Whiskey Straight Up Page 6

  Odette’s three rapid-fire knocks announced that it was almost time for our scheduled helicopter ride.

  “Tell me again why this is a good idea,” I said when she flung open my office door.

  “Because I just made you a lot of money, and you want to reward me.”

  “But I don’t like heights,” I reminded her.

  “All the more reason for you to go. You need to work on that.”

  “Why? I’m a real-estate broker, not a lineman for the phone company. I don’t do heights.”

  “Really?” Odette cocked her head at me. I supposed she was thinking of last fall when I rode Blitzen, my touring bicycle, over a cliff.

  “I had to do that,” I blurted. “To save my lfe and the other guy’s!”

  “And you have to do this. For me.”

  So it was that I accompanied Odette Mutombo through the noisy, red-nosed mob of ice-fishing enthusiasts down by the docks. I was still hoping the weather would turn inclement, and the copter would be grounded. But no such luck. We had been granted a winter day so bright that it hurt the eyes. Windless, too.

  Gil was concluding the Opening Ceremony as we approached. How lucky for him that Peg Goh was vice-mayor. While he pretended to let her drill his hole and hook his line, we knew that he couldn’t have managed either for himself.

  The crowd clapped good-naturedly, and Gil resumed glad-handing. In a moment he was swallowed by a mob of warmly dressed people.

  “There he is,” Odette whispered in my ear. “There’s Oscar Manfred Gribble the Third!”

  At first I couldn’t follow her gaze, mainly because I was looking for someone remarkable enough to wear that name. Finally I realized that she meant a small roundish man of about forty leaning against one of the dock posts. Bald and bespectacled, he wasn’t interesting, but his coat was: like his wife’s, it was made of full-length fur—chinchilla, I reckoned. Warm enough for the occasion and yet totally inappropriate.

  To my chagrin, Odette began waving at him, and continued waving in broader and broader arcs until he tentatively waved back.

  “Let’s go introduce ourselves,” she told me. “After all, we’re working for The Wife.”

  “After all, he wanted to do business with The Competition,” I muttered.

  Odette made the pseudo-raspberry sound I’ve come to expect whenever she disagrees with me. As we made our way across the ice toward Mr. Gribble, something—or someone—apparently caught his eye. The man stood poker-straight and used both hands to shield himself from the sun’s glare. Suddenly, he took off. It was only then that I realized Mr. Gribble was wearing skates. In fact, Oscar Manfred Gribble the Third was a very fast skater. Within seconds he had faded into the crowd.

  “How rude,” Odette said.

  Then we heard the wump-wump-wump of helicopter blades and remembered why we were there.

  “This is the best investment you’ve made this week,” Odette assured me as I counted out three twenty-dollar bills to cover our fare. The pilot was cute and friendly in the relaxed, self-confident way that only athletic men under thirty can be. I tried to ignore the WWJD motto on his T-shirt until he mentioned that today was his first day on the job.

  “In that case,” I said, “What would Jesus do? Ask for His money back?”

  “She’s afraid of heights,” Odette explained.

  “Fear of heights doesn’t usually bother helicopter passengers,” the pilot said.

  “More like fear of falling,” I said as Odette shoved me forward. Up close, the aircraft resembled an oversized thrumming toy. The pilot handed us headsets to wear during our six-minute ride. He explained that we would go up, circle above the ice-fishermen, trace a little of the coastline, and then come back down.

  “Since we’re flying over water, you’ll need to wear a flotation device,” he said.

  The pilot handed us what looked like ugly yellow fanny packs covered with instructions.

  “We’re flying over ice,” I pointed out.

  “Yeah, but if we crashed, we’d break through the ice. Then we’d be in water.”

  Without further comment, I strapped on the device.

  “Aren’t you going to read it first?” Odette’s mellifluous voice filled my headset.

  “I’d rather fly in blissful ignorance than prepare to die.”

  “Then relax already,” she said. “We’ve got Jesus on our side.”

  I was working very hard not to recall the account of a spectacular helicopter crash I’d seen on the news. The blades had become tangled in something and pulled the aircraft over and down. Everyone aboard and everyone below had perished. I was too young and over-committed to die.

  As I scanned the horizon for potential snares, Odette boomed, “I said, relax!”

  And we were airborne.

  Having flown in small planes, I expected a bumpy ride. But this was as smooth as sitting at my desk. The pilot was right: my fear of heights didn’t even come into play. When I pressed my face to the glass, there was no rush of vertigo as when peering over a cliff, for example. Plus, the views were incredible. I’d never seen Magnet Springs from this angle. The steep bluffs, the quaint architecture, the snow-laden trees. Our town looked as picture-postcard perfect as we wished it were. A minute into the flight I began to relax.

  “That looks like Dr. David,” said Odette, pointing. “What’s he doing?”

  I followed her finger. The figure by the concessions tent was David Newquist, all right. Even from this altitude I would have recognized his slumping posture and paunch, but the bright yellow Magnet Springs Vet Clinic coat clinched the ID.

  “Probably getting something to eat,” I said.

  “Look again,” said Odette, so I did. Dr. David appeared to be stuffing something inside his ample coat while peering around to make sure no one saw him.

  “And that’s Jeb over there, isn’t it?” Odette exclaimed, pointing in another direction. “Is he with Avery?”

  Incredulous, I followed her finger. The man was definitely Jeb Halloran; I knew that body from any distance. The woman I wasn’t so sure about. She was Avery’s size and appeared to be wearing Avery’s olive-green parka, but the hood’s fur trim hid her profile. What would Avery be doing at the Jamboree? She hated crowds. And why would she be talking with my first husband? Avery hardly spoke to anyone. After her temper tantrum last night, even Jeb couldn’t charm her.

  Suddenly Odette said, “Is that Chester down there?”

  I saw what she saw: a tow-headed kid being pulled by the hand across the ice near one of the docks. From this height the second person could be either a man or a woman. The figure wore what looked like a fur hat and a full-length fur coat. Chinchilla? Even as the child resisted, the pair moved determinedly away from the shore.

  Chapter Ten

  “Bring us down! Now!” I bellowed. My volume violated good headset etiquette, judging from the groans I got in response.

  “We’ve only been up for three minutes,” Odette said. “You paid for three more.”

  “I don’t care. If that’s Chester down there, we’ve got to find him.”

  I tried to keep the boy in sight as the pilot turned the helicopter to begin its sharp descent. But Chester, or his look-alike, quickly faded from view

  Once we touched down, I flung off the headset, thanked the pilot, and dashed toward the shoreline. Behind me Odette shouted, “Whiskey! You’re still wearing the floaty-thingie!”

  She was right. The ugly yellow fanny pack bounced at my waist.

  “I’ll bring it back!” I yelled over my shoulder.

  To my advantage, I was dressed right for a winter chase. Under my light-weight parka, I was still wearing the jeans and sweater I had changed into (and slept in) last night. Combined with my heavy socks and thick-soled boots, the ensemble afforded good mobility. Plus, I was in decent shape for my thirty-three years. A lifetime of recreational hiking, biking, swimming, and skiing had kept me reasonably fit. Despite the stress and the cold, I was barely winded when
I slowed near the docks.

  Which way were they headed? I strained to reconstruct the aerial scene from an earthbound point of view: the woman(?) had been dragging the boy(?) away from the cluster of waterfront bars toward the circle of ice-fishing contestants. I stepped carefully onto the ice, which was cleared and slick. Wishing, despite my weak ankles, that I was wearing skates, I pumped my arms and pushed one foot in front of the other while scanning for Chester.

  “Whiskey!” I glanced around to see Peg Goh sliding toward me. She looked unsteady on her thick legs. “You haven’t seen Gil, have you? He’s due to announce the next event, and I can’t find him anywhere.”

  “Haven’t seen him,” I panted. “Did you happen to see Chester? Odette and I spotted him from the helicopter.”

  Peg’s eyes widened. “No! But I’ll start looking. Which way did he go?”

  “Toward all the activity.” I pointed straight ahead. “Someone was pulling him along. Someone in a fur coat.”

  Someone who looked like either Mr. or Mrs. Gribble the Third, I wanted to add. But this being Magnet Springs, other Jamboree attendees might be dressed the same way.

  Peg shoved up her coat sleeve to check her watch.

  “Oh dear. If I can’t find Gil, I’ll have to announce the Tug-o’-War myself.”

  “You gotta do what you gotta do. Just keep your eyes peeled for Chester.”

  “I’ll make an announcement about that, too! I’ll ask folks to report any boy matching his description!”

  I thanked her for her help and slid on toward the Jamboree. Everyone was looking for the missing mayor. If I was asked once, I was asked a dozen times whether I’d seen Gil. With each reply, I mentioned that I was searching for Chester. No one had seen him, either.

  The two Tug-o’-War teams were in place on either side of a gaping hole in the ice. Both had grown weary of waiting, especially the Polar Bear Team. Super-macho men wearing only swimsuits, they were paying dearly for the delay.

  A cheer went up as Peg mounted the temporary dais. She apologized for Gil’s absence and then got right to it, stating the rules of the event. The losing team was going to get wet, not to mention cold(er). Magnet Springs High School cheerleaders, wearing none too many clothes themselves, were ready to comfort the losers with beach towels and blankets. A couple EMTs stood by, too.

  “One more word before we begin,” Peg said, and the impatient teams groaned. “If anyone here has seen a small boy with tousled white-blonde hair, please let me know.”

  “Is he lost?” somebody shouted.

  “He’s . . . missing,” Peg replied. “And his loved ones need to know where he is.”

  Then she blew the whistle signaling the official start of the Tug-o’-War, and the Polar Bears were promptly pulled into the drink. Watching teen-age girls towel off foolish old men didn’t thrill me, so I moved on, scanning the crowd for Chester and/or a person in a long fur coat.

  Sliding past a clot of ice-fishermen, I collided squarely with David Newquist.

  “I’m looking for Chester,” he said defensively.

  “Me, too.” I tried to be subtle as I checked out his parka for a tell-tale bulge. Nothing I could see or feel upon impact. What had he taken from the concessions tent, and why?

  “I heard Peg’s announcement,” he said. “Any idea where Chester is?”

  I shook my head.

  Why did I hesitate to tell the good vet what I’d seen? Was it because I suddenly suspected him of thievery?

  “I thought I saw him. . . ” David said.

  “Where?”

  The vet narrowed his eyes. “You saw him, too, didn’t you, Whiskey? With a person in a fur coat?”

  He sounded annoyed now. Was it because he knew I was holding back? Or had the idea of someone wearing a fur coat pissed him off? He was, after all, an animal rights activist.

  “Yes,” I admitted. “When Odette and I were up in the helicopter, we thought we saw Chester. But we couldn’t tell who he was with, or even if it was a man or woman. Gil’s missing, too, by the way.”

  “I don’t care about Gil.” The coldness in David’s voice surprised me. “Let’s make a plan to find Chester.”

  “He—they were moving away from the shore when I saw them, but that was at least ten minutes ago already.”

  David said, “You go that way, out toward the shanties. I’ll search along the shoreline in case they came back in.”

  I stole one more glance at David’s voluminous pockets. He caught my eye.

  “What’s wrong?”

  It sounded like “What’s wong?” Although I knew it was rude to laugh, the stress of the moment made me giggle. To cover, I faked a cough.

  “Nothing,” I said. “I’m off to find Chester.”

  Most of the competitive ice-fishing events required participants to stay in plain sight. No use of shanties allowed. But the Jamboree also lured fishermen eager to partake of the party atmosphere, if not the competition itself. Hence the higher than usual number of shanties farther out on the ice.

  I was sliding determinedly toward Fishburg, as we dubbed that seasonal suburb, when I spied Roy Vickers moving toward shore, his head down, shoulders hunched. Since he didn’t respond the first two times I called to him, I assumed he was lost in thought.

  “Hey! Why aren’t you working on the company truck?” I shouted. “It needs antifreeze!”

  I hardly recognized the man who looked up; whether due to the cold or some inner demon, Roy suddenly looked every one of his seventy years.

  “Are you all right?” I said, changing my course to meet him.

  Before he could reply, I spotted the blood on his plaid jacket. Part of one sleeve was deep red, and there were crimson splatters across his abdomen and chest. The red was still wet and shiny. I slid to a halt.

  Roy must have known what I saw, and what I was thinking: that this was the man who had tried to kill Leo Mattimoe. Had he hurt someone else?

  “I helped a guy unhook a fish.” Roy gestured vaguely toward the shanties behind him. “He didn’t know what he was doing.”

  I couldn’t take my eyes off the mess that was Roy’s jacket, even as my stomach lurched. Suddenly Roy’s hands were squeezing my upper arms so hard they hurt.

  “Breathe, Whiskey!” he barked. “Breathe, or you’re going to faint.”

  I gulped a lungful of painfully cold air and forced my gaze to meet his. That close up, in that crazed moment, his bloodshot eyes were wide with fright. Mine probably looked the same.

  “Breathe again,” he commanded, still clutching my biceps. “And again.”

  I did as told. When he released me, my knees wobbled.

  “I helped a guy unhook a fish,” Roy repeated, stressing each syllable in a way that made him sound either very calm or completely insane.

  I nodded, not trusting my voice.

  “Are you looking for Chester?” Roy asked. Again I nodded. “He’s not out there. Nobody’s around but a few fishermen. I already checked.”

  “I’ll just ask if anybody’s seen him,” I said.

  “I already did.” Roy looked as if he were about to block my path. Then he sighed heavily and resumed his trek toward shore. I watched his stiff movements, each step suggesting the pain of old age. What had happened to his athletic bounce, his glow of optimism?

  Roy was right about Fishburg being nearly deserted. Although there were more shanties than usual, I counted just four in use; the rest stood locked and silent. The fishermen I spoke with had seen no one, not even Roy.

  I was about to head back toward shore when I spied an isolated shanty about a quarter mile off, closer to the coastline than to Fishburg but set apart from the Jamboree. I returned to the last pair of fishermen I’d seen.

  “Sorry to bother you guys again, but do you know whose that is?” I pointed toward the distant hut.

  Without moving from their stools, both men craned their necks to see what I saw.

  “Nope,” the first one said. The second concurred, addi
ng, “Somebody put it up last night. Wasn’t there yesterday.”

  I thanked them and shoved off toward the distant shanty. The wind stiffened as a leaden tint dulled the sky. Weather incoming, I thought. Tourist dollars could be lost. That would not please Gil Gruen, wherever he was.

  Wherever Chester was, I just hoped he was warm and dry. And safe. Above all, safe.

  Chapter Eleven

  Drawing near the ice shanty beyond Fishburg, I saw that its door was ajar.

  “Hellooo!” I called, not wanting to startle the fisherman by suddenly appearing up close and panting. Anyone who chose to be this far from the crowd surely wouldn’t welcome a visitor.

  No answer. I called again and got no reply. Tentatively, I pulled the door open.

  The shanty’s sole occupant was Gil Gruen. Although his back was to me, I would have recognized him anywhere, thanks to his signature Stetson hat and sheepskin coat

  “Gil, you’re missing your own Jamboree,” I began.

  I was going to add that I thought he didn’t fish when something stopped me. Or, to be accurate, several things stopped me. The first was Gil’s posture. From the doorway, I could see it wasn’t right. Even when relaxed, Gil had a sense of style. Granted, he was all myth and arrogance, but he had presence. Now he was slumped at an odd angle suggesting complete deflation. Second, the air had a peculiar tang—a sharp sweetness I didn’t want to contemplate. Third, Gil Gruen loved to glad-hand. No way our mayor would choose to sit alone in an ice-fishing shanty while the event of the season went on without him.

  Against my better judgment, I entered. The instant I touched Gil’s shoulder, two things happened: the air cracked—like thunder inside a tent—and Gil toppled forward. A split second later, I felt my feet slide apart. I glanced down and tried to grasp what was happening: the ice around me, around both of us, was covered in blood. And the ice was splintering.

  Gil rolled sideways into the widening mouth of water, his Stetson slipping from his head, his empty eyes fixed on a far dimension. As my own body lurched forward, I remembered the flotation fanny pack. Groping for the button that would inflate it, I wished I had bothered to read the instructions.