Read Online Whiskey on the Rocks by Nina Wright - Free Book Online 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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telephone telepathy again?”
“I don’t think the caller was really Mr. R.”
“Why not?”
“First, he didn’t feel like Mrs. Reitbauer’s husband.” Odette cocked her head as if recalling some psychic vibration. “Second, I know the voice on their home answering machine, and it doesn’t match his. The taped voice is older.”
My desk phone buzzed again. Jenx said, “Do you or do you not want the scoop on how the wrong corpse left the country?”
Five minutes later I was sitting next to Jenx’s desk, peering at her through a manila canyon. She doesn’t like to file; she prefers to stack folders as high as gravity permits and then shuffle as needed.
“Check this out.” She passed me a Missing Person bulletin fresh off the wire. I studied the blurred black-and-white photo of a handsome, square-jawed thirty-four-year-old man named Daniel Gallagher, Jr., from Grand Rapids, Michigan. Missing since Tuesday.
“Good-looking guy,” I said, returning the paper to Jenx.
“If you’re into that,” she agreed.
“Wait.” I grabbed the bulletin back. “I thought this was Gordon Santy.”
“We all did.”
I sank back in my chair. “Noonan said he said his name was Dan!”
“We can thank our favorite forensic examiner, who released the body based on Mrs. Santy’s identification.”
“But if it wasn’t Gordon Santy, why would Mrs. Santy say it was?”
Jenx’s eyes flashed. “You’ll have to ask the Boys from East Lansing.”
“Who?”
“The state police. It’s their case now. This morning the Lanagan County prosecutor turned it over to them. Too big a crime for our small jurisdiction. Make that two crimes that are too big. And two bodies now on their way to Canada.”
Jenx fired a rubber band across the room.
I said, “The first corpse didn’t look like a homicide, but the second one sure did. Why did Crouch let both bodies go?”
“In both cases, next of kin identified the remains. Crouch was satisfied, and so was the MSP.” She added, “Mr. Naylor’s threats to involve the Canadian Consulate probably speeded things up.”
“Will Daniel Gallagher’s widow get back his remains?”
Jenx said, “Do you have any idea how hard it is to get a corpse back from Canada?”
I shook my head.
“Me, neither,” she admitted.
Before I left the station, Jenx reminded me that I’d have to feed Chester. So I picked up two dinners at Mother Tucker’s. When I arrived at Vestige, I found Cassina and eleven sulky people in my great room. They were watching Chester put Abra through a series of “pack moves,” none of which, fortunately, involved the oral exchange of chewed food. There was a lot of pushing and rolling and barking, however. Chester had mastered a convincing repertoire of howls and growls. At the end, Cassina’s black-clad entourage applauded uncertainly. Then one of her people approached me.
“You’re Whiskey Mattimoe?” the sallow young man asked. “Cassina would like a few words with you about her son. In private.”
I had expected him to call her The Great Cassina and was disappointed when he didn’t. I said, “Would she like a cup of coffee or a glass of wine?”
He regarded me sternly. “Cassina drinks only Tahitian shark-fin tea.”
I went off to the kitchen in search of a corkscrew and a bottle of Pinot Noir. I would imbibe even if the diva didn’t. A moment later, Cassina glided into the room. Her hip-length wavy hair was an unnatural flame red. Her translucent skin was alabaster, her immense almond eyes the deep moist green of a forest. This was my first face-to-face encounter with a genuine superstar. Although I had waved to Cassina as she climbed in and out of limos, we’d never met. Now here she was in my under-stocked kitchen. Draped in a flowing gauzy gown like the kind she wore in concert and barefoot with emerald rings on all ten toes, she didn’t look like a neighbor. Or an Earthling.
From behind her back
“I don’t think the caller was really Mr. R.”
“Why not?”
“First, he didn’t feel like Mrs. Reitbauer’s husband.” Odette cocked her head as if recalling some psychic vibration. “Second, I know the voice on their home answering machine, and it doesn’t match his. The taped voice is older.”
My desk phone buzzed again. Jenx said, “Do you or do you not want the scoop on how the wrong corpse left the country?”
Five minutes later I was sitting next to Jenx’s desk, peering at her through a manila canyon. She doesn’t like to file; she prefers to stack folders as high as gravity permits and then shuffle as needed.
“Check this out.” She passed me a Missing Person bulletin fresh off the wire. I studied the blurred black-and-white photo of a handsome, square-jawed thirty-four-year-old man named Daniel Gallagher, Jr., from Grand Rapids, Michigan. Missing since Tuesday.
“Good-looking guy,” I said, returning the paper to Jenx.
“If you’re into that,” she agreed.
“Wait.” I grabbed the bulletin back. “I thought this was Gordon Santy.”
“We all did.”
I sank back in my chair. “Noonan said he said his name was Dan!”
“We can thank our favorite forensic examiner, who released the body based on Mrs. Santy’s identification.”
“But if it wasn’t Gordon Santy, why would Mrs. Santy say it was?”
Jenx’s eyes flashed. “You’ll have to ask the Boys from East Lansing.”
“Who?”
“The state police. It’s their case now. This morning the Lanagan County prosecutor turned it over to them. Too big a crime for our small jurisdiction. Make that two crimes that are too big. And two bodies now on their way to Canada.”
Jenx fired a rubber band across the room.
I said, “The first corpse didn’t look like a homicide, but the second one sure did. Why did Crouch let both bodies go?”
“In both cases, next of kin identified the remains. Crouch was satisfied, and so was the MSP.” She added, “Mr. Naylor’s threats to involve the Canadian Consulate probably speeded things up.”
“Will Daniel Gallagher’s widow get back his remains?”
Jenx said, “Do you have any idea how hard it is to get a corpse back from Canada?”
I shook my head.
“Me, neither,” she admitted.
Before I left the station, Jenx reminded me that I’d have to feed Chester. So I picked up two dinners at Mother Tucker’s. When I arrived at Vestige, I found Cassina and eleven sulky people in my great room. They were watching Chester put Abra through a series of “pack moves,” none of which, fortunately, involved the oral exchange of chewed food. There was a lot of pushing and rolling and barking, however. Chester had mastered a convincing repertoire of howls and growls. At the end, Cassina’s black-clad entourage applauded uncertainly. Then one of her people approached me.
“You’re Whiskey Mattimoe?” the sallow young man asked. “Cassina would like a few words with you about her son. In private.”
I had expected him to call her The Great Cassina and was disappointed when he didn’t. I said, “Would she like a cup of coffee or a glass of wine?”
He regarded me sternly. “Cassina drinks only Tahitian shark-fin tea.”
I went off to the kitchen in search of a corkscrew and a bottle of Pinot Noir. I would imbibe even if the diva didn’t. A moment later, Cassina glided into the room. Her hip-length wavy hair was an unnatural flame red. Her translucent skin was alabaster, her immense almond eyes the deep moist green of a forest. This was my first face-to-face encounter with a genuine superstar. Although I had waved to Cassina as she climbed in and out of limos, we’d never met. Now here she was in my under-stocked kitchen. Draped in a flowing gauzy gown like the kind she wore in concert and barefoot with emerald rings on all ten toes, she didn’t look like a neighbor. Or an Earthling.
From behind her back
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