means ‘remember to die’—or ‘remember that you must die.’ During the Victorian era, it was the name given to personal ornaments worn as reminders that death was ever near."
“Remember-to-Die Jewelry." I shuddered. “As if weaving a murdered girl’s curls into acorns wasn’t ghoulish enough.”
I showed Brady the hair jewelry. Followed by Abra’s hair.
“There’s a connection,” he mused.
“Sure. Whoever sent this has Abra.”
Brady frowned. “There’s more to it. Faye can expect a second package."
“Officer, step back from the New Age research! It’s making you think you’re psychic."
“I know I’m not psychic. Just good at discerning patterns." He raised his left hand, which held the bracelet and earrings. “Hair jewelry." Then his right hand, which contained Abra’s strand. “Hair of the missing dog that stole jewelry." He gazed at me gravely. “Think about it.”
“Do I have to?"
“Somebody’s playing major head games, Whiskey. Are you sure you want to get involved with Winimar? Living with one curse at a time isn’t enough for you?"
“Ask me again on Wednesday." I considered the hideous antique ornaments. “Doesn’t Rico Anuncio feature heirloom jewelry in one section of his gallery?”
“Sometimes. Why?”
“You think it was just a coincidence that he returned from his around-the-world cruise in time to judge Miss Blossom—and suddenly the tiara goes missing? And then this stuff shows up?”
“Be logical, Whiskey. How could Rico have trained Abra to steal the crown? He’s been away!"
“He could have hired someone!”
“But what’s in it for Rico?” Brady insisted.
“Money. He has contacts in the antique jewelry business. He could find a buyer for the tiara.”
Brady was not impressed. “You need to focus on protecting Faye. Where is she?"
“In the car.”
“Alone?!" Officer Swancott gave me a look usually reserved for negligent parents.
“Uh—”
Before I could form a single word, a car horn roared as if someone were leaning against it. Make that my car horn. Brady crossed to the front door in two strides; I was right behind him.
For some reason, Faye Raffle had moved into the driver’s seat. She was now slumped against my steering wheel, apparently unconscious. It looked bad, especially since whatever had gone wrong happened on my watch.
But I knew she couldn’t be dead. It was only Sunday: Miss Blossom had three more days to live.
Chapter fifteen
Brady reached Faye first. I was almost as fast, but since he was the life-saving professional, I let him win. The car windows were down, this being an unseasonably warm April day. So Brady was able to reach right in and check Faye’s pulse. I held my breath. Okay, I’ll be honest: I closed my eyes, too. And I didn’t reopen them until I heard Faye sobbing.
“She’s okay! She’s okay!” I cheered, ignoring the clash of my extreme relief against her tearful unhappiness. Bawling had to be better than dying. Much better.
Brady asked her to tell him what had happened, but she couldn’t stop crying long enough to talk. Finally, Faye wailed, “It’s the curse!”
“Which curse?” I asked. “The one on Winimar, former Miss Blossoms, or you?"
“Me!" Faye indicated the side of her head just above and behind her left ear. Her symmetrical hairstyle was history. A wide swath of hair was . . . missing. Cut off at a jagged angle.
“How did that happen?"
“I don’t know! I moved to the driver’s seat so I could lay my head on the steering wheel. I think I dozed off. One minute I was waiting for you, and the next I felt a painful yank on my hair. When I opened my eyes, somebody spritzed me in the face.”
“With what?” I said. “Mace? Pepper spray?”
“Aqua Net. Can’t you smell it?"
She was right. The pungent scent of Aqua Net Extra Superhold lingered in the air.
“Did you see anyone?” said Brady.
“No,” Faye said, rubbing her eyes. “Thanks to the Aqua Net.”
“How about a voice? Or footsteps? Did you hear anyone?”
Faye shook her head.
“Do you think it was a man or a woman? Or more than one person?”
Faye hesitated. “At first, I thought it was a guy because the whole thing was so fast and rough. But now I’m not sure. . . .”
“Why not?”
“How many guys know the power of Aqua Net?"
“I do,” Brady volunteered.
“You went to art school,” I pointed out. “You did découpage.”
He conceded that Faye’s assailant was most likely either a female or a gay male with hair issues.
“It was probably Tammi LePadanni,” Faye said darkly. “Or her evil daughter."
Just then the station door opened to reveal Jenx and Dr. Emmanuel Crouch, Lanagan County coroner. Either they’d heard the horn blast and come to investigate, or they were on their way out.
Brady asked Faye if her eyes were still burning. When she said yes and added that she could hardly see, he called out to Crouch: “Doctor, could you give us a hand here?”
The coroner said, “Is the patient alive?”
“Yessir. Very much so.”
“Then I’m afraid I can’t help."
“But sir—she has an eye injury!”
Crouch peered distastefully at Faye from the safety of the station’s top step. “If she stops breathing, give me a call."
He extended his right hand to Jenx, pumped hers once, and then used an alcohol wipe to clean his affected palm. As he turned away, Jenx spat at his bald pate. Crouch swabbed that, also, and checked the clear sky above for signs of rain.
I waited until he had lowered his ample gray-suited self into his white Cadillac and driven sedately away. Then I shouted to Jenx, “What was he doing here?”
She glanced meaningfully at Faye, who was still rubbing her eyes. “We had a little business to conclude. . . ."
Then I remembered that Faye didn’t yet know Crystal had died. Clearly Jenx wanted a better way to tell her.
Brady said, “Chief, do we have an eye irrigation kit?”
Jenx said she’d go look as Brady and I led a vision-impaired Miss Blossom into the station. When the chief failed to reappear, I went off to find her. She was in the kitchen, throwing teabags against the wall. Boxes of teabags. When she started hurling coffee cans, I intervened.
“That’s enough! You’re going to rattle the magnetic fields!"
With a considerable effort, Jenx stopped herself. Panting hard, she said, “Ghoul Man makes me crazy.”
“I know, I know. Crouch can’t stand lesbians."
“It’s not that he can’t stand us. It’s that he has to pray for us!"
I murmured something I hoped sounded comforting and started picking up her mess.
“What’s even worse is Crouch won’t cooperate on the investigation into Crystal’s death,” Jenx added.
“But he has to, doesn’t he? I mean, he’s the coroner."
“There’s a wrinkle. She died on the county line. Neither coroner wants the case. So the state police are sorting things out."
“I don’t see how that’s your problem,” I said.
“It means I’m out of the loop! And I can’t be out of the loop when I’m in the curse! I need access to facts! Hell, I need access to Abra and that blasted butt-ugly crown! How else am I going to save Faye?"
“Are you sure they’re connected?”
Jenx sighed heavily. “A curse is a curse, and it spawns more curses.”
“Who said so?”
“Noonan. And she knows weird shit."
We never found the eye irrigation kit. Brady and Faye made do with a Dixie cup and some warm tap water. Ten minutes later, though still red-eyed, Miss Blossom was able to see.
Then came the hard part. As gently as possible, Jenx broke the awful news about Crystal. Faye wept quietly. She asked a few questions, most of which Jenx couldn’t answer. Finally, Faye blotted her eyes, blew her nose, and thanked the chief for her time and her tact.
To me, she announced, “I’m ready for Vestige.”
No doubt about it: our reigning beauty queen had exceptional poise. I told her so once we were in my car.
“Thank you,” she said. “But I like to think I have gravity. It keeps me grounded."
I doubted that she had ever been grounded—in the punitive sense. What was it like to parent a kid as fine as Faye? She was almost too good. The kind of girl teachers adore and other students resent: pretty, smart, responsible, graceful, polite.
Then it hit me: Faye was the Anti-Avery.
Curse or no curse, that couldn’t be a bad thing. Having Faye around Vestige just might be my lucky charm.
An ambulance stood in my driveway. That was slightly less alarming than it sounds. The flasher wasn’t churning, and I knew the owner, David Newquist, DVM.
Painted white with bright yellow stripes, the reconditioned ambulance proclaimed
ANIMALS ARE PEOPLE TOO.
WE SAVE ANIMALS.
Along with his girlfriend, the Coast Guard nanny, the vet believed that animals deserved as many individual rights as humans. I didn’t like that theory even though I was pretty sure Abra already had a higher standard of living than I did.
But why was Dr. David here now? To deliver Abra? If so, where had he found her? And, flasher or no flasher, why did she need the Animal Ambulance?
In a single continuous motion, I turned off my car and leapt out of it.
“Hewwoh, Whiskey!"
I couldn’t see where the voice came from, but I recognized it.
Dr. David emerged from the rear of his vehicle, a large squirming cat under each arm. Meows and howls filled the air.
“Deewee and I want to thank you foe the new wescue,” he announced. Translation: Deely and I want to thank you for the new rescue. At least I thought that was what he said. Dr. David, though an expert at animal talk, had major pronunciation problems.
“What new rescue?” I said, hoping my translation was bad. The vet jerked his head toward the inside of the ambulance, where the yowling intensified.
“Gwab a cuppa cats and fowow me!" When he noticed Faye, he added, “You, too."
Chapter sixteen
“Uh, David—where are we going with all these cats?”
I was hoping against hope that this wasn’t remotely what it looked like.
The more I listened to Dr. David, the clearer he sounded even though I didn’t want to believe what he said: “To the temporary shelter. Around the back. Grab some cats. These guys are hard to hold!”
“But—I don’t even like cats,” I began. “And you’re telling me there’s a cat shelter behind my house?"
“Not behind it. Inside it. We’re taking them in through the back door."
“Wait! I never said you could do this!"
“You must have. Deely brought the paperwork to our last Fleggers meeting, and we approved the motion."
While I argued, Miss Blossom was following the vet’s orders. Faye had climbed in to the animal ambulance and was confidently extracting two black-and-white cats from the large cage.
“Here, Whiskey,” she said, folding my arms around the writhing creatures.
“I can’t hold on to them!” I cried in dismay, as one clawed his way toward my shoulder.
“Act like their boss, and everything will be fine,” Faye said. After expertly detaching the cat from my flesh, she replaced him in the crook of my arm.
“She’s right,” Dr. David declared. “Follow me."
If herding cats is impossible, holding them isn’t much easier. As I followed Dr. David around the side of my house, I had to stop every few yards to renew my grip on the squealing felines, one of whom decided to anchor his needle-sharp talons in my armpit. I could feel my own blood staining my camisole.
To my further surprise, my back door stood wide open, propped in place by Prince Harry’s crate.
I shouted angrily to Dr. David, who was yards ahead of me. “You have a key to my house and the code to my alarm system?” The last part was pure bluster. Everyone in town knew I rarely used my alarm system.
“Deely let me in,” he called back. “You gave your permission in the document you signed."
“What document?" Never in my right mind would I invite a single cat into my already dog-infested home, let alone an ambulance full of them.
“Right this way,” Dr. David directed me. He had already crossed my kitchen and was headed toward the stairway leading to the second floor.
“Oh, no!” I bellowed. “I sleep up there! And I don’t sleep with animals, least of all cats!"
“They won’t be in your room, Whiskey. Deely has secured the area.”
Incredulous, I pounded up the stairs after him, my head aching with anger. Or maybe the pain came from the second cat, who had sunk his claws into my scalp. In any case, I was spitting mad by the time I reached the second floor and took in Deely’s Grand Plan.
Dr. David deftly dropped his two cats over a chest-high barrier installed in the doorway to the twins’ room. Then he detached mine and deposited them in the same location.
I wanted to shout that he couldn’t do this because the twins slept here. But I had already grasped a key fact: Sometime between my leaving the house that morning and my returning to it now, in late afternoon, Avery had removed all the twins’ furniture and other possessions. Probably with a little help from Nash Grant and the Coast Guard nanny. The room was bare, save several multi-level carpet-covered cat climbing installations, about a dozen litter boxes, and as many food and water dispensers. Plus a few dozen mewing cats.
“Here,” Dr. David said, unfolding an ominously familiar piece of paper with my signature at the bottom.
The fateful document was one that Deely had asked me to sign a few months earlier, when I was feeling very grateful. I’m a sucker for charities, particularly those that don’t seem to ask me for much. I assumed Deely knew I wasn’t an animal person. So what could she expect from me?
The paper in question was a Statement of Intention to Assist, prepared by Four Legs Good (a.k.a. Fleggers), or—to be specific—by their lawyers. Basically, it said that the undersigned would, when space became available, be willing to house, on a short-term basis, a limited number of homeless animals. Unfortunately for me, the phrases “short-term,” “limited number,” and “animals” were undefined. I returned the paper to the vet.
“Now that Avery has moved the twins to Nash Grant’s house, Deely decided that the necessary space had become available,” Dr. David explained. “Spring is a good time to round up homeless cats for spaying and neutering. We’re making Vestige our Sterilization Center."
“You can’t perform surgeries here!” I cried.
Dr. David looked offended. “Of course not! Your home is hardly a sterile environment. The cats will be here before surgery and during recovery. Then we’ll do our best to place them in foster homes." His bright turquoise eyes darted around my second-floor hallway.
“Don’t even go there,” I said quickly. “This room is the absolute limit. No expansion. No fostering. Just bring them in, snip off whatever you have to, and ship them out again. Fast.”
He nodded distractedly; I could tell that he was still sizing up my upstairs.
“Wait a minute,” I said as a new horror dawned. “Until they’re ‘fixed,’ how do I keep the males and females from . . . uh . . . commingling?”
“You’ll cage the males,” Dr. David said. “In fact, you’ll want to do that immediately.”
“Are they marked?”
“What do you mean?”
“Don’t tell me I have to grab each cat and check between its legs for the gender!”
“Deely will help with that part. I’ll get her over here ASAP.”
