Free Whiskey on the Rocks by Nina Wright Page A

else does.”

    “But I’m not a nanny. Or a sitter. I’m not what your mother seems to think I am.”

    “You’re taking care of me, aren’t you?” He produced a brush and began grooming Abra. She always ran away when I tried that.

    “Well, sure. But this was . . . an emergency.”

    “That’s the only reason you let me stay?”

    “Of course not,” I lied.

    “Why else?” he asked. Abra emitted a low moan of pleasure as he brushed her throat.

    “Well, Abra adores you. And we know she needs training.” I was stalling. “But you can train her without living here. Right?”

    Chester grinned, and I noticed he had lost another tooth.

    “You’re missing a canine—I mean, an incisor.”

    “It was loose. Abra knocked it out while we were playing.”

    “I hope you didn’t swallow it.”

    “Abra did. It happened last night when we shared the burger. She already passed it. Want to see?”

    “No thanks.” I sat down to match his eye level. “I can’t keep your mother’s money, and I can’t keep you. But I do want you to work with Abra.”

    He said, “Give Cassina’s check to charity. She won’t take it back. You might as well make somebody happy.”

    Leo used to say that.

     

    Good-natured Brady Swancott forgave me for bringing Chester to the police station the next morning. He’s a family man, after all.

    “I have a son just your size,” he said, patting Chester’s white-blonde head.

    “Is he six?” asked Chester.

    “Yes he is!”

    “I’m eight.”

    “Oh.” Brady looked at me, unsure what to say next. “Well, you’ll catch up.”

    “Probably not. I was a preemie. But I’ll always be smarter than your son.”

    Wordless, Brady patted Chester’s head again.

    “Please don’t do that,” Chester said.

    Brady didn’t approve of the greasy fast-food breakfasts I had brought.

    “Definitely not regulation canine-officer chow.” He arced the paper bag into the waste basket. When Abra dove in after it, he said, “I guess we can make an exception.”

     

    Always busy on Saturday mornings, Mattimoe Realty thrums in Leaf-Peeping Season. When I arrived at 8:15, Odette was on the phone, and two other agents were chatting with eager-dreamer tourist families. Odette tossed me the Magnet, our local news weekly. The headline read: “Magnet Springs Murder: Canadian Widow Slain While Looking Into Husband’s Sudden Death.”

    “They say all publicity is good publicity,” Odette said.

    I closed my office door and sat down to read. Who needs caffeine when you can contemplate a fresh unsolved murder? The article was thin on details, for which I was grateful—especially since the missing facts included my name and my firm’s. I had barely finished my second read-through when I heard Odette’s rapid-fire three-tap knock.

    “It’s already started,” she announced. “The new traffic pattern at Shadow Point. Carol Felkey called to say that she can hardly get in or out of her driveway! The story’s on every TV station in the tri-state area. People yell out their car windows, ‘Is that Murder House?’” Odette rubbed her hands together. “I smell money waiting to be made!”

    Then Jenx called.

    “Let’s hope history won’t repeat itself. Dan Gallagher’s widow is on her way to Magnet Springs. She wants to know what happened to her husband.”

    “Well, she can’t stay at Shadow Play,” I said.

    “I should warn you, she’s a Fundie. On the phone she asked me to pray with her. Something tells me she won’t be happy at our house.”

    I offered to put the widow up at Vestige if nothing else could be found.

    “There’s a room at the Broken Arrow,” Jenx said. “Our fake Heather Nitschke never came home. Glad I kept that crime scene tape on the motel-room door. I’ll tell the desk clerk to expect Mrs. Gallagher.”

    Jenx asked if I’d ever heard the name Holly Lomax. I hadn’t.

    “Her prints were all over Shadow Play and the motel room: She’s