Nina Wright - Whiskey Mattimoe 06 - Whiskey and Soda (5 page)

I rode in a tipped-forward posture that inclined me to glance often at the ground. Looking up again, I spied a rider coming around the bend about fifty feet in front of me. It had to be the headmaster as I recognized not only the yellow and white Spandex shirt but also the muscles underneath it. How odd that he was heading in my direction. Had he got wind of the PTO’s plot and turned around? Or had he already confronted the mothers, dismissed them and embarked on his return loop?

Vreelander straightened suddenly in his seat, both arms lifting from the handlebar. I smiled, thinking this was his version of a casual wave to a fellow rider—until I noticed he had stopped pedaling. His body hung suspended for a few seconds as the bike continued to roll. His back arched, and his mouth formed a perfect “O.” I watched, stunned, as he tipped to his right, arms still raised, mouth open. The bicycle followed his lead, curving and crashing sideways onto the trail.

Heart thudding, I accelerated. When I reached him, he lay motionless on his right side, eyes and mouth wide in an expression of shock or pain. The front wheel of his gleaming blue touring bike still spun silently, but I knew the headmaster would never move again. Protruding from his upper back was the feathered shaft of an arrow.

Alternately swearing and moaning, I fumbled my phone out of my pants pocket. It took my shuddering fingers three tries to dial 9-1-1.

Our Chief of Police answered personally, a sure sign that crime was low in Magnet Springs, until now.

“The headmaster of Chester’s school is dead!” I screamed. “He’s on the Rail Trail and he’s got an arrow in his back!”

“Where are you?” Jenx demanded.

“With the dead guy. How else could I know this? I have no intuition!”

“True,” Jenx said. She ordered me to breathe before I continued.

“Chester’s in my car in the Rail Trail parking lot off Orion Road,” I said. “I’m here because Chester got a text message that the PTO set a trap for Vreelander at the end of the trail. Chester wanted me to warn him.”

“A trap? What are you talking about?”

“Homework, jogging and
A Christmas Carol.
I’ll explain later. The headmaster was coming around the bend in my direction, and then he—then he—”

After I took another breathing break, I managed to finish that sentence. Jenx told me to stay on the line while she dispatched Brady, who was feeding his family, the Lanagan County Sheriff’s office, and the Michigan State Police. The state boys always bumped Jenx off the case, or tried to.

“Listen, Whiskey,” our police chief said. “A sheriff’s deputy will take care of Chester. They’re sending a car to get him from your car. You sure you didn’t see anybody but Vreelander on the trail?”

“Positive.”

“Somebody with a lethal weapon can’t be far away, so you gotta take cover.”

“What about the—”

“You’re sure he’s dead, right?”

“He’s dead all right.”

“You’re surviving for two now!” Jenx boomed. “So get the hell off the trail and behind a tree. A whole bunch of trees. And don’t hang up! I’m staying on the line with you ’til somebody in a uniform gets there.”

“Okay, but what about Blitzen?”

“It’s a bike.”

“I know it’s a bike, but anybody who sees it will know there’s another person around.”

“They’ll know there
was
another person around. Help me save your ass, Whiskey. Run into the woods. Now!”

I scrambled like a spastic person into the rapidly darkening forest that edged the trail.

Since the leaves were off the trees, I didn’t think anybody could surprise me. On the other hand, the leaves were off the trees, making me a clear target for anybody with a bow and arrow.

“It’s December in Michigan,” I reminded Jenx.

“It feels like December in Florida,” she replied.

“My point,” I panted, “is there’s no foliage to hide behind.”

“Find an evergreen.”

I continued crashing through the naked underbrush. When I glanced back toward the trail, I saw something that dropped me to my knees.

“There’s a woman on a bike, riding straight toward the headmaster. She’s got a bow on her back—and I don’t mean the kind made from ribbon!”

Jenx asked if I recognized her. I didn’t.

“She’s got one of those things you keep arrows in.”

“A quiver?”

“A quiver,” I confirmed. “A full quiver.”

“Can she see you?” Jenx demanded.

“Uh-oh,” I said.

“Can she see you?”

“She rode past me already, right up to the dead guy,” I whispered. “Now she’s getting off her bike. She’s looking real close at the body.”

My beige wardrobe afforded the best camouflage I could hope for this time of year. The sun had dropped behind the trees, filling the woods with shadow and chill. I shuddered as the woman bent low over the headmaster’s body to scrutinize the arrow in his back. From where I crouched, she seemed unafraid, even unsurprised. After a long moment, she turned her attention to my bike.

“She’s checking out Blitzen,” I whispered. “Shit. Now she’s looking around for the person who dropped the bike.”

The woman had straightened and was making a slow, deliberate circle as she studied the surrounding woods. I felt her gaze brush over me, but she gave no sign of seeing anything but darkness.

“Don’t move!” Jenx bellowed in my ear. “Don’t even breathe.”

After a moment, the woman returned her attention to the corpse. Only now she was yelling at it. Suddenly animated, she gestured with both hands as she released a stream of impassioned verbiage. But the words made no sense, and I knew why. The words were French. I told Jenx.

“That makes sense,” the chief said.

“It does?”

“She’s speaking French—and she’s got a bow and arrow, right?”

“Lots of arrows,” I said.

“There’s a French Archery Club near the trail end. It’s called
Tir à l’Arc.
”

“‘Teer-ah-lark?’” I repeated. “Does that mean she’s the killer?”

“You’re the one looking at her,” Jenx said. “Do you think she killed him?”

I studied the woman, who was still shouting at the dead man on the pavement.

“I’m not sure if she’s the killer,” I told Jenx. “But I’m positive she’s French. No American could do drama like that.”

“Is she scolding him, or crying over him, or what?” Now Jenx sounded way more impatient than concerned for my safety.

I squinted through the bare branches of the thicket I had crouched behind.

“She’s not crying. And she’s not what I’d call angry. More like frustrated. Definitely not pissed off like the PTO moms. This is weird. Like watching a foreign film without subtitles.”

Jenx huffed into the phone. “Can you at least describe her?”

“Black hair cut short. She’s … not tall. Maybe five-foot four or five. Slim but muscular. Compact. She’s built kind of like a former gymnast.”

“How old?”

“From here it’s hard to say. Not real young.”

“What does that mean?”

“Older than me, for sure. Maybe ten years older. Maybe more. She’s wearing dark green work-out clothes and a glove on one hand. There’s a leather band on her forearm and some kind of shield-thing on her chest—”

“A bracer and plastron,” Jenx said.

“Say what?”

“Arm-guard and breast-guard. Standard archery stuff, like the glove.”

“You know about archery?”

“I bow-hunt. If that arrow killed Vreelander, it’s gotta be a broadhead.”

“Are broadhead arrows legal?” I asked.

“Hell, yes. And not just for hunting. There are broadhead archery leagues.”

“Leagues? Like for bowling?”

“Yup. But it’s easier to make a fatal mistake with a broadhead than a bowling ball.”

“You think this could have been an accident?” I asked.

“Can’t tell yet.
Tir à l’Arc
has competitive target archery year-round. If Vreelander was near enough to the range, it might be possible for—”

“Jenx, hold on. She stopped yelling. She’s dialing her phone now. Maybe she’s dialing 9-1-1.”

But she wasn’t. No call rang through to Jenx’s office.

“She finds a corpse and makes a personal call?” I wondered aloud. “Looks like the person on the other end is asking for details. The woman is checking his body and his bike—and my bike, too. Okay, the call is over. Oh my god. I don’t believe it.”

“What?” Jenx said.

“Now she’s taking pictures. With her camera phone. She’s getting shots of Vreelander’s body. And Blitzen. The light’s kind of low.”

Nonetheless the woman continued to click away from several angles.

“Now it looks like she’s sending them,” I said.

“
Incroyable,
” Jenx said.

“You’re speaking French?”

“I said, ‘Unbelievable.’ You should remember that one. We both took French in high school.”

“Yeah, but the only thing I can say is ‘Where’s the post office?’”

I held my breath, listening.

“Jenx, I hear sirens. Finally. Uh-oh. The woman hears them, too. She’s getting back on her bike. She’s riding away!”

“Which direction?”

“She’s going the way she was heading in the first place. In the direction I came from.”

“Okay. Hold on, Whiskey, I gotta talk to Brady—and to County.”

With my battery down to 12%, I could only hope the cavalry—in the form of Roscoe and Brady—was coming ’round the bend. The sun had vanished, and I was alone in a dark woods way too close to a corpse. I had witnessed a murder. And if the French woman were the killer, I could have been her second victim.

My whole body trembled so hard I expected to hear it rattle. I wondered if I were about to be sick. Although this wasn’t the first time I had seen someone die, it was the first time I had been pregnant when that happened, the first time I might have endangered a precious brand-new life. Hands shaking violently, I managed to close the connection to Jenx and speed-dial the father of my unborn child.

Jeb picked up on the first ring. “Hey, Sunshine. Did Jenx tell you I’m coming home?”

So help me, months of frost melted as if lasered away.

“Jeb, I need you. We need you.”

I could tell he was driving. I also knew, as surely as I knew my own habits, that he was switching the phone to his other ear.

“What is it, baby? What happened?”

First, I sobbed incoherently. Then I told him, or tried to. My phone battery died, but I wasn’t scared anymore even though I was still alone in the dark near a dead man. Jeb was on his way home. Equally important at that moment, Roscoe’s bark was growing closer. The baby and I would be fine.

“I’m here! Hey! Over here! Whiskey Mattimoe—I’m over here!” I shouted, willing to yell myself hoarse rather than attempt to stumble blindly through the underbrush. As Jenx had said, I was surviving for two now. Let Brady and Roscoe come save me.

They did, of course, although the process took a little longer than I would have preferred, mainly because Roscoe got distracted by the corpse. But he’d been trained that way. The sweeping beam of Brady’s flashlight instantly eased my mind, as did the sound of his voice.

The Lanagan County sheriff’s deputies figured out how to drive their cars down the Rail Trail, so they arrived with more manpower and equipment, including blankets. A female deputy draped me in fleeces and offered me a folding canvas chair. I asked her to face it away from the crime scene, which was now floodlit like a movie set.

“We’ll have to get Blitzen later,” Brady said, squatting alongside me. “After County gets their crime scene shots.”

“Blitzen wasn’t part of the crime,” I said, my teeth still chattering.

“No, but it’s here, so it’s part of the record.”

“I’m here, too, but nobody’s taking my picture. I’m going home.”

Brady sighed. “Nobody’s going to take your picture, Whiskey, because you can talk. Somebody’s going to ask you questions any minute now. Probably that guy.”

He pointed toward a deputy standing in the spill of the crime scene team’s light, making notes in a pad. The man looked up, locked eyes with me, and ambled over.

“I told him you’re pregnant in case he can’t tell in the dark,” Brady said. “He shouldn’t detain you for long.”

“You’re Whitney Mattimoe?” the deputy asked.

“Whiskey,” I said.

“You’ll have to get that on your own time. I understand you saw Vreelander die.”

“She doesn’t want whiskey,” Brady interjected. “That’s her nickname.”

“Why would a pregnant woman want to be called Whiskey?” the deputy asked.

“I’m right here,” I reminded them.

The nice female deputy returned with a bottle of water. I hadn’t realized how parched I was until I started sipping. I answered the male deputy’s questions, some of which he asked twice, as if I were dense in addition to pregnant. Finally, he told Brady he could take me home.

“Did somebody from your department take care of the kid in my car?” I asked.

The deputy stared at me like I was an unfit mother.

“A kid and a dog. But not my kid and dog,” I said quickly. “Just a kid and a dog I take care of, sometimes. Except for today. Today I left them in my car.”

This wasn’t going well, so Brady translated. We had to find the female deputy again in order to get an answer. She was able to assure us that Chester and Prince Harry were now safely back at The Castle.

“Do they know about the headmaster?” I asked her.

She couldn’t vouch for what Prince Harry knew, but Chester was aware there had been an “incident” involving Mr. Vreelander. The deputy told me that Vreelander’s first name was Mark, he had no children, but did have a wife who was now a widow. She didn’t live here but the authorities had contacted her.

“Were they separated?”

I recalled the agitated French woman on the trail and wondered if she were Vreelander’s lover.

“I don’t know,” the deputy said. “Mrs. Vreelander directs a school, too. In Dallas, I think.”

With a little help from his trusty magnum flashlight and his K9 officer, Brady guided me to the patrol car and helped me into the back seat. Watching Roscoe leap into the front seat, I couldn’t help but think of my own big dog, disobedient though she was. Where on earth would she spend the night? I mentioned that to Brady as he started the engine.