Nina Wright - Whiskey Mattimoe 06 - Whiskey and Soda (7 page)

“I’m not pretending anything,” Jeb said. “I was just trying to make you feel better.”

“By being more concerned about Chester than you are about me?”

“Time out.”

Jeb laid his hands on my shoulders and peered directly in my eyes.

“This morning we’re helping Chester. When you get home, we’ll focus on you. Promise. That’s why I’m here, Whiskey. I came home to be with you and our baby. Last night you didn’t want to talk—”

“I didn’t want to talk about dogs last night, especially that dog down the hall. Tonight we’ll talk about what happened and about what’s going to happen with us.”

I let the sentence hang there in the warm moist air until Jeb put a period on it with a kiss. It might have turned into a really nice kiss if Chester hadn’t interrupted it with a knock.

“Ready for school when you are, Whiskey. Here’s a suggestion. The PTO likes people who look good, so you might want to comb your hair.”

It’s not that I failed to make a habit of combing my hair. It’s just that my hair didn’t look combed. Or stay combed. I had radically recalcitrant hair—thick, coarse and curly. My hair was a triple threat to cosmetologists everywhere, and a daily source of chagrin to me.

Nonetheless, out of respect for Chester, I spent a few extra minutes wrestling with my mane before we left for The Brentwood School. He gave me an “E” for effort, adding that most of the mothers would probably be too worked up about the headmaster to give me more than a passing glance. I could only hope. Waving good-bye to Jeb and Prince Harry, I wondered how Abra’s son would get along with the new rescue dog. Silly question. Prince Harry was half-Golden, and Goldens love everybody.

The Bentwood School was situated on an impressive piece of real estate, the kind that nobody with any business sense wants to see wasted on academics. Although I respected education as much as the next citizen, the seasoned Realtor in me couldn’t resist estimating the commercial value of the property as Chester and I cruised down its long tree-fringed driveway. Granted, real estate was temporarily in the toilet. Even so, the school’s twenty acres of playing fields, woods, meadows, parking lots and tasteful Victorian-style buildings had to be worth three million. In recent better days, they could have commanded five.

Chester pointed to the main building, a sprawling gothic mansion that still boasted a widow’s walk with a clear view of Lake Michigan. I knew that no member of the Bentwood family had ever plied the waves for anything other than pleasure. They made their considerable fortune building and running the local railroad.

“Well, the private school biz must be good,” I said. “The parking lots are beyond full.”

Traffic had ground to a standstill, giving Chester ample time to fill me in on The Bentwood School’s history.

“The original railroad tycoon had only one child,” he began, as if reciting an oft-told tale. “At a tender age, that son was sent off to Exeter Academy and from there, to Yale University. After graduation, he returned home with a Vassar-educated wife. Catherine Ormond Bentwood bore him three sons, but she was appalled by the lack of private education available in West Michigan.”

“Don’t tell me,” I said. “She sent their sons to Exeter and Yale.”

“Right,” Chester said. “But when Catherine’s husband died, she devoted herself to founding the kind of academy she had wished were available for their children.”

“Sweet,” I said. “Do all your fellow students know that story?”

Chester shrugged. “Most of them don’t know much.”

I watched a uniformed security guard as he directed drivers, one by one, to park their vehicles in overflow locations on the school lawn. He seemed to recognize most folks, acknowledging them with a friendly nod.

“Enrollment is high,” Chester said, “but the parking lots weren’t built to accommodate all the parents at once. Usually, they drop off their kids and drive on. Today everybody’s coming in to hear Mr. Bentwood’s announcement.”

“How do they know about it? Was it on the news?”

“Social media,” Chester replied.

“Social what?”

Distracted, I inched my car forward, impatient for the rent-a-cop to show me where I should park.

“Social media,” Chester repeated. “You know—sites where people post photos and updates about every single thing they think or do.”

“Oh. Right.”

“You should try it.”

“I keep meaning to. Then I get busy having a life.”

“Mattimoe Realty needs a social media presence,” Chester insisted as the security guard signaled for me to follow a white Lincoln Navigator. “Maybe you should hire Avery to create it for you.”

“Say what?” The mere mention of my ex-stepdaughter’s name was guaranteed to grab my instant attention. And spike my blood pressure. “Why would I hire Avery to do anything? Besides, I thought she worked for your mother.”

“She does,” Chester said, bouncing emphatically in his seat. “Cassina hires her to manage her social networks. Avery posts and tweets all day. She’s a buzz-maker, Whiskey. I’m sure she could help you.”

Poor Chester, ever the naïf. The day I would trust Avery to broadcast details of my life would be the day when porcine creatures took flight.

“So Avery works online for Cassina?”

As much as I had wondered what the pop diva was paying my lazy ex-step to do, I’d been afraid to ask. Afraid because Avery was chronically inclined to blow every opportunity and come crawling back to my place, her twins in tow. Out of self-defense I had adopted a “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” policy, wanting to believe that if I didn’t inquire, she couldn’t possibly fail and need my help. Pathetic? Yes, yet oddly optimistic at the same time.

Our weather continued to be unseasonably balmy. Neither Chester nor I had even bothered to wear a winter coat. We followed the stream of jacket-free pedestrians flowing into the main building, which looked up close like a cheerful Disney version of a Victorian house. Painted pale yellow with sky-blue shutters, doors, and ornate trim, it boasted windows that were surely twice as large as the originals must have been. Someone had wisely chosen to infuse the narrow, high-ceilinged converted classrooms inside with as much light as possible for the sake of the children.

“Uh-oh,” Chester said, suddenly slowing his pace. “They’re all here, and they’re organized. That can’t be good.”

I followed his gaze to what could only be called a mob of moms. Kimmi Kellum-Ramirez, once again wearing stiletto heels, energetically distributed bright red handouts to a rapidly swelling group of women. Robin Wardrip, looking plain but purposeful in head-to-toe camouflage gear, assisted her. So did another mother, a short but athletic-looking golden-haired woman with a heart-shaped face. She wore a feminine dress with a floral print, but she moved more like a spry young boy than a grown woman.

On a December morning outside any other elementary school, I would have assumed that the pages promoted a Christmas bazaar or contained the lyrics to a favorite carol. Here, though, I knew they had something to do with a dead headmaster, and the moms weren’t collecting for his funeral flowers. The grim intensity with which they moved reminded me of soldiers preparing for battle.

“They want to get everybody on the same page,” Chester said. “Literally.”

“What page is that?”

“I’m pretty sure they’re going to demand that Mr. Bentwood take over as headmaster. Again.”

“Well, that makes sense. I mean, he’s a member of the founding family.”

Chester peered up at me with an expression that said I didn’t have a clue what I was talking about. “He’s not a natural educator, Whiskey.”

“Not a chip off his grandmother’s block.”

The second comment didn’t come from Chester. It came from our chief of police, who joined us on the school lawn. She was flipping through a small well-worn spiral notebook, the kind used by responding officers at crime scenes.

“Bentwood’s strength is politics,” Jenx added.

Chester said, “The art of the possible. The PTO gets what they want when Mr. Bentwood gets what he wants.”

“What more does he want?” I asked. “He’s already got a school with his name on it, plus inherited wealth.”

Jenx shrugged. “More power. More prestige. More …”

She mimed a third word after making sure that Chester wasn’t reading her lips.

“Sex?” I asked out loud. My bad.

“Yes,” Chester confirmed. “Mr. Bentwood has a reputation with the ladies.”

“Really?”

I had met George Bentwood years earlier at a local fundraiser I’d attended with Leo, my late husband.

“Bentwood’s married, isn’t he? And he’s not young.”

“What’s your point?” Jenx said.

“Well, he didn’t strike me as all that attractive.”

“Me, neither,” the chief conceded. “But I’m a dyke. Lots of straight chicks seem to think he’s got something. Maybe it’s the twinkle.”

“The what?”

“Twinkle. That’s what Noonan calls it. She believes there’s a gleam some guys get in their eyes that makes them irresistible. She says Fenton’s got it. Jeb does, too.”

I understood. Some men gave off a vibe that drew women. No question Jeb had it; I’d seen it in Fenton, too. It was one of Noonan’s problems with her “permanent spouse” and my whole issue with my ex.

“There’s Bentwood,” Jenx said, indicating a tall white-haired man with impeccable posture. He motioned for the mothers to follow him inside, presumably so that he could start the meeting.

“They’re trailing him like baby ducklings,” Chester observed.

To me they looked like cats in heat.

Jenx sent Chester ahead with the crowd that was flowing in through the pale blue double front doors of the Victorian home that housed The Bentwood School. Our Chief of Police wanted to bring me up to speed on what she’d learned since last night.

“Chester got it wrong,” Jenx said. “The PTO was waiting for Vreelander at the trail head, not the trail end.”

“Maybe Raphael Ramirez got it wrong. He’s the one who texted Chester.”

“Maybe. Or maybe he was supposed to give Chester the wrong information. He’s Kimmi’s kid, right?”

“Right. Is she a suspect?”

I wanted her to be. Everything about Kimmi Kellum-Ramirez offended me, from her fake tits to her FM pumps. Or maybe she just rattled my green-eyed monster. Kimmi reminded me of all the hot, sexy chicks I would never resemble. The girls who had always caught Jeb’s eye and got his free autographed CDs. And more.

“All the mothers could be suspects,” Jenx said. “If they have means and motive, plus archery skill. We know they had time. If they’d met him at the trail end, they wouldn’t have been able to get to the archery range before Vreelander rode past, but they met him at the trail head. After that, any of them could have driven to the range and got in position before he turned around at the trail end and started back.”

“I like Kimmi for the crime,” I declared.

“Yeah, well, I got a witness who says she made a real spectacle of herself at the trail head,” Jenx said. “She screamed and cried and threw her kid’s homework assignments in the headmaster’s face.”

“Yup. Kimmi killed him.”

“Robin Wardrip looks good for it, too. My witness says she took a swing at Vreelander. He deflected the blow, but Robin’s got a left hook that could knock out a middleweight. She told him to go fuck himself, and she spat at him.”

“I still like Kimmi for it,” I said.

“And then there’s Loralee Lowe,” Jenx said. “She’s a mom and a teacher here, and also one of Bentwood’s lovers.”

“One of—?”

Jenx shrugged. “He’s got the twinkle. You saw Loralee this morning. Wavy gold-blonde hair? Dress with flowers all over it? Rumor has it Bentwood’s the father of her child.”

“Seriously? How old’s the kid?”

“Three, I think. She’s in Preschool.”

“Is Loralee single?”

“She is now. Her ex is her daughter’s legal father. But my source tells me the kid looks like Bentwood. Loralee’s ex thought so, too. He ordered DNA testing before he walked out. Now Loralee’s pushing Bentwood to leave his wife.”

“Loralee didn’t like the headmaster?” I asked.

“She hated him,” Jenx said.

“Why?”

“He was planning to fire her.”

“For an ethics violation?”

“Nope. She’s a lousy teacher.”

Jenx checked the heavy masculine watch on her wrist. “Eight o’clock sharp. We’d better make our entrance.”

“We? I’m here to stand by Chester. Now I’ve got to find him in that crowd.”

“Like he could blend in?” Jenx was moving fast toward the school entrance, and I kept pace. “Chester will feel your support, Whiskey. I’m gonna need you up on stage with me.”

“Why? I’m just a witness.”

“You’re the only witness. I want to watch this crowd closely when you tell them what you saw. There’s an excellent chance the killer will be in that room.”

“What about the French archer? She had the murder weapon, and she was in the right place at the right time. I was an eye witness to that.”

“We’re looking into her,” Jenx said noncommittally as we stepped into the foyer of The Bentwood School. “By the way, the arrow that killed Vreelander was a mechanical broadhead, as opposed to a fixed broadhead.”

“What’s the difference?” I asked, not at all sure I wanted to know.

“Mechanicals open up inside the victim, deploying blades on contact. They may not penetrate as deep as fixed broadheads, but they’re more streamlined as they fly. So they’re easier to control over distance, and they cause a lot of internal bleeding.”

I shuddered and willed myself to think about Victorian mansions instead. Despite the larger-than-traditional replacement windows and doors, I had expected this one to be dense and shadowy. Not the case at all. Whoever oversaw the renovations had created a sunny, wide open space partitioned into modular rooms with movable dividers and recessed lighting. Every original non-load-bearing wall must have been removed, along with every interior door. The resulting ambience was modern and cheerful with just the right quixotic touches of Victorianism in the arched oversized replacement windows, ornate cornices and molding, and gleaming dark oak floors.

I was so taken by the ambience that I must have stopped in my tracks. Jenx nudged me in the direction of a murmuring crowd we could hear but not see beyond the first-floor classrooms. The meeting place featured a modest-sized stage framed by theatrical lighting fixtures and fronted by moveable stack chairs rather than permanent theater seats. Between the chairs and the stage was a twenty-foot-deep space filled with children sitting Indian style, if one could still use that non-P.C. phrase. The children on the floor ranged in age from about eight years to three years; behind them in chairs sat the rest of the student body. And behind them were the parents who had arrived early enough to get seats. Another thirty adults stood lining the walls.