Nina Wright: Whiskey with a Twist

“Tim has been unemployed for five months!” she wailed. “And Winston and Neville were diagnosed with ADHD. Do you know what it’s like to have toddlers with ADHD?”

“Well, no,” I answered honestly. “Unless it’s like having Abra…”

“My husband is out of work, my kids are driving me out of my mind, and your business is going down the tubes!”

I tried to remember how shrinks on TV do it. “Let’s forget about my business for a minute and focus on you.”

“But your business is my biggest problem! If you go under, we’ll have no income! We’ll lose our home and our health insurance and our car! What would we do?”

What would I do if my business went under? As adept at sustaining denial as I was at brokering real estate, I hadn’t yet let myself face that hard question. And I didn’t feel like dealing with it this morning.

I handed over to Tina all the linty tissues that had gathered at the bottom of my purse and hoped most of them were clean. Forcing a smile, I said, “Tell you what. Why don’t you take the rest of the day off? Go home and play with your boys. I can handle things here.”

Tina reacted as if I’d slapped her.

“Oh no you don’t! You’re trying to prove you can get along without me, aren’t you? The next thing you know, you’ll let me goooooohhhhh!”

Her passionate protest dissolved into a series of choked sobs. I waited for her to catch her breath and use half the tissues I’d provided. Finally, between ragged hiccups, she whispered, “I’d rather be here than home, anyway. The boys make me nervous, and Tim gets me so depressed. This is the happiest place I know.”

Now that was tragic.

I returned the lobby chair to its original position, just in case anybody happened to come in and needed to wait for an agent. Then, for old times’ sake, I asked Tina if I had any messages. To my astonishment, I did. She handed me a pink note stained with tears and something sticky. On it she had scrawled: Call Jenx!!!! Not exactly the message of my dreams, but proof that our phones could still ring. I retreated to my office, closed the door, and collapsed into my big leather swivel chair. For the hell of it-and to kill some time-I spun around and around. Until I remembered the rich waffles. Then I waited for the nausea to subside and dialed our chief of police.

“Yo, Whiskey,” Jenx said, apparently recognizing my number in her Caller ID. “More shootings at your place?”

“I would have called if there were,” I said.

When she pointed out that I was calling, I pointed out that she had called me first.

I pictured Jenx’s compact frame settled in her own desk chair, non-regulation steel-toe boots propped on her desk between canyons of manila folders. Jenx didn’t file reports; she stacked them as high as the laws of physics allowed.

“I assume Brady told you he couldn’t find squat at the scene of the first shooting,” she said.

“He did. Maybe you should call the sheriff and ask for a crime scene investigation unit.”

“Maybe you should mind your own business.”

I told her I would if I had any. That must have been her cue to give me some.

“As of today, your hiatus from volunteer deputy duties is over,” she announced. “I need your help with this case.”

Volunteer deputies-a misnomer, really, since every one of us was drafted-comprised the criminal investigation teams in our town. Chester was the best Jenx had. True, he was too young to drive, but he had a full-time driver. He also had Prince Harry, who showed potential for retrieving clues. I, on the other hand, could drive, but my dog was a liability. Usually she was in league with the crooks we were chasing.

“You need my help?” I echoed. “I flunked senior physics, and I barely passed trig. We copied each other’s homework, remember? No way I can figure out where those shots were fired from.”

“I’m talking about keeping an eye on Susan Davies and her friend,” Jenx said. “At the dog show.”

“That’s in Indiana,” I said. “A little outside your jurisdiction.”

“Since when does that stop us? You know you love to snoop.”

She had a point. That was part of my attraction to real estate: having a license to get inside other people’s homes. But this was a dog show. In Amish country. Chester had said it could be dangerous; I was more worried it would be deadly dull. Having a job to do might give me a sense of purpose and also help pass the time. My eyes tended to glaze over when confronted with quilts and oak furniture.

“Do you think Susan should hire a bodyguard?” I asked Jenx.

“Is Abra going to be there?”

“She’s the reason I’m going.”

“Then, yes, Susan needs a bodyguard.”

“I meant because of the shootings!”

“If Susan can afford a bodyguard, she should hire one,” Jenx said.

“Of course she can afford a bodyguard. She’s married to Liam Davies.”

Jenx didn’t respond.

“Hello?” I said.

“I hear Liam Davies is cash-strapped.” Jenx lowered her voice. “His development business is over-leveraged, and he’s amassed a lot of personal debt. Susan’s spending sprees haven’t helped the family finances.”

Headline news to me. Suddenly I wondered if Big and Little Houses on the Prairie were a pipedream.

“The Davies’ financial problems are just rumors,” the chief added. “So are their marital problems. But in my line of work I pay attention to gossip.”

So did I. Every successful Realtor keeps an ear to the ground.

Jenx continued, “Got any idea how many Afghan hounds Susan owns?”

“Too many.”

“Eight, according to my sources. And she shares six more with her co-breeder. That’s a lot of dog shit.”

I agreed. “Susan needs MacArthur. He’s a cleaner as well as a bodyguard.”

I asked Jenx how she’d found out so much about Susan and Liam Davies.

“I’m in law enforcement,” she said. “Therefore I investigate.”

“How come you need Chester and me to work for free?”

“I like to delegate.”

The more I pondered my trip to the Afghan hound show in Amish Country, the more I dreaded it. I despised anything that came under the heading of crafts, and I did my darnedest to avoid most dogs. But given what Jenx had said about Davies’ development business being maxed out, it would probably be in Mattimoe Realty’s best interest for me to learn all I could about Liam and Susan.

As soon as I hung up from Jenx, I speed-dialed Odette. Since she was representing us as Realtor of record for Davies’ newest project, I wanted to keep her in the loop.

“What is it, Whiskey?” Odette snapped. “I’m with a client.”

“A client?” It had been too long since I’d heard that phrase.

“I’m showing a home in Pasco Point,” she said. “Can this wait?”

Of course it could. Pasco Point was arguably the best four-digit zip-code suffix in Magnet Springs. Perched high on a bluff overlooking Lake Michigan, the subdivision boasted a baker’s dozen multi-million-dollar estates, each with its own ostentatious name. Until Davies developed Big House on the Prairie, assuming that he eventually would, Pasco Point was where our big commissions came from.

Odette said she’d call me right back. I told her to take as much time as she needed.

Tina’s dentist-drill voice immediately announced there was a call on line one. If my phone rang at all lately, it was either a wrong number or the police. I answered cautiously.

“Top o’ the morning to you, Miss Whiskey! This is MacArthur.”

I wondered why Tina hadn’t said so. He was one of our part-time agents. The one who sounded like Sean Connery, without the lisp. To my embarrassment, I felt a small thrill at the sound of the cleaner’s baritone brogue.