I asked Jenx how she’d found out so much about Susan and Liam Davies.
“I’m in law enforcement,” she said. “Therefore I investigate.”
“How come you need Chester and me to work for free?”
“I like to delegate.”
The more I pondered my trip to the Afghan hound show in Amish Country, the more I dreaded it. I despised anything that came under the heading of crafts, and I did my darnedest to avoid most dogs. But given what Jenx had said about Davies’ development business being maxed out, it would probably be in Mattimoe Realty’s best interest for me to learn all I could about Liam and Susan.
As soon as I hung up from Jenx, I speed-dialed Odette. Since she was representing us as Realtor of record for Davies’ newest project, I wanted to keep her in the loop.
“What is it, Whiskey?” Odette snapped. “I’m with a client.”
“A client?” It had been too long since I’d heard that phrase.
“I’m showing a home in Pasco Point,” she said. “Can this wait?”
Of course it could. Pasco Point was arguably the best four-digit zip-code suffix in Magnet Springs. Perched high on a bluff overlooking Lake Michigan, the subdivision boasted a baker’s dozen multi-million-dollar estates, each with its own ostentatious name. Until Davies developed Big House on the Prairie, assuming that he eventually would, Pasco Point was where our big commissions came from.
Odette said she’d call me right back. I told her to take as much time as she needed.
Tina’s dentist-drill voice immediately announced there was a call on line one. If my phone rang at all lately, it was either a wrong number or the police. I answered cautiously.
“Top o’ the morning to you, Miss Whiskey! This is MacArthur.”
I wondered why Tina hadn’t said so. He was one of our part-time agents. The one who sounded like Sean Connery, without the lisp. To my embarrassment, I felt a small thrill at the sound of the cleaner’s baritone brogue.
“Chester and I were just talking about you,” I said, omitting the fact that the chief of police and I had just talked about him, too.
“Could we meet for lunch in half an hour?” MacArthur asked.
“Well… “ When I hesitated, it wasn’t because my schedule was full. My stomach was. Painfully so. It felt like Chester’s waffles had expanded in there.
“My treat,” the cleaner added.
Nice of him to buy, especially since he had taken my disagreeable stepdaughter off my hands. In the grand scheme of things, I was sure I owed him. We agreed to meet at the counter at the Goh Cup, the coffee and sandwich shop run by Magnet Springs’ mayor. It wouldn’t matter if I couldn’t eat a bite; MacArthur was the kind of eye candy no woman passed up.
I buzzed Tina to ask if she had any antacids on hand. When she didn’t answer, I wandered out to the lobby. No one was in sight. Depressing indeed. This should have been a busy week at Mattimoe Realty. Historically, Leo and I had made almost twenty percent of our annual sales in September. So far this month, Odette had closed three sales. Nobody else had produced squat.
Since Tina’s purse was still tucked neatly under her desk, I assumed she had taken a bathroom break. I was about to return to my office when her computer pinged, signaling an incoming email message. In the vain hope that it might be a real estate inquiry, I took a peek. Alas, it was spam. The new message, from someone calling himself Rod Wunderly (oh sure!), featured this subject line: Thrill her with your amazing manstick. I groaned. That was the kind of email opened by only the most gullible and insecure of men.
I was about to delete it when I remembered that this was Tina’s work station, not mine. Given how slow business was, taking the time to delete it would at least offer her something to do. I glanced at her inbox. To my amazement, Tina had received, read, and not deleted more than a dozen recent spam emails, all of which seemed, ironically, to be about enlarging an organ she didn’t possess. Even if Tina was bored enough to glance at spam, I couldn’t believe she’d read let alone save these. Tina Breen was the most prudish person I knew.
The toilet flushed, and I jumped back from her computer as if it had bitten me.
“Looking for something?” Tina asked, a little sharply, I thought.
“Actually, I was looking for you. Do you have anything for indigestion?”
Without answering, she opened her top right desk drawer, scooped out the contents, and lined them up as if for a TV infomercial. I counted six OTC brands and several prescriptions.
“Take what you need,” she said. “Since I developed my ulcer, I’ve tried every stomach medicine known to man.”
“All I want is a Rolaid. Or something.” I eyed the assortment. “Which one works best?”
Tina burst into tears again. “For me, nothing works! I’m in constant misery! My doctor says it’s because of the stress!”
My own stomach now hurt much worse than it had a minute earlier.
“Please, please don’t fire me, Whiskey!” Tina cried, pitching herself onto her knees. “And please don’t let your business go to pot!”
“To… pot?”
“Down the drain. Kaput. Pfft.”
“Okay, I won’t. Please, Tina, get up off your knees. There’s no reason to panic as long as Odette still works here.”
“You’re right.” Tina wiped her face on her sleeve. Then she grabbed the edge of her desk, grunted, and pulled herself up. Suddenly she shrieked in pain.
“Now what is it?” I said.
“My back! Ohhhh. Spinal stenosis, the doctor says. Ever since your business started falling apart, I’ve been falling apart, too.”
“I’ve had better days myself,” I murmured, gently guiding Tina into her desk chair. “Can I get you something? Water, maybe? To replace all the fluids you’ve lost?”
“Just let me keep my job!”
I nodded. “My late husband built this company, Tina. No way it’s going under on my watch. At least not if Odette can help it.”
At that very convenient moment, Odette called back. Since I didn’t want Tina to hear my concerns about Liam Davies, I raced to my office and closed the door.
“I may have found a buyer for our listing in Pasco Point,” Odette began.
“Someone with solid financing?” I asked.
“Someone with cash! The rich are still rich, Whiskey. You just have to know how to find them. Fortunately, I do.”
“And I’m overwhelmed with gratitude,” I said. Then I told her what Jenx had told me about Liam Davies.
Odette made her dismissive raspberry sound.
“I take it you know something Jenx doesn’t?” I asked.
“Can crows fly?! What did I just say about the rich? They stay that way, even when they blow their money. That’s the difference between us and them: they can always get more. Don’t worry about Davies’ development, Whiskey. It’s going to happen. Ask me how I know.”
“Okay… How do you know?”
“I’m the agent of record, am I not? I sell real estate, I don’t just list it!”
“Of course you do! And your broker appreciates that.”
My office door creaked. Tina hovered in the hallway, peering inside. Apparently the door hadn’t latched. Either that or she had opened it partway. I had no idea how much she’d overheard, but I knew I didn’t want to explain any of it. Thinking fast, I called out, “Tina, I’m glad you’re there! Come in, please.”
She did.
“When MacArthur called earlier, you didn’t give me his name. You just put the call through. May I ask why?”
Tina clutched her back as if mere mention of the handsome Scot gave her a spasm. And not the good kind.
“You didn’t ask who it was,” she whined.
“You always tell me,” I countered.
Perspiration glistened on Tina’s frowning forehead.
“I never know what to say when he calls. I mean, I know he works here part-time, but… is he a good guy, or is he a… cleaner?” She lowered her voice. “You don’t know this about me, Whiskey, but before I was married, I used to read true-crime novels. I know what a cleaner does!”
“MacArthur is a bodyguard. And a driver,” I said.
Tina shook her head and limped back to the lobby. My stomach was killing me. Although Chester’s waffles may have started my indigestion, I blamed my office manager for most of the discomfort I felt now. Her melodrama had kicked my gastric juices into overdrive. I slipped out the back way.
Crossing the street to the Goh Cup, I dialed Jeb.
“Do you have indigestion, too?”
“I feel great,” he said.
“How many waffles did you eat?” I said.
“Three. Same as you.”
“I had two,” I informed him. “Then I had a Tina Breen chaser.”
I hung up before I belched. Arriving at the Goh Cup, I felt no better. My plan was to sip a soda while I listened to whatever it was MacArthur wanted to discuss. For one delicious moment I let myself imagine him begging me to get Avery out of his life. Maybe he’d even go down on his knees, as Tina had, to implore my assistance. I would resist the urge to tell him I had known from the start that Avery would only bring him trouble.
Then reality set in. What if MacArthur really was about to dump Avery? While I would welcome the twins back at Vestige, provided I could convince Deely to be their nanny again, I sure as hell wouldn’t want Avery as my roommate. She and I got along about as well as… well, we didn’t get along at all. In fact, we’d once tried to scratch each other’s eyes out. So handsome MacArthur dumping bitchy Avery could only complicate my life. And my tummy felt awful enough already.
I couldn’t have predicted what was about to happen at the Goh Cup counter. MacArthur greeted me with a view of his brand new tattoo. Yessir. His meaty upper arm featured a full-color close-up image of none other than my sour stepdaughter. The picture must have been lifted from a photo; Avery was scowling, as usual. If she wasn’t, no one would recognize her.
“How life-like,” I said. “Did Brady do that?”
“Yes. And Peg gave me a discount because I’m getting two,” MacArthur said.
“Two tattoos?” I strained to imagine Avery with any other expression.
“I’m getting a tat of the twins on my other arm,” MacArthur said.
That was big-hearted of him since Avery had never named the twins’ father, and MacArthur hadn’t known them very long. To me she had admitted having sex with a fellow student who was a “real loser” and with her professor, another loser, in the space of one drunken week. The professor had ruled out his paternity with a blood test; Avery claimed not to have known the other dude’s name. MacArthur seemed like a huge improvement over any likely sperm donor. Even if he was a cleaner.
MacArthur’s “cleaning”-as far as I knew-involved making Cassina and Rupert look like better people than they actually were. He accomplished that by doing whatever was necessary to clean up the messes they left behind.
“I’d like to volunteer my services this weekend,” he announced.
“As a Realtor? Or a driver? Nobody but Odette is doing any real estate. And Abra’s going with me to Nappanee, so you might not want to drive.”
His blue eyes twinkled, accentuating his thick black hair. What on earth was wrong with this man that he’d permanently inked Avery’s ugly mug on his flesh?
“Did Chester tell you his parents went to Brazil?” MacArthur said.
“Yes. I can’t believe they went without you. Was that wise?”
MacArthur shrugged. “What happens in Rio stays in Rio. Anyway, Avery is gone, too, this weekend. I need to feel needed, Whiskey. To keep myself sharp. So I’m volunteering to be your bodyguard.”
“But I’m not the one who got shot at.”
“Chester thinks you’re at risk by association. He asked me to protect you and the woman with the Welsh name.”
“Susan Davies? Yeah, well she comes with a co-breeder who’ll be the biggest bitch at the show.”
“I know about her, too,” said MacArthur. “What time are you and Abra leaving?”
I was about to tell him when a familiar speech impediment stopped me.
“Pweez don’t pahticipate in dog expwoitation!”