Read Online Nina Wright - Whiskey Mattimoe 06 - Whiskey and Soda by Nina Wright - Free Book Online

Victorian house. Painted pale yellow with sky-blue shutters, doors, and ornate trim, it boasted windows that were surely twice as large as the originals must have been. Someone had wisely chosen to infuse the narrow, high-ceilinged converted classrooms inside with as much light as possible for the sake of the children.
    “Uh-oh,” Chester said, suddenly slowing his pace. “They’re all here, and they’re organized. That can’t be good.”
    I followed his gaze to what could only be called a mob of moms. Kimmi Kellum-Ramirez, once again wearing stiletto heels, energetically distributed bright red handouts to a rapidly swelling group of women. Robin Wardrip, looking plain but purposeful in head-to-toe camouflage gear, assisted her. So did another mother, a short but athletic-looking golden-haired woman with a heart-shaped face. She wore a feminine dress with a floral print, but she moved more like a spry young boy than a grown woman.
    On a December morning outside any other elementary school, I would have assumed that the pages promoted a Christmas bazaar or contained the lyrics to a favorite carol. Here, though, I knew they had something to do with a dead headmaster, and the moms weren’t collecting for his funeral flowers. The grim intensity with which they moved reminded me of soldiers preparing for battle.
    “They want to get everybody on the same page,” Chester said. “Literally.”
    “What page is that?”
    “I’m pretty sure they’re going to demand that Mr. Bentwood take over as headmaster. Again.”
    “Well, that makes sense. I mean, he’s a member of the founding family.”
    Chester peered up at me with an expression that said I didn’t have a clue what I was talking about. “He’s not a natural educator, Whiskey.”
    “Not a chip off his grandmother’s block.”
    The second comment didn’t come from Chester. It came from our chief of police, who joined us on the school lawn. She was flipping through a small well-worn spiral notebook, the kind used by responding officers at crime scenes.
    “Bentwood’s strength is politics,” Jenx added.
    Chester said, “The art of the possible. The PTO gets what they want when Mr. Bentwood gets what he wants.”
    “What more does he want?” I asked. “He’s already got a school with his name on it, plus inherited wealth.”
    Jenx shrugged. “More power. More prestige. More …”
    She mimed a third word after making sure that Chester wasn’t reading her lips.
    “Sex?” I asked out loud. My bad.
    “Yes,” Chester confirmed. “Mr. Bentwood has a reputation with the ladies.”
    “Really?”
    I had met George Bentwood years earlier at a local fundraiser I’d attended with Leo, my late husband.
    “Bentwood’s married, isn’t he? And he’s not young.”
    “What’s your point?” Jenx said.
    “Well, he didn’t strike me as all that attractive.”
    “Me, neither,” the chief conceded. “But I’m a dyke. Lots of straight chicks seem to think he’s got something. Maybe it’s the twinkle.”
    “The what?”
    “Twinkle. That’s what Noonan calls it. She believes there’s a gleam some guys get in their eyes that makes them irresistible. She says Fenton’s got it. Jeb does, too.”
    I understood. Some men gave off a vibe that drew women. No question Jeb had it; I’d seen it in Fenton, too. It was one of Noonan’s problems with her “permanent spouse” and my whole issue with my ex.
    “There’s Bentwood,” Jenx said, indicating a tall white-haired man with impeccable posture. He motioned for the mothers to follow him inside, presumably so that he could start the meeting.
    “They’re trailing him like baby ducklings,” Chester observed.
    To me they looked like cats in heat.

10
    Jenx sent Chester ahead with the crowd that was flowing in through the pale blue double front doors of the Victorian home that housed The Bentwood School. Our Chief of Police wanted to bring me up to speed on what she’d learned since last night.
    “Chester