Whiskey on the Rocks by Nina Wright

laughter from our eyes. When the phone behind him rang, he excused himself to answer it.

    “You might have a shot with Mr. Naylor, after all,” Odette said. “Cheers!”

    She clinked my glass, and we drank. Walter reappeared looking stricken.

    “That was Jenx. There’s been a murder at Shadow Play.”

 

Chapter Seven

    Even as I felt the wine goblet slip from my hand, I couldn’t make my fingers close around it. Fortunately, Odette’s lightning quick reflexes extend beyond her ability to calculate commissions in her head. She intercepted the glass on its way to the floor.

    “Who’s dead?” she said.

    Walter shook his head. “Jenx didn’t say, and there was too much background noise to continue the conversation.”

    “You mean sirens?” I said.

    He looked puzzled. “I mean the background noise in here. Happy hour is no time to talk on the phone.”

    Odette said, “If there was a murder at Shadow Play, we might have to knock twenty percent off the asking price.”

    “Please!” I glared at her in disgust. “Ten percent, max.”

    Walter said, “Jenx tried calling you at home, Whiskey. She said that’s how she knew you were here. Does your voicemail say, ‘If I don’t answer, I’m drinking at Mother Tucker’s’?”

    “Whiskey hired that harpist’s kid,” explained Odette.

    Walter said, “Why not just get voicemail?”

    I said, “Does Jenx need to see me?”

    A food server was asking Walter more important questions, so I waited.

    “Sorry, yes, that was the message.”

    I asked Odette, “Care to substitute a crime scene for our dinner date?”

    She declined, so I went alone. An ambulance was pulling out of the drive at Shadow Play. Since its siren was off, I deduced that help had come too late for somebody. Brady Swancott was once again stringing yellow crime scene tape around a bashed-in back door.

    “This is turning into Ground Hog Day,” I said, referring to the Bill Murray movie.

    “Except that was a comedy,” Brady said.

    “Right. Who’s dead?”

    “Everybody’s Favorite Canadian.”

    “You mean—?”

    “The dead guy’s wife got whacked.”

    “How?”

    “Looks like she interrupted a burglary. The way she was beaten, I’d say the killer was high on PCP or meth or something. Either that or she pissed him off. Her head’s a bloody pulp, bludgeoned with a marble bookend. Real messy. She was dead way before he stopped.”

    My legs decided that it was time to sit. Without warning I plopped onto the wooden steps at Brady’s feet.

    “You okay?” he asked.

    “Compared to Mrs. Santy, I’m peachy. How’s her brother taking it?”

    “About how you’d expect. I think he’s in shock. Naylor came home from Mother Tucker’s with take-out and found her on the bedroom floor. She was sick with a migraine headache when he went out. When he got back, she had no head left.”

    “Please—.” I felt Walter’s red wine rising in my throat and clamped my hand over my mouth.

    “Yo, Whiskey!” Jenx’s steel-toed boots appeared next to my knees. “Is she going to hurl?” I assumed the question went to Brady. When he didn’t answer, I grunted.

    “Is that a yes or a no?” Jenx said. “Breathe, damn it!”

    I took her advice and concentrated on working my lungs for a while. I hadn’t felt this queasy since high-school biology.

    Jenx squatted next to me. “Whiskey, we got some real bad news to break to your client. Do you want to do it, or should I?”

    “I have to make the call.” I cleared my throat. “Same person who was here last night, you think?”

    “Not unless whoever looks like Julia Roberts is built like Vin Diesel. Our killer’s a guy.”

    “How’d he get in?”

    “That’s part of the bad news. The alarm system failed, second night in a row. We called the company. They got no sign that anything was wrong. If I were the Reitbauers, I’d cancel my contract.”

    If I were the Reitbauers, I’d fire Mattimoe Realty. Even if we