Nina Wright - Whiskey Mattimoe 06 - Whiskey and Soda (9 page)

“A force to be reckoned with, wouldn’t you say?”

I glanced around to see who was speaking. A shapely auburn-haired woman close to age fifty smiled at me conspiratorially. She wore a simple black suit with reasonable heels.

“Pauline Vreelander, I mean,” the woman said. “Although Chief Jenkins is no doubt a force to be reckoned with, in her own way. I’m sorry, I should introduce myself. Stevie McCoy, Admissions Director of The Bentwood School.”

She extended a slim cool hand.

“Whiskey Mattimoe,” I offered in case she hadn’t witnessed the entire fracas on the stage.

Stevie McCoy nodded. “You didn’t expect the mothers to come forward with that poster, did you? You looked surprised.”

“Don’t you mean horrified?”

We shared a grin.

“Well,” Stevie said, “sometimes our PTO can be a little … ”

Her voice trailed off, and her brow furrowed as she searched for just the right word. I tried to help.

“Excitable? Overzealous?”

“Out of their freaking minds,” Stevie concluded. She lowered her voice. “I work with those wingnuts every day. Putting up with their melodramas is one of my job requirements. I acknowledge their emotional roller coaster, but I refuse to ride it.”

I liked this woman. She expressed my sentiments exactly.

“I sell high-end real estate, so we serve pretty much the same market,” I said. “But your PTO is like a mob of my worst clients overdosed on caffeine and estrogen.”

“That’s exactly who they are,” Stevie agreed. “It’s all about their egos and their kids, in that order. They’re vain, possessive and most of all, entitled, and it’s my job to keep ’em happy. Or at least keep ’em enrolled.”

“You said you’re the Admissions Director, so isn’t your job to bring ’em in?”

She laughed ruefully. “In a small private school, we all wear more than one hat. My real job is recruitment, retention, marketing, public relations and media relations. So, yes, first I have to bring ’em in, but then I have to make sure they don’t leave. That’s the hard part.”

“Really? Why?”

She laughed again. I was beginning to think it was some kind of defense mechanism.

“Because once they write that tuition check, they think they own the place, and when every little thing doesn’t go exactly the way they want it to, they threaten to go somewhere else. Half my parents are ‘shoppers,’ Whiskey. They change schools every couple years, if not more often. I’m supposed to keep that from happening, however.”

When she brushed a strand of dark red hair from her forehead, I realized that Stevie McCoy was probably older than I had thought, a little past the mid-century mark. She obviously took good care of herself. I noticed that she wore no wedding ring although she did have a tasteful gold necklace and matching earrings.

“How long have you worked here?”

“Since I had to,” she replied. That could have been the start of an amusing story except we were interrupted by one of Stevie’s un-amusing moms.

“What the hell is he telling Vreelander’s widow?” Robin Wardrip demanded. She stood in a defensive posture, feet planted wide apart, arms akimbo. Maybe it was the camo gear and combat boots, but that woman made me wish I was armed.

Stevie straightened her posture and flicked on a cool professional smile.

“I’m sorry, Robin. Who are you talking about?”

“You know damn well who I’m talking about. Bentwood, that horse’s ass. He can’t even control a school assembly. If he wasn’t such a wuss, we wouldn’t have had to hire Vreelander in the first place, and none of this shit would have happened.”

Stevie’s face darkened, but her smile never faltered.

“Come on. Let’s go grab a cup of coffee.”

“Do I look like I need coffee?” Wardrip asked.

“Decaf, then,” Stevie said. “Or something else. Let’s see what I can find for us in my office.”

I wondered if she meant alcohol. Or maybe horse tranquilizers? Considering it was barely nine A.M., and this was an elementary school, neither seemed likely, although Wardrip definitely required taming. With nary a backward glance, Stevie guided the disgruntled mother away from me and up an airy staircase that presumably led to second-floor offices. Wardrip’s rant, punctuated by what sounded like consoling mews from Stevie, continued long after they were out of sight. Maybe real estate wasn’t the toughest sell in town.

“Madame Mattimoe?”

The French woman from the Rail Trail was standing close to me, unnaturally close according to the culture I’d been raised in. Staring up at me with a concerned expression on her fine-lined face, she had to be at least as old as Stevie. Her short-cropped black hair sported cardinal red highlights that I had missed in the fading light.

“My name is Anouk Gagné,” she continued, her accent thick. “I believe I found your bicycle.”

“My bicycle wasn’t lost.”

“Well, I think you left it somewhere.”

“I think you put up ‘wanted’ posters all over town.”

Her frown gave way to an amused smile. “‘Wanted’ posters? This is not the Wild West.”

“Then why do you ride around with a bow and arrow? Make that lots of arrows.”

“I am an
archère,
Madame.”

“Yeah? Well, last night you looked like a killer.”

Her smile evaporated. “I do not know why you would say that. Last night I found my friend dead on the Rail Trail. If only he had listened—”

“Mark Vreelander was your friend?”

“Yes.”

“Why did you yell at his dead body? Why did you message pictures of it to somebody instead of dialing 9-1-1?”

As I spoke, Gagné’s face morphed into an expression of revulsion.

“You were watching me? Spying on me? Why would you do that?”

“Why would I do that? Because there was a dead body on the Rail Trail, and you looked like a crazed killer. I was trying to save myself. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m pregnant, which means I’m surviving for two now.”

“Anouk! How are you,
cherie?
”

I recognized Bentwood’s voice although I hadn’t heard much of it that morning. He, Jenx, and Pauline Vreelander must have adjourned their meeting, for they now stood in the school foyer, possibly en route to offices upstairs.

“George,” Anouk Gagné cried, giving his name its purred French pronunciation.

She babbled something in her native language, and he responded in kind. They embraced with a passion I considered inappropriate for public viewing, especially in a private grade school. The foot of difference between their heights may have contributed to the hug’s intense groping quality, but it didn’t explain or excuse the prolonged kiss. Didn’t Europeans peck both cheeks and move on? I sneaked a peek at the other two onlookers. Mrs. Vreelander watched the smooching duo impassively. Jenx yawned, either because she’d had a late night or because heterosexual mating rituals bored her.

When Gagné and Bentwood finally peeled themselves apart, the school president summoned the presence of mind to introduce her. He started with Pauline Vreelander, who briskly interrupted him to complete the social amenities—in French. Within seconds, the new widow and the archer were exchanging musical nasal sounds, which is how I hear French. Pauline seemed to speak like a native. When it was Jenx’s turn, the conversation reverted to English although she demonstrated a little residual high-school learning by adding,
“Enchantée, Madame.
”

Show-off.

“I think we met a long time ago,” the chief told Anouk. “I used to date a girl who was into archery.”

“Very likely,” Anouk agreed.

To me Jenx added, “Madame and her husband own
Tir à l’Arc.
”

“We divorced,” Anouk interjected. “I am now sole proprietor. I instruct archers, coach the leagues, and manage the club.”

She gave me a sideways gaze. “Madame Mattimoe seems to think that I put up those posters with her bicycle.”

“Of course you did,” I said. “I saw you take and send that photo instead of calling 9-1-1.”

“I did take the photo,” she admitted. “But I did not make the posters.”

“Who did? Who did you send the photo to?”

“I sent the photo to every archer I know.”

“Because you knew that one of them had killed him?”

“Au contraire
. I knew that none of them could have killed him. He was one of us.”

“What? Are you saying that Mark Vreelander was an archer?”

“An extraordinary archer,” Anouk said.

Pauline nodded. “My husband was an alternate on the 1984 Olympic team. That’s where he met Anouk. She was one of the trainers.”

The widow and the archer smiled at Jenx, Bentwood and me, no doubt enjoying our stunned expressions.

“One reason Mark took this position was so that he could work with Anouk again,” Pauline continued. “He hoped to convince her to teach an archery seminar at the school.”

Bentwood’s momentary blankness suggested that he hadn’t been privy to any of that. But he recovered smoothly by contributing a fact he did know.

“We’re always delighted to see Anouk at the school. She sent her son and daughter here, Class of ’05 and Class of ’07.”

Recalling Chester’s comment about the school’s steep academic decline, I did some hasty mental math. “Are they in college now?”

That hit a nerve. Bentwood coughed softly, and Anouk averted her eyes.

“My daughter is a manicurist, and my son is a professional recycler.”

I felt my customary compulsion to babble whenever I put my foot in it.

“How nice for you. My cuticles just scream ‘Help!’ And as a Realtor, I can tell you there will always be a need to get rid of trash.”

I wasn’t sure who I felt embarrassed for. Maybe it was Chester since we were discussing his future fellow alumni. Or maybe I just felt bad because my mother had raised me not to point out other people’s failures. My mother. I suddenly remembered that she was bearing down on Magnet Springs.

Jenx said, “Mrs. Gagné, I’m gonna have to question you formally about what happened last night. We can do that down at the station, but I’m on the same page as Ms. Mattimoe. Why the hell didn’t you call 9-1-1?”

“Excuse me, Chief Jenkins,” Bentwood interrupted. “Shouldn’t Mrs. Gagné have her attorney present?”

Jenx shrugged. “She can if she wants to. I’m not treating her as a suspect; I’m interviewing her for information. Mrs. Gagné was the second person at the crime scene. Ms. Mattimoe got there first, and she called 9-1-1 before she took cover, as I instructed her to do. Moments later, Mrs. Gagné arrived to find a dead body and an abandoned bicycle. I want to know why she only phoned her friends.”

“I assume,” Bentwood said officiously, “that when she saw Mrs. Mattimoe’s bicycle, Mrs. Gagné assumed that someone else had already been there and called the authorities.”

“With all due respect, sir,” Jenx said, “what you assume doesn’t mean squat.”

“You called someone,” I told Anouk. “I saw you dial and heard you speak French, very excited French.”

All eyes moved to the archer.

“I phoned a friend,” she said as if that fact were obvious. “Like Mr. Bentwood says, I assumed the rider of the bicycle had already called the police, and they were en route.”

She lent the original French pronunciation to those last two words, making them sound ever so nice.

Jenx cleared her throat. “We can discuss that later. What I’d like to know now is whose phone number’s on the posters.”

“That would be Mark’s cell phone number,” Pauline Vreelander volunteered.

Anouk Gagné said, “I think someone I sent the photo to either made the poster or forwarded the photo to someone who did, and that person knew Mark’s phone number.”

“Obviously,” Jenx growled.

“Perhaps using Mark’s cell phone number on the poster was someone’s idea of a joke,” Pauline Vreelander said. “Though it’s not funny.”

We all nodded our heads in agreement.

“Who knew your husband’s cell number?” Jenx said.

“Everyone affiliated with the school.”

“Did he use that phone for school business only?”

“Oh, no. It was his personal phone, but he shared the number with everyone—pupils, parents, teachers, staff. Mark and I disagreed about that… .” Pauline’s voice trailed off.

“You don’t share your personal number with everyone at your school?” Jenx asked.

“Absolutely not,” Pauline said. “I check my office voicemail each evening and respond to calls that qualify as urgent. Mark responded to everyone, every time.”

I piped up. “My neighbor Chester told me that the headmaster didn’t take his cell phone when he rode his bike.”

“That was his quiet time,” Pauline agreed. “But he always checked his phone after his ride and responded to calls then.”

“Where is his cell phone?” Jenx said.

Everyone looked questioningly at Pauline, who said, “I don’t know where he put it when he went for his ride.”

“I imagine it’s either in his office or at his home,” Bentwood said, trying to sound certain about something.

“Or in his car,” Pauline said. “I know that he sometimes drove his car to a point on the Rail Trail and rode from there.”

“Did he take certain routes on certain days of the week?” Jenx said.

“He had several favorite routes, but he liked to make spontaneous choices based on weather and his mood.”

“He bicycled down Broken Arrow Highway yesterday,” I said.

When Pauline raised her eyebrows, I added, “I didn’t know him, but I was talking to Chester, my neighbor, when he rode by. He told Chester to carry on with his two-mile jog.”

Pauline and Anouk smiled knowingly, but the school president didn’t look at all pleased.

“He probably rode from either school or home,” Pauline concluded.

“Can you provide your husband’s cell phone?” Jenx said. “Or will I need a warrant?”

Damn, she was good at bluffing. I happened to know that the case was now in County’s hands, if it hadn’t already been passed on to the State boys. No way Jenx could leverage a warrant, at least no strictly legal way.

“I’ll be happy to help you locate Mark’s cell phone,” Pauline said. “Are you curious about who responded to the poster?”

Jenx nodded. I was curious, too, about who had tried to finger me as the killer based on Anouk’s inflammatory photo combined with Blitzen’s unfortunate reputation as a murder weapon. Her antagonizing heels, boobs and attitude notwithstanding, Kimmi Kellum-Ramirez was no longer my favorite suspect.