Whiskey on the Rocks by Nina Wright Page A

couldn’t have done more, it looked like we should have. Saving this account seemed as unlikely as keeping the leaves on the trees.

    “Give me the rest of the bad news for the Reitbauers.”

    “After we get the sheriff’s department out here to run forensics, they’ll need to hire a cleaning service. I’m talking biohazard removal. The bedroom’s splattered with blood, body fluids, and brain tissue.”

    I tasted Walter’s red wine again and selfishly hoped this trauma wouldn’t put me off Pinot Noir.

    Jenx said, “I’m not supposed to recommend anybody, but I can give you the name of a firm in Grand Rapids. They’ll have to remove the carpets, wallpaper, and so forth. She was killed in the bedroom, but the guy tracked up the whole house.”

    “So much for white wall-to-wall Berber,” said Brady. “Looks great in showrooms, performs poorly in crime scenes.”

    Jenx added, “I hope your client has good insurance and a good interior decorator. This house is going to need a makeover.”

    “Anything stolen?” I asked.

    Brady said, “The Matheney, again. Officer Roscoe’s on the case. I told him to make like Abra and sniff out purses and so forth. He’s scouring the area as we speak.”

    “But doesn’t that mean whoever was here last night came back?” I said. “They didn’t get the painting the first time, so they tried again, harder?”

    Jenx said, “Only one set of bloody footprints, and they belong to a guy.”

    “Couldn’t he have had an accomplice?”

    “You mean ‘Julia Roberts’ waiting in the getaway car?”

    “Yeah.”

    “Except there’s no sign of a getaway car.”

    “Anything else missing? That we know of?”

    Brady said, “According to Mr. Naylor, a set of ivory candlestick holders is gone. So’s Mrs. Santy’s jewelry.”

    “The Piaget again?”

    “And the family heirlooms.”

    “Mr. Naylor’s in shock, but he took inventory?”

    “I guess he knew what to look for,” said Brady.

    Jenx said, “One problem solved: I just talked with Hen, and she’ll put him up tonight.”

    “I thought Red Hen’s House was packed with Leaf-Peepers.”

    “It is. We have a guest room in our personal quarters. He can sleep there.”

    Edward Naylor didn’t know it, but he was about to rely on the hospitality of Magnet Springs’ most conspicuous lesbian couple. I assumed they would “contain their sexual deviance” during his visit.

    “Can I talk to him?”

    “You don’t want to see him tonight, Whiskey.”

    My cell phone buzzed.

    “How’s the crime scene?” Odette asked.

    “If you just ate, you don’t want to know.”

    “That’s why I’m calling. Jonny’s Chilean sea bass is too spectacular for you to miss. Your take-out is waiting at the bar. I told him to add something suitable for the child.”

    I bid Brady and Jenx good night and walked stiffly to my car. As I opened the door, something rattled the bushes on my left. My chest tightened. A gray blur glided past. I screamed. Officer Roscoe froze in his tracks.

    From the porch Brady shouted, “You all right, Whiskey? He didn’t mean to startle you.”

    The canine officer sniffed my feet.

    “Abra couldn’t come out and play tonight,” I told him. “She’s in training.”

    He whined sympathetically and trotted away.

     

    I arrived home with the two boxed dinners from Mother Tucker’s to find Abra using Chester as a beanbag chair while they both watched TV. As usual, she ignored me. But her pose triggered a potent repressed memory: Abra pressed against Leo as he lay on the couch after dinner.

    Jonny’s second meal was what Chester dubbed a “Gourmet Whopper”: three ground-sirloin patties on a homemade Kaiser roll, smothered in grilled mushrooms, onions, and two kinds of imported cheese. Chester felt too tired “to digest so much saturated fat.” He suggested we give a few pieces to Abra as treats at the end of a hard day of training.

    “About this online program, Chester. Did