Read Whiskey on the Rocks Online
Authors: Nina Wright
Tags: #Mystery & Detective, #Women real estate agents, #Michigan, #General, #Mattimoe; Whiskey (Fictitious character), #Mystery fiction, #Women Sleuths, #Fiction
Whiskey on the Rocks (22 page)
“I’m a real estate professional! I notice things!”
Jenx shrugged.
I said, “You’re thinking Avery shattered my patio door just to get this photo of her father? Why would she pull a stunt like that when she’s pregnant?”
“Avery didn’t break in. But she was right behind whoever did, probably some guy. Neither of them knew Mooney was here. When the guy saw the dog, he freaked and ran. In her present condition, Avery couldn’t.” Jenx unclipped a magnum flashlight from her hip. “Let’s take a look outside. I’ll bet we find two sets of footprints coming and one set running away.”
We did. To my untrained eye, both sets looked like boot prints. The ones running away were smaller.
“I don’t get why Avery thought she had to break in. I’d open the door for her anytime. Well, anytime I had to.”
“Like I said, Avery went along with somebody. Somebody with a bigger agenda.”
“Like a missing finger? Like a Cloud Ring?”
“Let’s see if Avery can tell us.”
I wasn’t sure I wanted to talk with my hostile pregnant stepdaughter so soon after her bungled burglary. But going back to bed wasn’t an option. Mooney and Chester were awake and chasing each other through the house. The two deputies sat in my kitchen drinking what was left of the coffee and brainstorming excuses to interview Cassina. When I said I was leaving, they fell all over themselves with promises to escort Chester home.
At Coastal Medical Center, Avery was still in the ER. Jenx went to inquire about her condition while I sat in the waiting room watching early-morning TV with a handful of other miserable souls. Maybe it was the fluorescent lighting; maybe it was the ungodly hour. I couldn’t tell those waiting for family from those waiting for a doctor. Everybody looked sick.
“She won’t see you,” Jenx announced. “She says you’re not family.”
“Except when we’re discussing money. Will she see you?”
“After she lawyers up. We’ve got to get her a public defender. Unless you want to hire somebody.”
I stuck my tongue out.
Jenx said, “She already made her one phone call—to Guess Who?”
“Her mother.” My voice was flat with fatigue. “Can’t wait to see Georgia’s new boobs and tattoos.”
“Nope. Avery called Antiques Boy in Angola. He’s on his way.”
I was suddenly wide awake. “She phoned Darrin Keogh?”
Jenx said, “Or should I call him Afghan-Breeder Boy? You know—the guy you were sure was a perv . . . till he bought you a beer and showed you his doggies.”
My face got hot. “Darrin Keogh is nice. He even likes Avery. Wait till you meet him!”
Jenx ignored me. “We’re taking Avery to the station as soon as she’s released. She and the babies checked out fine. Did you know she’s due this month? The OB-GYN says she could deliver any day now.”
That news left me unable to do anything but go to work. When I opened the front door of Mattimoe Realty, Odette was already in her cubicle—on her third cup of coffee and her fourth phone call. Or so she whispered as I walked by. I’m in awe of her ability to pitch real estate before sunrise.
I was pouring a cup of coffee when she announced, “Our Featured Home seller accepted Rico’s offer!”
“Congratulations,” I said. “Now will he stop trying to ruin us?”
“One would expect so. If the sale goes through.”
“Will it?”
Odette’s thin shoulders rose and fell. “The seller is a tad leery of Rico’s financing, and so am I. But he’s making a $30,000 deposit. He says he has sixty percent in available funds; the other forty will come from a private lender.”
“Undisclosed?”
“He implies that it’s a close friend. Who knew he had any?”
“Is there a back-up offer?”
“Yes—but also with questionable financing. One of those super-rich, super-young couples you saw at the Open House. They’re already over-leveraged. And their bid’s ten percent below the asking price.”
“What’s Rico’s?”
“Five percent below.”
If I recalled correctly, the heiress who owned the mini-castle with wine cellar was asking one-point-two million, a fair price in the current market. Rico Anuncio had sixty percent of five percent less than that? I started tapping on my calculator.
“How could Rico have $684,000 on hand?”
“He says business is good.”
“He runs an art gallery!”
“Well, he did host Cloud Man,” Odette reminded me.
Rico had bragged about owning a Cumulus. Maybe Brady could estimate its worth.
Odette had other hopeful news to report. One of her pre-breakfast phone chats had been with Carol Felkey, who wanted to sell her home in Shadow Point.
“Since the murders, Carol says it’s like living in Hell’s Theme Park. The subdivision is clogged with gawkers. Total strangers ring their doorbell every day asking for gruesome details.”
“I’ll be delighted to list their home,” I said. “But I dread dealing with ghouls.”
Odette cocked her head, a strange light in her eyes. “I embrace the Ghoul Factor and make it work for me.”
“Great. Then you can sit down with Carol and Ed.”
“And with the Schlegels,” she said. “They’re a Christian couple who can’t bear living two doors down from Satan’s handiwork. One possible glitch, though: Both the Felkeys and the Schlegels know you managed Murder House.”
“You mean Shadow Play—”
“So they’re understandably nervous about letting you near their properties.”
“They think I’m jinxed?!”
“They’ve also heard about the pending lawsuits.”
“There are no pending lawsuits! That I know of. Just some stupid written complaints stirred up by that wacko Rico.”
I was so angry I was spitting. Odette stepped discreetly from the line of spray.
“My point is that I’ll handle it,” she said and slipped away.
Around nine I decided to grab a latte and muffin at the Goh Cup. Brady and Officer Roscoe were coming down the sidewalk as I approached. I did a double take. Maybe it was the bright autumn sunshine, but Roscoe’s coat had a pale golden sheen I’d never seen before. And Brady was sporting a spiky new hairstyle.
“You look great,” I said. “Both of you.”
“Thanks. Turns out the Coastal Canine Salon has specials for cop dogs, so Roscoe got a Swedish-Citrus conditioning rinse on the house. Makes him look younger, don’t you think?”
“Blonder, for sure. What about you? Do they have specials for cop guys, too?”
He blushed. “Nah. Once I saw how good Roscoe looked, I told Bob the Barber to give me the works.”
“Hey—I’ve got a grad-school art question for you: The other day you said Matheney’s paintings are soaring in value.”
“Yup. There was something about that in USA Today.”
“An article on Cloud Man?”
“It was about what’s hot in art—which contemporary artists command the biggest bucks. Matheney’s near the top of the list. He was hot when he was alive, but he’s a lot hotter dead.”
I asked Brady to estimate what a Cumulus might be worth now.
“USA Today says they’re going up. The best ones could sell now for a few hundred thou. Maybe more. Depends on what you got and when you sell it.”
“And who you sell it to. Right? I mean, you’d have to find the right buyer.”
“They’re out there. And here’s another thing.” Brady surveyed the street. I noticed that Officer Roscoe did the same. “If the news ever gets out about Cloud Man’s finger—.”
“What?” I leaned closer.
“Well, think about Van Gogh’s ear. . . .”
“Van Gogh cut off his own ear. You don’t think Matheney . . . ?”
“No way! But sordid stories sell art.”
And real estate. Odette was right about the neighborhood surrounding Murder House. I mean, Shadow Play. Someone out there would buy proximity to grisly history.
“Okay, Brady. You’re saying anyone who owns a Cumulus could be confident of selling it for a huge profit? Finger or no finger?”
“For a fortune.”
“Do you think the finger will ever make the news?”
“That’s not up to us, Whiskey.”
Officers Swancott and Roscoe regarded me sharply. Brady said, “Somebody, somewhere has Matheney’s Cloud Ring, and it’s priceless. If or when that thing surfaces, the art market will have convulsions.”
Back at the office, I called Walter St. Mary to check on his recovery from the attack on my deck. His housekeeper informed me that he had already returned to work. Sure enough, he answered the phone when I dialed Mother Tucker’s.
“Do you forgive me?”
“Unless you hired the glider guy with the gun.”
And that set me to thinking. I called Wells Verbelow to thank him for lending me Mooney. He already knew about the previous night’s trauma, so I was spared more talk about Avery, at least for awhile. Wells offered to bring me dinner—and Abra—at around eight. I wanted to accept the dinner and decline the dog, but that didn’t seem sociable.
“Wells, do you think it’s possible that someone was hired to hit me?”
“As in a mob hit, you mean?” I detected a grin in his voice.
“Don’t regular criminals hire hit men, too?”
“Yes, but who would want to have you killed?”
“Who would want to burgle my house? Someone hates me, or at the very least needs me out of the way.”
He suggested we discuss it over dinner. The rest of the day did its usual fly-by routine with me buried in paperwork at my desk. When I looked up in response to Odette’s three raps, it was after five.
“You’re still here,” I said.
“And now I’m leaving. With you.”
“Where are we going?”
“Shadow Point.”
Maybe I didn’t want to play. “Why would we go there?”
“To convince the Schlegels that you are neither unlucky nor incompetent.”
“How will we manage that?”
“By letting me do the talking. You’re a prop tonight, Whiskey. Please speak only when spoken to, and then not much. Got it?”
I got it. Odette let me drive. I parked in front of a one-and-a-half-story stone cottage two doors down from Shadow Play. Though this was a more modest home on a smaller lot, it was perfectly landscaped. Odette informed me that Dr. Schlegel was a retired professor of horticulture from Ohio State. His wife shared his passion for making green things grow. They also shared a passion for Jesus.
“Praise the Lord that Mrs. Mutombo understands our plight,” Mrs. Schlegel exclaimed. A petite blue-haired lady infused with energy and inclined to make large gestures, she led us into a sitting room dominated by an oil painting of the Rapture.
“Hal and I can’t bear to think about suffering.” Mrs. Schlegel smiled brightly and went to fetch us sodas.
I studied the painting, which measured roughly three feet by six. In the background were row after row of empty graves. In the foreground, hordes of men and women, faces twisted in terror, screamed for help as the earth imploded and flames consumed them.
“Lovely,” I told Odette.
“They have a similar painting upstairs, over their bed. And a couple more in the guest room. And the kitchen. They collect Apocalyptic art.”
Our hostess rustled back in with ginger ale fizzing in aluminum tumblers.
“Hal will join us just as soon as he washes up. He’s been out in our Prayer Garden repairing some damage.”
“Squirrels?” I said helpfully. When Odette shot me a look, I remembered I was a prop.
“Oh, my, no. Not squirrels.” Mrs. Schlegel leaned toward us, her eyes wide. “More likely the work of Lucifer.”
“The Devil?” It just popped out. Odette coughed and glared at me. I took a long swig of soda and mentally vowed to keep quiet. This house would list at five hundred thou, and, Satan or no Satan, I wanted to sell it.
“Assuming the shape of an animal,” a man’s voice intoned. We turned to see Dr. Schlegel, still wearing his gardening clothes. His deeply lined, leathery face was grim.
“Claudette and I saw it the night of the murder—before we knew about the murder. We now believe it was the Lord’s way of telling us that we were in the path of Evil.”
So help me, my neck hair stood straight up.
Mrs. Schlegel held out a plate of Toll House cookies. I took one just to see if I could.
The retired professor said, “The goat, you know, is one of Lucifer’s preferred incarnations.”
