Whiskey on the Rocks by Nina Wright Page B
Authors: Nina Wright
Tags: Fiction, General, Mystery & Detective, Women Sleuths, Mystery Fiction, Women real estate agents, Michigan, Mattimoe; Whiskey (Fictitious character)
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you call it Dogs-Train-You-dot-com?”
He nodded.
“But isn’t that what Abra is doing already?”
“It’s about animal psychology, Whiskey. We have to let her think she’s in control.”
“But she is in control. Look what she’s doing right now!”
Abra was helping herself to the Gourmet Whopper. Her choppers were full of chopped sirloin.
“I’ll handle this,” said Chester.
What happened next was not pretty. Chester snatched what remained of the burger and stuffed it in his mouth. Chewing hard, he dropped to all fours in front of Abra, who began to lick his lips. Her goal, apparently, was to transfer Chester’s food from his mouth to hers. I tried not to imagine his celebrity-harpist mother and her entourage looking on.
“That’s wolf behavior,” he said, wiping his face with Mother Tucker napkins.
“Well, I wouldn’t recommend it for humans.”
“Domestic dogs do it, too. When I feed her like that, I’m Top Dog.”
“But are you current on your shots?”
After that excitement, I felt as ready as I’d ever be to phone the Reitbauers. Reaching their machine, I left this message: “I’m afraid there’s been another break-in at Shadow Play. I’d prefer to give you the details person to person, so please get back to me as soon as possible. You can call me any time tonight.”
I repeated my various phone numbers and hung up. The string of events was rapidly adding up to a business disaster.
Chester appeared in my home-office doorway. “Everything all right in the real estate game?”
I had to smile. “Thanks for reminding me it’s a game. Everything all right with you?”
“Uh-huh. Oh—by the way, Cassina called.”
“Your mother?” I asked stupidly. “What did she say?”
“She’s okay.”
“Good. . . . Uh—where was she calling from?”
“Traverse City. They’re still there, still recording. The sessions aren’t going too well.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. . . . Any idea when she might finish?”
He shrugged.
“Okay then. . . . Well, good night.” I studied him, wondering whether he needed a hug or something. For all his big ideas, Chester seemed very small.
“Good night.” He hesitated. “Dogs-Train-You-dot-com doesn’t require it, but I was wondering if Abra could sleep in my bed. I think we might bond better that way.”
I couldn’t imagine bonding more closely than sharing pre-chewed food. But I agreed, rejecting a nasty mental picture of slate-gray Egyptian-cotton sheets layered in long blonde fur.
“About your contract, Chester. Can I see it?”
“As soon as I revise it a little. Don’t worry, Whiskey. You can afford me.”
The Reitbauers didn’t call back. When I hadn’t heard from them by 8:30 the next morning, I phoned again, from Mattimoe Realty. I reached the maid. She informed me that Mrs. Reitbauer was, even as we spoke, on her way to Magnet Springs via her husband’s private plane. That was not good news.
An hour later, Noonan knocked on my office door.
“I heard what happened,” she gasped. “Tuesday the husband dies at my studio, and Thursday the wife gets whacked at Shadow Play. This is a real bad latitude for that couple. Oh--and I just spotted Mrs. R walking into Best West.”
Meet the competition. Best West Real Estate is the second-largest realty in this part of the state and catching up fast. Best West has a nifty new advantage: its owner/broker was recently elected Mayor of Magnet Springs. The town held a special election last June after our once-esteemed city leader was indicted for tax fraud. Gil Gruen of Best West ran unopposed. Many Main Street merchants encouraged me to run, but it was too soon after Leo’s death. I’d read somewhere that new widows should avoid making major decisions for at least a year. Embarking on a political career seemed significant. Plus, Abra had begun snatching purses and getting caught. That didn’t speak well for my leadership skills.
Thanks to
He nodded.
“But isn’t that what Abra is doing already?”
“It’s about animal psychology, Whiskey. We have to let her think she’s in control.”
“But she is in control. Look what she’s doing right now!”
Abra was helping herself to the Gourmet Whopper. Her choppers were full of chopped sirloin.
“I’ll handle this,” said Chester.
What happened next was not pretty. Chester snatched what remained of the burger and stuffed it in his mouth. Chewing hard, he dropped to all fours in front of Abra, who began to lick his lips. Her goal, apparently, was to transfer Chester’s food from his mouth to hers. I tried not to imagine his celebrity-harpist mother and her entourage looking on.
“That’s wolf behavior,” he said, wiping his face with Mother Tucker napkins.
“Well, I wouldn’t recommend it for humans.”
“Domestic dogs do it, too. When I feed her like that, I’m Top Dog.”
“But are you current on your shots?”
After that excitement, I felt as ready as I’d ever be to phone the Reitbauers. Reaching their machine, I left this message: “I’m afraid there’s been another break-in at Shadow Play. I’d prefer to give you the details person to person, so please get back to me as soon as possible. You can call me any time tonight.”
I repeated my various phone numbers and hung up. The string of events was rapidly adding up to a business disaster.
Chester appeared in my home-office doorway. “Everything all right in the real estate game?”
I had to smile. “Thanks for reminding me it’s a game. Everything all right with you?”
“Uh-huh. Oh—by the way, Cassina called.”
“Your mother?” I asked stupidly. “What did she say?”
“She’s okay.”
“Good. . . . Uh—where was she calling from?”
“Traverse City. They’re still there, still recording. The sessions aren’t going too well.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. . . . Any idea when she might finish?”
He shrugged.
“Okay then. . . . Well, good night.” I studied him, wondering whether he needed a hug or something. For all his big ideas, Chester seemed very small.
“Good night.” He hesitated. “Dogs-Train-You-dot-com doesn’t require it, but I was wondering if Abra could sleep in my bed. I think we might bond better that way.”
I couldn’t imagine bonding more closely than sharing pre-chewed food. But I agreed, rejecting a nasty mental picture of slate-gray Egyptian-cotton sheets layered in long blonde fur.
“About your contract, Chester. Can I see it?”
“As soon as I revise it a little. Don’t worry, Whiskey. You can afford me.”
The Reitbauers didn’t call back. When I hadn’t heard from them by 8:30 the next morning, I phoned again, from Mattimoe Realty. I reached the maid. She informed me that Mrs. Reitbauer was, even as we spoke, on her way to Magnet Springs via her husband’s private plane. That was not good news.
An hour later, Noonan knocked on my office door.
“I heard what happened,” she gasped. “Tuesday the husband dies at my studio, and Thursday the wife gets whacked at Shadow Play. This is a real bad latitude for that couple. Oh--and I just spotted Mrs. R walking into Best West.”
Meet the competition. Best West Real Estate is the second-largest realty in this part of the state and catching up fast. Best West has a nifty new advantage: its owner/broker was recently elected Mayor of Magnet Springs. The town held a special election last June after our once-esteemed city leader was indicted for tax fraud. Gil Gruen of Best West ran unopposed. Many Main Street merchants encouraged me to run, but it was too soon after Leo’s death. I’d read somewhere that new widows should avoid making major decisions for at least a year. Embarking on a political career seemed significant. Plus, Abra had begun snatching purses and getting caught. That didn’t speak well for my leadership skills.
Thanks to
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