Nina Wright - Whiskey Mattimoe 07 - Whiskey, Large (4 page)

“More like up. Way up,” I said. “What were you thinking? Sandra’s dress is two sizes too small. We got a shooter on the loose, and she renders half the available police force unfit for duty.”

“It’s the only size the dress came in,” Jeb said, grinning like a middle-schooler. “Sandra can’t help how hot she is.”

The troll dog grunted in agreement. Before I could snap again, Jeb turned serious. “Jenx is issuing an urgent call for volunteer deputies. You may not enlist.”

It was the first time my husband had forbidden me to do anything. I should have felt feisty, but my only reaction was relief. This volunteer deputy was on maternity leave. Let other humans chase the bad guys. And the bad dogs.

“Yo, Whiskey!” Jenx strode across the lawn toward me, cell phone in her left hand. “I’m enlisting you as a volunteer deputy, starting now.”

In unison, Jeb and I shook our heads and pointed at my swollen belly. Jenx handed me her cell.

“You’re on phone duty. Nothing’s safer than that.”

“Except maybe ringing my doorbell,” I said. “What’s happening with Anouk?”

Jenx indicated the ambulance parked in our driveway. The woman in question sat erectly on a gurney next to the open rear doors. Two EMTs attended her. Nobody looked concerned, least of all Anouk.

“Minor flesh wound,” Jenx said. “The bullet grazed her left shoulder and shattered the glass in your door. The shooter may have been aiming for her skull.”

“You think somebody wanted to kill her?”

“Kill her or scare her to death. Either way, they failed. Anouk is alive and not even alarmed.”

“How very French of her,” I said. “But who would want to hurt Anouk?”

Jenx shrugged. “That’s what I’m gonna find out.”

She fished a balled-up piece of notebook paper out of a hip pocket and tossed it to me. When I missed it, Jeb scooped it from the ground.

“That’s a list of potential volunteer deputies,” Jenx said. “Call ’em all. Tell ’em to get their asses over to the station and wait for instructions.”

“Can I tell them what happened?”

“Sure. But leave out the part about Abra. Nobody wants to chase your bitch.”

I suspected that most of Magnet Springs already knew my dog was on the loose. Surely Avery and Noonan had tweeted it, not to mention Anouk. In fact, Anouk appeared to be tweeting even as the EMTs treated her shoulder.

I owed the pet psychic an apology, but I would let Jenx interview her first. As the chief walked away, Jeb removed her cell phone from my hand.

“I’ll make the calls.”

Damn if he didn’t sound sexy when he took charge. Before I could comment, Jenx’s phone rang.

“This is Chief Jenkins’ phone, Jeb Halloran speaking.”

His brow furrowed. Since I couldn’t hear the other party, I naturally assumed we were getting the first Abra sighting. It wouldn’t be pretty. The Affie often made straight for a barn or paddock to terrorize farm animals. Or else she and her boyfriend were “doing it” on a playground, traumatizing toddlers with visions of big humping dogs.

Jeb turned away, no doubt to conceal what he was saying. Or to give me a break from viewing Sandra, who was still tucked under his arm. I waited where I stood, straining to hear his side of the conversation. He didn’t say much besides repeating some numbers, maybe an address, before disconnecting and facing me.

“Bad news, Whiskey.”

I inhaled to steady myself. “What did Abra do now?”

“That wasn’t about Abra. It was about the house you listed yesterday on Swan Lane.”

“What about it?”

“It blew up.”

I must have staggered
because Jeb dumped Sandra and reached out with both arms to steady me. The Frenchie farted when she hit the ground.

“Anybody hurt?” I asked.

Jeb glanced at Sandra. “She looks okay.”

“I meant at the house that blew up.”

“Oh.” He gazed sadly into my eyes. “If anyone was home, they’re toast.”

I staggered again.

“Easy, babe,” Jeb said. “The sheriff’s there, and the state police are on the way. I need to tell Jenx what happened. Are you going to be okay?”

I nodded, but Jeb’s expression said he didn’t believe me. Mom happened to be standing nearby, chatting with Peg, Deely and Dr. David. My husband caught Mom’s eye and motioned her over.

“Can you make sure Whiskey’s all right? I got some news for Jenx.”

“What kind of news?” Mom asked me as Jeb jogged off, followed by his stumpy canine sidekick.

I told her what I knew.

“That’s awful,” she said. “Didn’t you inspect the house before you listed it?”

“That’s not how it’s done, Mom, and we don’t know why or how it blew up.”

“Well, something was wrong with it. Houses aren’t supposed to be ticking time bombs. You of all people should know that.”

I closed my eyes and breathed deeply, pretending that none of this was real. Being hugely pregnant was enough of a nightmare. I didn’t need a shooting on my front porch, potentially dead clients in an exploded house, and a runaway Afghan hound. Yet I had ’em all.

“This might not be the best time to practice your Lamaze, Whitney,” Mom whispered. “Here comes Avery, and she doesn’t look happy.”

“Avery never looks happy, so this is the perfect time to practice my Lamaze, if that’s what I’m doing. I’d rather practice astral-projecting. I want to be anywhere other than where Avery is.”

“I heard that,” my ex-stepdaughter snapped.

Who knew she was so close? I continued to squeeze my eyes shut as I breathed even more deeply. If I couldn’t astral project, maybe I could pass out.

“Whiskey, open your eyes,” Avery growled.

“My mother will be happy to take a message,” I said.

My mother pinched my forearm, which caused me to yelp and open my eyes . Avery had shoved her smart phone in my face.

She said, “There’s a tweet you need to see.”

“Better read it, Whitney,” Mom advised.

So I did.

#MattimoeRealty is kiss of death for clients. #explosion #felonies #murders

“What’s with all the pound signs?” I said, handing the phone back.

“Those are hash tags,” Avery said. “They’re like flags for Twitter users to mark their favorite subjects. Anybody who looks up Mattimoe Realty or explosions or murders is going to see this tweet.”

“Or felonies,” Mom added, reading over Avery’s shoulder.

“So what?” I asked, impatient for my ex-step to get to the point.

“You really don’t get it?” Avery sounded more exasperated than I did. “This is social media in action. It can make or break a business. Somebody tweeting as UberSpringer is out to ruin you.”

“‘UberSpringer’?” I echoed.

“That takes me back to my high school German,” Mom said. “Über means above or over.”

“That’s German?” Avery said. “I thought it was English for ‘super.’”

“It could mean that, too,” Mom said.

Avery tapped her phone screen, zooming in on a user profile.

“This Twitter user is ‘Super-Springer,’ like the most powerful person tweeting about Magnet Springs.”

“No. It’s someone who wants you to think they’re the most powerful person,” I corrected her.

“Here’s their profile,” Avery said. “‘Looking out for the good peeps of Magnet Springs, MI. I hate cheaters, liars, and crooks of all kinds, including bad dog owners.’”

“Does that mean owners of bad dogs or bad owners of dogs?” I said.

Mom said, “It fits you in either case. I’m surprised Mr. Uber knows about your explosion. Didn’t that just happen?”

“He must be monitoring the police scanner,” I said. “Either that or he blew the place up himself.”

Avery’s phone chirped.

“Somebody really hates you.” With relish she read the new tweet aloud:

Woman shot on front porch of #WhiskeyMattimoe home. Nobody came out to help her. #negligent #BadCitizen #evil

“Evil? That’s ridiculous,” I scoffed.

“How about negligent?” Mom asked. “Or a bad citizen? Anyone who’s dealt with Abra might disagree. She does have a criminal record.”

“Whose side are you on?”

When Avery’s phone chirped again, I grabbed it. The latest tweet read:

#WhiskeyMattimoe’s dogs commit new #felonies. One #kidnaps shooting victim’s poodle. The other disables a police officer.

My eyes flew from the phone to the ambulance parked in my driveway.

“Anouk is UberSpringer,” I declared.

“I don’t think so,” Avery said. “Anouk has her own Twitter account, see?”

She brought up a profile page featuring a professional portrait of Napoleon, the stately standard poodle.

“Anouk mostly tweets about dog-grooming, dog-training, dog-hypnotherapy and archery—in that order,” Avery said. “UberSpringer follows her, but he doesn’t just retweet her. He’s getting some of his info somewhere else.”

I studied Anouk’s profile, followers, and recent tweets.

“She has one thousand, seven hundred and nineteen tweets and eight thousand, one hundred and seventy-four followers,” I reported, “including you.”

Avery said, “Everybody in Magnet Springs follows Anouk. She gives good tweets.”

Whatever that meant. I found it hard to believe that anything composed of pound signs and no more than one hundred and forty characters could matter, especially if sent anonymously, as in the case of UberSpringer.

“Why do you follow this guy?” I asked Avery, pointing to UberSpringer’s profile.

“I’m a social media professional. Cassina hired me to optimize her name and image on search engines.”

“What does that have to do with UberSpringer?”

Avery flicked her tongue. “Who doesn’t love gossip?”

Sirens screamed in my driveway as both the ambulance and Jenx’s squad car snapped back to life. No doubt their destination was the exploded house on Swan Lane. Idly I wondered if the Magnet Springs Realty FOR SALE sign had blown up, too.

Prince Harry, Velcro, and Sandra howled. The other guests at Chester’s interrupted party covered their ears, except for Jeb, who was jogging back to me.

“You all right, babe?” he shouted.

“I’m fine!” I yelled.

Oddly enough I was, despite the shooting, the explosion, the runaway dogs, and the rogue tweeter. No one could expect a woman about to give birth to solve those issues. I would let somebody else sort them out. Late in the third trimester, my capacity for denial was kicking in hard. Oh, wait. That was the baby kicking. Leave it to Avery to notice the tiny foot stretching my thin cotton shirt.

“That kid wants out,” she observed.

“Not as much as I want him, or her, out,” I said.

As the sirens faded, Mom made an announcement.

“Let’s all go back inside and enjoy our cake. I’ll subdivide a piece for you, too,” she told Anouk, who joined us on the lawn. “It’s the least we can do since we didn’t answer your ring.”

“I wanted to, I really did,” I gushed, hoping with all my heart that Anouk wouldn’t hold any of the afternoon’s debacles against me.

Petite and tightly wound, not to mention French, Anouk Gagné had an inscrutable face. Not just today, but every day. On one recent occasion, I had actually thought she was about to kill me. So I had no clue what she was thinking right now. It couldn’t be good, though, given her flesh wound, her furious tweets, and her missing champion stud poodle.

“Do you have wine inside?” she asked me.

“Wine? You want wine? Of course we have wine!” I babbled with the kind of rapture usually reserved for winning the lottery. It thrilled me to think she might not be vengeful.

“What would you like, Anouk?” Jeb asked, stepping up to play the sane host.

“Anything French will do,” she replied. “No German wine, and nothing vinted in this country.”

“Not a problem,” my husband said. “We have a very nice Pouilly-Fumé.”

Lowering his voice to sound like the soothing crooner he was, Jeb added, “Whiskey and I apologize for the confusion. The police instructed us to not answer the door after the shot was fired.”

They did? I hadn’t heard that part, probably because I’d been on the verge of a panic attack.

“We will do our very best to bring Napoleon home as soon as possible,” I promised Anouk.

She waved that notion aside in a gesture so European it belonged in a film with subtitles.

“Napoleon will come home when he is ready. I brought him here today to get precisely what he is getting right now.”

She meant s-e-x in some kinky canine variation. Though spayed, my bitch had a relentless libido and absolutely zero inhibition. I had seen Abra execute sexual positions that defied physics. I had also seen the stud poodle so spent that he couldn’t stand up, but Anouk swore he was in bliss. Who was I to question the arrangement? In return for lending out Abra’s—ahem—services, we got occasional free dog-grooming and reduced-cost pet-psychic services for Abra and Sandra.

I used to scoff at the concept of pet-psychic counseling, or psychic anything for that matter, until I saw what it could do to promote a harmonious household. Before counseling, Sandra and Abra couldn’t share a space without trying to tear each other apart. Specifically, Sandra would charge at Abra, or vice versa, and Abra would eat Sandra’s accessories. Not that anyone would blame her for that.

“Who would want to shoot you, I wonder,” Mom mused aloud as she, Jeb, and I ushered Anouk into the house ahead of our other guests. “Do you think you offended somebody with one of your twerps?”

“Tweets,” I corrected her.

“Non,”
Anouk said firmly. “I tweet only the truth, and my tweeps respect me for that.”

“Are you sure?” Mom asked. “I’ve never had tweets or tweeps, but I do know that people can misinterpret things. I would think that could happen even with hash tags.”

“Not my tweets. Mine are a model of clarity and concision.”

“What she said,” Avery confirmed.

My ex-step appeared to be tweeting at that very moment, or maybe she was texting. My head hurt.

“I agree with Irene and Whiskey,” MacArthur offered. “I’ve found that folks often get the wrong idea, which is where my work begins.”

“You mean your work as a cleaner?” I asked. It didn’t seem likely he was talking about selling real estate although there’s ample room for error in that biz.