Nina Wright - Whiskey Mattimoe 07 - Whiskey, Large Page 10

  “Why on earth would anyone want to shoot Napoleon?” I said.

  I could think of several reasons for shooting Anouk.

  Still texting, Chester said, “I’m letting Jenx know I’m reporting for duty. They’re going to need someone who can speak canine.”

  Returning my dog, Anouk had theorized that Abra and Napoleon cut short their escapades because something scared them. Could it have been a shooter? If so, was my dog in danger, too?

  “By association, maybe,” Chester replied when I voiced my concern. “But you can relax because I’m on the case. MacArthur is standing by to take me to the crime scene.”

  Within minutes Chester and his hunky driver were en route to Vanderzee Park, followed by me and my elderly driver. Helen was thrilled to be part of a “police matter.” She enthusiastically described her favorite episode of Murder, She Wrote, in which somebody tried to pin a murder on a dog.

  “Nobody’s trying to pin a murder on a dog,” I said. “In fact, somebody may be trying to murder a dog.”

  “Oh, I hope not,” Helen said. “People should kill people, not pooches.”

  Officer Brady Swancott was working crowd control at Vanderzee Park, assisted by Canine Officer Roscoe. I was relieved to see the well-trained German shepherd with all four paws on the ground, once again performing his professional duties without distraction. Keeping him clear of Sandra would protect and serve our town, not to mention his dignity.

  “Hey, Brady,” I said. “Good to see you. Are your kids feeling better?”

  The young part-time officer shook his head.

  “I’m probably contagious. Everybody’s sick at my house, but Jenx called me in. We got lots of problems in Magnet Springs. Besides this one.”

  I nodded and mentioned the fracas at the Goh Cup.

  “That’s just one pet-friendly incident,” he said. “This morning Martha Glenn got knocked down by a tourist’s Newfoundland. She was so confused she called the DNR to report a bear attack.”

  Martha, a fragile-looking octogenarian, was the senile shopkeeper of the fanciest dress shop in Magnet Springs. How Martha managed to run a business was beyond us all. I asked Brady if she was all right.

  “Physically, she’s fine, but then she spotted a Mastiff and reported a lion on the loose.”

  Jenx was wrapping up her interview with Anouk when I approached. The chief reminded her to phone the cops if she remembered anything that might aid their investigation.

  “Did you see the shooter?” I asked Anouk.

  Jenx pulled a face. “You’re on maternity leave, remember? Let MacArthur and Chester ask the follow-up questions.”

  “Okay, but I think there’s a connection between what happened here and what happened at my house yesterday, and also what happened when Abra and Napoleon were on the loose.”

  I turned to Anouk.

  “See anything suspicious while you were running Napoleon through his paces?”

  “Law enforcement has already covered that,” Jenx snapped. Anouk raised a hand and we looked at her.

  “Not suspicious, perhaps, but a little strange. I noticed a man in a black pick-up truck driving behind me most of the way here. He turned away about two blocks before we got to the park.”

  “You didn’t tell me that,” Jenx said, withdrawing her frayed spiral tablet to add the note.

  Anouk shrugged. “I’m telling you now. I didn’t see the man again, and I don’t remember ever seeing the truck before. It was an ordinary-looking truck.”

  “How about the man? Was he ordinary looking, too?”

  “He wore glasses and had a beard,” Anouk recalled. “A brown beard.”

  “That narrows it way down,” the chief said.

  “A reddish-brown beard,” Anouk said. She had closed her eyes to sharpen the remembered image.

  “Anything else?”

  “He was young,” Anouk said. “Not yet thirty, I’m sure.”

  I asked Anouk to repeat for Jenx what she had told me about Abra and Napoleon coming home early the previous night. She explained that the dogs seemed so eager to be back she thought something had alarmed them.

  “You think somebody shot at them?” Jenx asked.

  “Something bad happened,” Anouk said.

  “Something bad usually happens when Abra’s involved,” Jenx muttered. “We got no reports of guns going off last night. I’ll have Brady check with County to see if they know anything.”

  She turned to me. “So now you think somebody was trying to shoot Napoleon on your porch yesterday?”

  I nodded.

  “People shoot at your dog,” Jenx said, “because she’s a felon. Napoleon’s just a poodle.”

  Anouk’s already straight back stiffened. “A champion stud poodle.”

  “Who hangs out with Abra,” Jenx said. “Yup, he might be a target.”

  I wondered if Anouk’s “gift” might provide additional insights, so I suggested she use her pet psychic powers to interview Napoleon about what had happened when he was out with Abra.

  Anouk scowled as only a French person can.

  “I regress dogs to past lives in order to alleviate behavior issues,” she said. “I don’t quiz them about their dates.”

  “Chester could interview Napoleon,” Jenx said brightly. “It worked with Abra last summer.”

  Indeed, it had. Months earlier, Chester interrogated Abra about a murder scene on a beach. Although the interview wasn’t admissible in court, the resulting information helped Jenx arrest a killer.

  We found my young neighbor sitting cross-legged on the ground, Napoleon’s beautifully coiffed head in his lap. The poodle was breathing easy after his near-death experience less than one hour ago. Jenx squatted next to her best volunteer deputy.

  “Good work, kid. Any chance he’ll tell you what he saw while he was out with Abra yesterday? Don’t lead the witness, but we’re wondering if somebody fired at them while they were running free.”

  Chester nodded and motioned for us all to take a giant step back. We complied. Within moments he had gently roused Napoleon and joined the statuesque beast in a doggie greeting ritual on all fours. Nonthreatening growls, whimpers and snorts accompanied sniffing of key body parts. Then came the licking portion of their business, which I’d rather not to describe. Let’s just say it was noisy, wet, and fairly invasive. Before long Chester was barking and whining with varied inflection, and Napoleon seemed to respond.

  MacArthur joined our ring of bystanders.

  “That lad is a natural,” he commented. “I have great faith he’ll develop similar skills with the ladies.”

  Jenx confided my shooter theory to her new volunteer deputy. I watched MacArthur’s face closely for signs that the Cleaner might have insights of his own, but he kept his eyes on Chester and his thoughts to himself. Finally, he excused himself to go see whether Brady or Roscoe needed a hand. That wasn’t where he headed, however. I watched the muscular Scot jog off in another direction, toward a thick grove of white pines that separated Vanderzee Park from a row of homes. He vanished among the trees.

  When I returned my attention to Chester and Napoleon, the dog was enjoying a treat from Anouk and the boy was once again vertical.

  “I recommend debriefing me while the conversation’s fresh in my mind,” Chester told Jenx. “I think I got something you can use.”

  Since the police station was just four blocks away, Jenx elected to adjourn there. Chester rode with her in the squad car, and I followed, driven by Helen. I wasn’t invited, exactly, but I wasn’t banned, either, so why not tag along? After all, it was my theory we were testing. I was secretly thrilled to make any kind of crime-solving contribution given my spotty record as a volunteer deputy. Not to mention my compromising role as Abra’s default human.

  “Napoleon and Abra got scared, all right,” Chester began, as soon as he, Jenx, and I had drawn chairs around the Formica-topped table in the police station kitchen, which doubled as an interrogation room. “Near as I can t
ell, somebody shot at Napoleon and Abra while they were doing what they do best.”

  “You mean…?” Jenx asked.

  “Making doggie love,” Chester confirmed.

  “Napoleon told you that?” I said.

  “He groaned in ecstasy whenever I mentioned Abra.”

  Jenx said, “What did he tell you about the gunshot?”

  “Nothing specific,” Chester admitted, “but dogs can communicate trauma. Napoleon cried and trembled when he remembered the incident. I was able to ask him whether there was a loud, sudden noise. I’m very sure he said yes. Then they ran as fast as they could, and they didn’t stop running until they reached Anouk’s house.”

  “Any idea where they were when the shooter found them?” Jenx said.

  Chester closed his eyes as if he were replaying the conversation.

  “In a field. A big field. Closer to Anouk’s house than Whiskey’s, I think, or they would have run back to Vestige. Abra led the way. She’s the fast one, you know.”

  “She’s fast, all right,” I said, “and she prefers Anouk’s house to mine. Anouk gives her spa treatments.”

  “You could give her spa treatments,” Chester said helpfully.

  I pointed at my belly.

  “Well, you could ask Helen to give her spa treatments,” he said.

  “I would not ask Helen to wrestle with my dog,” I said.

  “Helen lives to please, Whiskey. I’m surprised you haven’t noticed.”

  While Jenx conferred with Chester, I excused myself to pee. When I came back to the kitchen, Jenx had already dispatched Brady and Roscoe to scan the countryside for open fields that might contain traces of Abra and Napoleon, plus a shell casing.

  “Good work today, Deputy,” I told Chester. “Where’s your driver, the other deputy?”

  Chester was studying messages on his phone. Instead of answering me, he addressed Jenx.

  “MacArthur just found a shell casing near Vanderzee Park.”

  “Let’s see if it matches the one at Whiskey’s house,” Jenx said.

  She and Chester high-fived each other, or, I should say, low-fived. Chester is short.

  “MacArthur thinks they came from a high-powered rifle with a scope,” Chester added.

  “The shooter must be bad at his job,” I said. “He’s missed three times.”

  Jenx said, “Maybe his job is to send a message.”

  “And the message is … ?”

  Nobody, not even Deputy Chester, had an answer for that one. Who would want to scare Napoleon the champion standard French poodle?

  “Maybe it’s Anouk that the shooter wants to scare,” I said, “by threatening her dog.”

  That almost made sense except Anouk hadn’t seemed scared at all. Not even in her tweets, according to Chester. Was that a French thing, or did she know something the rest of us didn’t? Did Anouk know who was shooting at Napoleon? And why? Was her story about the man in the pick-up truck even true?

  The woman wasn’t sinister, but she was hard to read. Plus, she had a past that spanned two continents and a long list of illicit lovers, or so she had bragged to me. I wondered out loud if one of them would want to hurt her by threatening to hurt her dog? As soon as I said it, I flinched. I’d forgotten that the deputy present was only nine-and-a-half years old. He rarely talked or acted younger than forty.

  “When you mention Anouk’s lovers,” Chester said, “are you counting our headmaster?”

  Disturbing facts about romances among the staff at his school had emerged during a recent murder investigation. I wasn’t sure how much Chester knew. Stammering, I tried to change the subject, but Jenx jumped in.

  “Anouk is done with men.”

  “Not ‘done’,” Chester said. “Taking a time-out. She’s using this phase of her life to focus on her dogs and her career.”

  “She told you that?” I asked, marveling at the frankness of the French.

  “She tweeted it,” he said. “Then Avery and Noonan retweeted it.”

  “So did I,” Jenx said. “Everybody knows Anouk’s off men.”

  “Everybody but me,” I said.

  14

  For once I couldn’t blame my lack of awareness entirely on denial. I lacked a Twitter account. Although I had zero desire to open one, I was tired of being totally out of the loop. Anouk, Avery, Noonan, and UberSpringer were flooding cyberspace with factoids I really needed to know.

  “Social media’s a good source of local gossip,” Jenx said. “It can even be useful to law enforcement.”

  “I like the late-breaking news,” Chester said, “and the stock tips, but you have to check your sources.”

  “What do you know about UberSpringer?” I asked Jenx.

  She sniffed thoughtfully. “Could be a prankster. Could be something worse.”

  “UberSpringer started out tweeting about goings-on around town,” Chester said, addressing his comments to the chief. “Now he, or she, mostly tweets about Whiskey and the way she runs her business. He tweets every day about how incompetent or even crooked she is.”

  “Whiskey can be incompetent,” Jenx told him, “but Abra’s the crook.”

  “I’m not incompetent,” I said.

  Jenx arched her eyebrows. “Your dog’s a crook.”

  “Not lately.”

  “Yesterday she seduced and dognapped Napoleon. Again.”

  “Anouk isn’t pressing charges,” I said.

  “UberSpringer might be a crook,” Chester said. “I think his tweets are libelous.”

  “You know that word?” I asked, impressed.

  “Libel means spreading lies in print with the intent to destroy another’s reputation,” Chester said. “It’s what’s happening to you.”

  “But does anybody believe what UberSpringer tweets?” Jenx said. “That is the question.”

  Just then my phone buzzed. Odette was on the line and in a fury. I retreated to the police station bathroom for privacy. I could always use another chance to pee.

  “Two rental clients just canceled their contracts to lease vacation cottages,” Odette said, “and one of your previous clients has decided not to let us list his current home for sale. Guess why?”

  “Does it have anything to do with UberSpringer?” I said, suddenly exhausted.

  “It has everything to do with UberSpringer. Those tweets could ruin us. I’ve been on Twitter for years, and I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “You’ve been on Twitter for years?”

  “How do you think I’ve built my client list? You have a public relations crisis, if not a legal issue. You might want to call your attorney again.”

  “I never want to call my attorney, especially not twice in one day.”

  I hadn’t even fished his first advice out of my bra.

  Odette added, “Then think fast about hiring a social media damage-control specialist.”

  “A what?”

  “Someone who does what Avery does for a living. Cassina and Rupert are in the tabloids every week. Avery fixes their public image.”

  I thought that was where MacArthur the Cleaner came in. Clearly, I was confused. And tired. So very tired. Maternity leave was turning out to be way more taxing than I had expected.

  I clicked off the phone but sat inert on the toilet until Jenx rattled the bathroom door.

  “Yo, Whiskey. Did you fall in? All we got’s a one-holer here, so you gotta share.”

  I flushed and pulled myself together as best I could. Jeb would be home in a few hours. He would help me figure out what to do.

  Little did I know that Chester had already taken the first steps on my behalf. Waving his phone, he bounced out of his kitchen chair to greet me.

  “I’ve got a social media damage-control specialist ready to start working for you tonight!”

  “Wait. What? Oh, Chester, I don’t want to hire Avery.”

  “Not Avery. This is somebody else, and he’s on the line now. I muted my phone, Whiskey. Trust me, this is the guy
you need.”

  Chester gestured for me to lower myself into a chair again. I did so with a groan that wasn’t entirely about my bulk. I was overwhelmed. UberSpringer? Damage control? Libel?

  “His name is Ben Fondgren,” Chester said in a confidential whisper. “He takes over for Avery on her days off. Thanks to him, Cassina has fresh creative coverage, 24/7/365.”

  He explained that Cassina used a repeating service to repost Avery’s daily tweets and other social media buzz, but Fondgren filled in new stuff whenever Avery was on holiday.

  “Where is this guy?” I asked, hoping Chester wasn’t going to be a smart ass and say “Cyberspace.”

  “Right here in Magnet Springs. Ben’s a jack of all trades, 21st century style. He does odd jobs for Cassina.”

  “Odd jobs like lawn maintenance?”

  “Odd jobs like freelance web posting and computer security.” Chester held up his phone. “Talk to Ben. I’ve already told him what you need. He’ll set up Twitter, Facebook, and other social media accounts for your business, and he’ll start the positive buzz tonight.”

  Chester unmuted his phone and handed it to me. Not for the first time, I marveled at the kid’s ability to broker a deal. If he ever decided to build a real estate empire, I’d be out of business within a week.

  Ben Fondgren had the most pleasant male phone voice I had encountered in years, mellow and deep like a nighttime disc jockey’s. I relaxed as soon as he started talking. Even better, he seemed to know his stuff, just as Chester had said he did.

  “I’ll take a three-prong approach to countering the negativity and building a powerful positive image for you and your business,” he explained. “The key is not only defusing falsehoods but replacing and transcending them with specific and tangible desirables, plus enticements.”

  I wasn’t sure I understood what he would do, but I was reasonably sure I needed him to do it. Ben required immediate access to Mattimoe Realty facts and photos. I promised that my office manager would fully cooperate, as would my top sales agent, Odette. The rest of my staff consisted of part-timers, but I would get them on board, too.