by Dana Dratch
“Apparently getting blotto and passing out at your dad’s wake doesn’t trip the alarm. She’s locked in the staff bathroom with a fifth of vodka and one of the busboys.”
“That’s Daddy’s little girl.”
Nick gave a mock salute and dashed through the kitchen’s swinging doors.
“OK,” I said to the snuffling blob at the table. “We’re going to get you some coffee.”
I’d just figured out how to work the industrial-size coffeepot and gotten it brewing when Ralph came through the doors.
“We need you out front,” he said, jerking a thumb so wrinkled it looked like an overboiled hot dog.
“I’m on babysitting duty,” I said, nodding at Pat.
Ralph put his hand on Pat’s neck and felt for a pulse. “He’s just sleeping it off. He’ll be fine. But we need to get some food out there pronto. Or the rest of them are going to look just like this.”
I grabbed a tray of prawns and hustled out the door, just missing Gabby.
“Watch it out there, hon,” she said with a wink. “They’re getting a little handsy.”
Why was I even surprised?
I’d made it halfway across the room when a voice sent ice down my spine. “Hey, I know you!”
I froze. But my accuser kept coming. A pudgy, middle-aged guy, he was a higher-up in the local P.R. association. Named Phil? Bill?
Will! I’d met him all of twice. How the hell did he recognize me? My heart was pounding double time.
“I’d know that pretty face anywhere!”
Pretty face?
“You’re the cheese puff girl. Hey, Troy, this is that pretty little thing I was telling you about. The one with the great big . . . cheese puffs.” At that, the two of them dissolved into raucous laughter.
The prawns and I scooted to the other side of the room. I crashed into another body. And froze.
Chaz.
“Hey, watch where you’re going with that thing,” he slurred.
“Sorry,” I said, raising the tray again in self-defense. “Prawn?”
“What the hell, free food,” he said, grabbing a giant shrimp with his free hand, and thumping his chest with his lowball glass. “It’s good to be Chaz!”
Right behind him, Gabby paused momentarily, then changed direction.
I made for the bar and set down the tray, pretending to rearrange the prawns. Nick was nowhere to be seen. But Trip and Jennifer were deep in conversation at the end of the bar. She was sipping what looked like seltzer water. Or it could have been gin and tonic.
From what I’d noticed, she’d been on her own most of the night. As comfortable as she’d appeared on her first day at C&W, that’s how miserable and out of place she looked tonight. It wasn’t that she was being overtly excluded. More like someone had put her behind an electric fence and erected a flashing “keep out” sign. And, hand it to the folks at my old office, they were great at reading the signs.
I saw Trip pat her shoulder as they talked. Well, good. Now that she’d found a friend, I hoped she was spilling her guts.
I went back to working the room, pausing only long enough to present my tray and eavesdrop. Not necessarily in that order.
“I heard it was his bookie,” said a trim, dark-haired guy I didn’t recognize. “Coleman liked the ponies, but he couldn’t pick ’em.”
“Couldn’t pick ’em is right,” added one of the suits from C&W. “It was some redhead he was banging at the office.”
Swell.
“I heard there hasn’t been any vodka in the freezer since he died,” said a shellacked, forty-something blonde.
“Yeah,” said her brunette companion, stumbling slightly as she lurched to retrieve a prawn. “And . . . they’re . . . using . . . grocery . . . store . . . coffee.”
“No!” said the blonde.
Wow. How will those kids survive the week?
At my elbow, I heard a voice I recognized. Paul, one of Walters’ favorites, was talking to another guy I didn’t know. “I’m not kidding,” he said, turning to grab a shrimp. “An IRS audit. They notified the office three days before he died.”
“Then maybe it was suicide,” the second guy said. They both laughed.
Interesting. Maybe Benny’s “friends” at the IRS weren’t so friendly after all.
“I heard Burgoyne & Co. put out a contract on him,” a reedy female voice whined behind me.
Yeah, ’cause a letter opener is a hit man’s weapon of choice.
“Let’s put it this way,” a man’s voice drawled from another direction, “it was a lot easier to snake that account with the old man gone.”
“Quite a coup,” said his female companion.
I whipped my head around, but neither looked familiar.
“The old guy would have taken it for himself, if he’d had a pulse. Now it’s all mine. And let me tell you, that baby’s going to mint some serious coin.”
The woman giggled and rubbed his sleeve.
Unbelievable.
“Ya gotta love it,” roared a baritone behind me. “He was scared shitless of his wife. And then it’s his girlfriend who goes and kills him! Never trust a redhead.”
You can trust this one to spit in your drink. And why is everyone so convinced that I was his girlfriend?
“The old bastard actually had the nerve to threaten to make me pay for it,” another male voice boomed. “He actually pretended to be indignant. Red in the face. Shouting. Slamming his fist on the desk. The works.”
Oh, goody.
“Acted like he hadn’t planned the whole campaign. Of course, it was my signature on all the paperwork. So when the clients started to squawk, he cut me loose. And threatened to sue me. Me! After all the shit I cleaned up for him over the years. I say the old bastard got what he deserved.”
“Karma’s a bitch.”
“Yeah, but tonight she’s my bitch.”
I glanced over my shoulder. The guy with the grudge was Bingham, one of C&W’s former account execs. I didn’t know the other one.
As the night wore on, the tone of the room went from collegial to college frat house. My ass had been pinched so many times it felt like a pincushion. And one would-be Romeo actually took my hand and offered to trade me a shrimp for “an extra large.”
Gabby was getting the same treatment. She just laughed it off.
“The trick,” she told me one of the many times we were restocking our trays in the kitchen, “is to wink at ’em and keep moving. Like it’s a big joke, and you’re in on it.”
“So I can’t kick ’em in the nuts?”
“Not if you want tips. And, honey, in the waitressing game, we live on tips.”
* * *
Over the next few hours I learned a few things. First, even though everyone seemed to have a good motive for killing Coleman themselves, I was the sentimental favorite for having dispatched him to The Great P.R. Agency in the Sky. Or wherever he was currently residing.
Although a few wacky souls were at least considering the mob-hit scenario.
And second, extreme grief was giving these people an appetite. Or maybe it was just the booze. Either way, they were picking the trays clean in record time.
I slammed through the kitchen doors, only to find Mira, bottle in hand, pouring something into Pat’s coffee. And it wasn’t creamer.
She glanced up, then back at him.
“An’ zhats when he tol’ me I had to come home,” Pat pronounced. “Jus’ like zhat. Jus’ come home. Jus’ cuz I wanted to change majorzzz. Basss-tarddd!” he said, spitting the last word as he nestled his head on the table.
“What about the girl in your father’s office? The redhead?”
“I like blondzzzzz,” he said sleepily.
“Here, drink your coffee. Now, tell me about your father’s girlfriend. The redhead. When did you know they were sleeping together?”
“Mmmmmm. Sllleeeep,” he said, closing his eyes.
I barreled back into the crowd and found Ralph right outsi
de the kitchen doors. “Mira’s back. She’s got Pat,” I said, pointing frantically.
Ralph might be ancient, but that man could move. When I walked back into the kitchen a minute later, there was no sign of Mira. She’d disappeared. Poof.
My eyes slid involuntarily back to the big meat locker in the corner. He wouldn’t. Would he?
“Uh, where is she?” I asked, not sure I wanted to know.
“Alley,” Ralph said, jerking a hot-dog thumb toward the kitchen’s back door. “That’s probably how she got in. Damned reporters are like roaches. I locked it, but she’ll probably be back, so keep an eye peeled. Nice work, by the way.”
“Uh, thanks.” As a former roach, I didn’t know what to say. But the label fit Mira. I pictured her scuttling back and forth across the alley, sniffing for an opening. Ick.
By the end of the night, I had sore feet, aching arms, a dozen crackpot murder theories, a handful of realistic motives, and a new appreciation for waiters and waitresses.
I’d pushed myself past exhaustion, but at least this time I’d have some cash to show for it. And, after getting stiffed by Gravois & Spouse, I really needed it. Except for a half-eaten jar of salsa, the only thing left in my fridge was the lightbulb.
When I’d swung by the bank that morning to straighten out the mess that was my checking account, I’d learned that—because of all my recent “infractions”—I’d been put on some sort of a bad-customer watch list. Not only did they refuse to cash Peter’s check, but I practically had to arm-wrestle the bank manager just to withdraw my own money. End result: except for twenty dollars each to keep my checking and savings accounts open, the remainder of my worldly wealth now resided in a coffee can in my bedroom closet.
And I had just about enough left for a couple of mortgage payments. Provided I didn’t eat or pay bills.
As the last of the mourners trickled out, Gianni and Walters put their heads together at the bar. Tip time!
I grabbed my tray and made for the kitchen. Travis had collapsed into one chair, vest open, tie at half-mast, rubbing his eyes. Gabby was in another chair, downing a can of Coke while Nick massaged her shoulders.
Margaret had already collected Pat, whom I assumed was going to be carried home and tucked into bed. I kind of felt sorry for him.
Patti had finally returned the busboy but not the vodka, and Ralph put her in a cab. She’d nicked a bottle of scotch on her way out.
Now we just had to settle up, and we could go home and get some rest ourselves. Ralph came through the doors looking dour. But that was pretty much his usual expression. He was clutching a handful of bills.
“Our tip,” he said, laying six twenties on the table.
“A hundred and twenty dollars?” I said. “For all of us?”
“For the whole night?” Gabby exclaimed.
“Wait a minute, the bar tab alone would have gone five figures,” Nick said. “At least.”
“That’s why the regular staff never wants to work these things,” Ralph said, handing each of us a Jackson, and pocketing two for himself. “The Barclay is one of the few establishments that still does not impose an automatic gratuity for events. And when these people aren’t spending someone else’s money, they’re skinflints.”
Chapter 23
By midnight, we’d gathered again in my living room to share what we’d learned. Three nearly empty pizza boxes decorated my coffee table.
“I thought you said higher heels equaled higher tips,” I said, rubbing my ankles.
“Sugar, in Vegas it does. These Washington folks are a bunch of cheapskates.”
“D.C. may be budget-conscious, but I think C&W is taking it to extremes,” I said, reaching for my third slice.
“Sounds like that office of yours is going through a radical shift,” Trip said, pulling out a slice and placing it carefully on Lucy’s plate on the floor.
She trembled with excitement, but held herself back until he was clear of the plate. Then she pounced.
“Can dogs eat pizza?” I asked. “That’s her second piece.”
“Can she? Sure. Should she? We’ll find out in about twenty minutes,” Nick said. “Fifteen if it’s greasy.”
Trip winked at me. “I gave her the Meat Monster,” he said. “No onions, no garlic. She should be fine. No guarantees on the effects of the grease, though.”
Lucy devoured the pizza like she was the queen of the pack and it was an unwary wildebeest.
Soon she was parked at my feet, looking up at me with those deep brown eyes.
“No more. First we’ve got to see how those two settle out.”
She cocked her head to one side and continued to stare. I felt my forehead grow hot. I looked over at Trip, Nick, and Gabby, who were chowing down totally free of canine panhandling.
“Why me?”
“Soft touch,” said Trip.
“Soft head,” said Nick.
“Heyy!” I punched him in the shoulder.
Lucy, ever hopeful, had backed off to a respectful distance. And stretched out with her head on her paws. But she was keeping a drowsy eye on the pizza boxes. Just in case.
“OK, kiddies,” Trip said. “What did we learn tonight? Other than dogs like pizza.”
“Well, I learned that Coleman’s son isn’t much of a drinker,” I said. “And that he had some kind of beef with his father.”
“Daddy had him majoring in public relations,” Trip said. “He switched to archaeology. Daddy pulled the plug on college.”
“Damn,” said Nick. “That’s cold.”
“It’s also a motive,” I said. “But somehow, I can’t see him doing it.”
“So we put him in the ‘maybe’ pile,” said Trip. “What about the sister?”
“Also had issues with Daddy, but worked them out a little differently,” I said.
“I’ll say,” said Nick. “I saw the busboy afterward, and he looked like hell.”
“Motive?” I prompted.
“Just the usual teenage, upper-middle-class crap,” Nick said. “Her parents love her. New car at sixteen. Free ride to college. So she gets even by torturing them. Except instead of singing about how much she hates them and how they don’t understand her, she bags busboys.”
Trip looked at me with a question in his eyes. I shook my head infinitesimally.
One of Nick’s college girlfriends was a trust-fund baby and a huge Avril Lavigne fan. In the year they dated, she dragged him to nine concerts, and he’s never quite forgiven her.
“OK, so we know that Patti had issues with Daddy,” I summarized. “And that Nick’s not buying Avril Lavigne tickets anytime soon.”
“Hey, I’m just saying that’s the vibe I got.”
“So we put her in the ‘maybe’ pile?”
“Long-shot maybe,” said Nick. “She’s almost too self-centered to think about anyone else, much less kill them.”
“Interesting take,” said Trip.
Nick shrugged. “What about the widow?”
“She’d be my pick,” Gabby said. “That woman is cold.”
“And a stone-cold drunk,” Nick said. “She was tossing back drinks all night and never missed a step or slurred a word.”
“She reminds me of a lizard one of my roommates had,” Gabby said. “Sat there with those bulging eyes, just watching everything and everybody. But you never knew what was going on inside that flat head.”
“The lizard or Margaret?” I asked, deadpan.
“Both, sugar. Both. Burrr!” she said, shivering.
“Gabby heard something interesting between Margaret and Walters,” I added. “About the insurance policies. Not only have they not paid, but apparently, the insurance company is doing some kind of investigation.”
“That is interesting,” Trip said. “I wonder if that’s typical.”
“Might be worth finding out,” I said. “If the insurance carrier is dragging its feet, how much of the delay is because they don’t want to part with the money until they absolutely have
to . . .”
“And how much is because they don’t want to reward a murderer?” Trip finished.
“So if one of them did it, the insurance company doesn’t have to pay?” Nick asked.
“Depends on how the policy was set up,” said Trip. “With the average life insurance policy, you just skip over the murderer and the money goes to the next beneficiary on the list. Or, failing that, an heir. But with a business policy, if the only beneficiary is also the killer, I don’t know how it would work.”
“What if there was another partner?” I asked suddenly. “Or what if Coleman added a beneficiary and didn’t tell Walters?”
“What do you mean?” Trip asked.
“When I heard Jennifer talking in the bathroom after Coleman was killed, she was going on and on about the two of them taking over the agency and being full partners with Coleman. What if he’d already changed the insurance to reflect that? That might slow things down a little, come payoff time. Especially if the others weren’t expecting it.”
“Sugar, that would give her a pretty big motive, too.”
Trip shook his head. “I talked to her for a long time tonight. She seemed pretty honestly devastated.”
“Then she was one of the few,” I said. “I’ve never seen a more upbeat group of mourners.”
“Even if she’s up for a chunk of the insurance, I don’t think she killed Coleman for it,” Nick said. “From what you said, he was just going to hand her half the company. Now she’s got to arm-wrestle Walters to get even a piece of it.”
I noticed Lucy’s heavy eyelids had finally closed. Her soft chest gently rose and fell. Did she dream of pizza-flavored wildebeests?
“Do you know an Alan Piper?” Nick asked.
“The name rings a bell. Wait a minute, I think he worked at C&W. Left a few months before I started. Heard he had some sort of breakdown. Was he at the wake?”
Nick nodded. “Drinking like a fish. Said he went to the funeral, too. Quote, ‘Just wanted to make sure the old bastard was really dead’ unquote.”
“Ouch!” said Trip. “Did you ever hear what happened with Piper?”
I shook my head. “Supposedly embarrassed himself and nearly cost the firm an account. Once in a while the name would come up, but no one ever said much. It was like he had a contagious disease.”
