Tip a Hat to Murder

by Elaine L. Orr

  Elizabeth lifted the plastic divider and noted the paltry sum stuffed into a thin bank deposit bag. Three twenties, two fives, and three very wrinkled ones. Unless Ben had put some of last night’s take elsewhere, it had been a slow night.

  Poor Ben. So much effort for so little money. No wonder he had worked alone after midnight sometimes.

  She shut the cash register drawer. Why was cash still there? Had the killer been about to get the money, but saw Calderone’s cruiser pull up for his morning coffee?

  “Nuts.” The security camera would probably be useless. “I could use a glass of wine about now.”

  That reminded of her about Nick’s question about the beer cooler. She entered the kitchen and pulled on the handle. Locked. That key must be on Ben’s key ring, too. Wherever it was.

  A flashlight search around every booth revealed nothing except a few moldy French fries in the back of one booth and an expired Illinois driver’s license for a Logland man Elizabeth knew had died last year. “Bet he searched all over for that.”

  She stood and moved to the other side of the counter. With the kitchen behind her, Elizabeth could see both sides of the cigar section. Ben had a tilted, round mirror near the ceiling on the end closest to the short part of the L. Nearly thirty inches in diameter, the mirror allowed Ben to see much of the way down that side aisle, the beer area.

  Had Ben stood where she was now, he would have been warned of an attacker. Except one who perhaps hid under a booth or in the bathroom and snuck up behind him. Or did Ben know his attacker and was comfortable with the person?

  A rap on the diner’s front door gave her a start. She walked to the glass door. Squeaky’s forehead bore a thin line of perspiration and his lime green shirt was halfway untucked. Elizabeth unlocked the door and gestured that he should come in.

  As he moved past her she caught a whiff of beer. “Squeaky. You remember anything?”

  He surveyed the diner for a few seconds and faced her. “No. It’s Alice. All she’s doing is pacing the book store. She asked me to find you to see what was going on.”

  “Thought you worked alone at the dry cleaner’s.”

  Squeaky nodded. “Only time people come in is early morning and from like three to five. I put a sign in the door.” He peered out the door, toward his storefront. “I can see it from here.”

  She gestured to a counter stool. “We’ve taken any fingerprint samples we think we need. My guys cleaned up, but watch out for black spots.”

  Squeaky sat on a stool and twirled to face Elizabeth, who had positioned herself two seats down from him. “See, Alice never had kids and Ben, well his folks been dead a lotta years. So she kind of mothered him.”

  “Mothered a thirty-five year old man?”

  “Oh, you know, made him a birthday cake, stuff like that.”

  “Ah. I get it. I’m sure it’s hard for her. I wish I could tell her something.”

  Squeaky looked through the large opening into the kitchen. “I keep thinking I should hear Ben hollerin’ at Nick to pick up a plate of fries.”

  Elizabeth smiled. “I know Ben did a lot of the cooking himself.” She mentally went over her conversation with Johnson. She’d forgotten to ask him if he had a key to the beer cooler.

  “…plus Ben took her out for Mother’s Day. And Alice is worried about Marti and Nick. They don’t have other jobs.”

  Elizabeth had unintentionally tuned out Squeaky. It sounded as if he was just talking to fill time, and she didn’t have a lot of it. “I know the food servers made the toast and salads and such. I bet they don’t have too hard a time finding jobs.”

  “Hope you’re right.” He stood. “I can tell Alice I talked to you.”

  Elizabeth was nearly eye-level with Squeaky. “Good. Listen, you can help me with one thing.”

  He turned. “Sure, Chief.”

  “I know you came in a lot.”

  Squeaky nodded, but Elizabeth thought his light frown denoted wariness.

  “And I know that a bunch of regulars placed friendly bets on sports here.”

  “Listen, Chief…”

  Elizabeth waved a hand. “What happened in the past stays there. I’m just trying to find out if anyone was mad at Ben. If somebody lost a lot, or won a lot and Ben couldn’t pay. Bottom line, I’m exploring any motive I can think of that’s not random.”

  Squeaky sat back on his stool. “Like you say, friendly.” He drummed the Formica counter for a few seconds with the fingers of one hand. “Only been for the last couple years.”

  Couple of years! Some of my guys had to know about it.

  “We always had pools for the Series, Super Bowl, stuff like that. One year, I guess it was Alice was doing the Super Bowl, and she messed up the odds, so the payouts were all screwed up.”

  “Gee, I’d have expected you guys to use a bookkeeper, not a bookstore owner.”

  Squeaky grinned, then grew somber again. “No one thought she did it on purpose, but Gene, he woulda won about $40 more, I should have got less. He and I squared it. But still…”

  “So Ben took over?”

  “Yeah. We usually came in here to settle anyway, and Ben, well, business wasn’t that good. We set it up so he took a cut. More if we all made lousy predictions.”

  Elizabeth ran a hand through her scalp. “Sheesh. I’m glad I didn’t know. That made it more than a friendly pool.”

  “Yeah, Jen and I talked about…”

  “Jen bet, too?”

  Squeaky shook his head. “Not really. Only if the Cubs were in the playoffs.”

  “So, once every few decades?”

  “Yeah, but sometimes she’d drop off for Alice.”

  Elizabeth did an internal groan. That made Jen out to be a numbers runner of sorts. “And Jen had a problem with Ben's role? Did Alice lose a lot?”

  Squeaky snorted. “She sure didn't win. I don’t know how she did her picks, but Alice was probably the biggest loser. No, Jen, she just said she didn’t want to drop off Alice’s money anymore, ‘cause she didn’t want to…what was that word?”

  “Enable her?” Elizabeth asked, dryly.

  “Yeah, that’s it. Plus, she said it made her feel like a drug runner or something. Jen, not Alice.”

  Elizabeth tapped a pen on the counter. “Seems as if everyone who came in here knew about these bets except me.”

  Until she heard Ben had been the bookie for two years, she had assumed her officers knew nothing, that they would have followed up on any suspicions. Not all of them had welcomed having a new chief brought in from outside, but they’d even had a cookout for her the when she arrived two years ago.

  Did any of them place bets with Ben? Did they know and ignore it because they knew the players?

  Squeaky twirled a few inches on his stool. “I guess…well, of course we didn’t want cops to know, but it wasn’t even hard to hide.”

  She raised an eyebrow at him.

  “I mean, it wasn’t a lot of us, and we were in here all the time. You guys just came in to eat.”

  Elizabeth shook her head. "Okay, friendly bets. What about other things that went on here? Ben was supposedly short on cash. Ever see any unfriendly bill collectors? Suppliers who wanted their money and he couldn't pay?"

  "I wouldn't know about stuff like that. I don't think him and Steve Johnson got along too well, but I kinda thought it was mostly because Steve wanted more hours."

  "Ever see them get in each other's faces? Anything like that?"

  "Nothing that direct, but Steve, he has a temper. He'd probably tell you himself."

  Elizabeth digested that. Johnson had characterized his anger with Ben as a one-off kind of argument. Maybe he didn't see himself as temperamental. And not everyone with a temper stabbed their boss.

  She nodded at Squeaky. “You’ve helped me understand what went on here. You sure no one was especially mad about losing money?”

  He shook his head, slowly. “Couple butt-heads from the college were pretty mouthy after last
year’s Final Four, but like I said, butt-heads. Nobody took them serious.”

  “Frat guys?”

  He nodded. “Know ‘em?”

  “Have an idea. If you don’t know names, I can find other ways to check it out.”

  Squeaky pressed his lips together, seemingly thinking. “Mostly I think they stopped by late at night.”

  Elizabeth sat back on the stool two down from Squeaky. “You going to let the college guys into any future pools?”

  “Nah, we…” He stopped and studied Elizabeth’s face.

  "The state may say friendly pools are illegal, but if I don't know about them, I leave things alone. My job is busy enough. I hear about any middle man, or woman, taking a cut, I have to step in.”

  “Gotcha.” Squeaky stood. “I been gone a while. Just came down because of Alice.”

  “Tell her when we know something important I’ll give her a call.”

  Squeaky nodded and expelled what Elizabeth thought was a breath of relief. “That’ll help her.”

  Elizabeth again smelled beer, but Squeaky was on foot.

  After he left, she locked the door, then sat in a booth to think. She had heard about the betting and zeroed in on it because she had nothing else. Maybe she was letting that color her thinking.

  Maybe it was random. But what thief would rob a small-town diner at just before seven in the morning? Likely one who thought the diner wouldn’t have customers then. And the person probably told Ben to lower the shades. Ben would have done that to keep a robber from getting angry. Better to cut his losses than get hurt.

  Didn’t work out that way for him.

  She moved behind the counter to narrow shelves that were under it. Most of the under-counter space was open and on the customer side, a place for legs. Behind the counter, narrow shelves held salt and pepper shakers, order books, pencils, and several gloves that must have been there since last winter.

  Elizabeth picked up the order books and thumbed through them. None of these recorded wagers. Perhaps he destroyed the books if they had lists of bets.

  She turned to the kitchen. She would ask a couple officers to do something akin to an inch-by-inch search, but she wanted to get a sense of where things were. She wasn’t likely to know if anything was out of place, but she resumed her hunt.

  The two stoves and their ovens were clear except for a frying pan and large wooden spoon on top. Maybe Ben had been about to scramble eggs.

  She nearly retched when she opened the larger refrigerator. A plate of about twenty raw hamburger patties was partially uncovered. They probably weren’t spoiled, but the smell of that much raw meat was rank. If Ben had no family to help, she’d have to see if a couple other business owners would clear out the fridge before the place smelled like a rancid food factory.

  The stainless steel food prep tables had no enclosed space under them. Nothing about the frying pans and mixing bowls stored there seemed suspicious. Under-counter cabinets held largely baking dishes, pots and pans, and cooking utensils.

  She couldn’t remember what was in the cabinet that used to hold the spare key, so she opened it, too.

  The key hung on its hook.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  MARTI AND NICK HAD made the rounds of local eateries the day after Ben was killed. They’d never been close friends, but something about being together when they found Ben made them want to at least start to search for jobs as a team.

  Not that they thought they should mention Ben to other restaurant or bar owners. As Marti said, finding a dead guy wasn’t so good for getting hired.

  Nick at first said he felt bad about trying to find jobs right away, but Marti had no such qualms. “How much money do you have in the bank?”

  Nick shrugged. “Not enough for next month’s rent, but almost.”

  “So, we keep trying.”

  They rode in Nick’s beat-up Honda. The inside passenger door handle was broken, so he had to open the door from the outside so Marti could get out. Each time he apologized, each time she said no problem.

  Nick would be twenty-one in three weeks, and Marti soon after. They could apply at local bars as well as restaurants. At each place, they asked about the tipping policy.

  The manager of the Bob Evans at the edge of town was the friendliest person they spoke to. “Problem is, a few of the servers from the Weed and Feed searched for jobs all over town when they stopped allowing tips.”

  “So, you’re not hiring at all?” Marti asked.

  “Not now, but you know how turnover is. Leave me your phone numbers.”

  At the end of a day of job-hunting, they tried the Weed and Feed. Marti had been against it. “If those yahoos hadn’t done away with tipping, Ben wouldn’t have.”

  With each rejection by a restaurant or gas station convenience store, Nick had gotten more glum. “Yeah, but the Weed and Feed pays more than Ben did. I need that rent money.”

  After Nick released her from the car, Marti stepped onto the cracked sidewalk outside the restaurant. “Maybe Harvey’ll give a Christmas bonus and you can get an inside door handle.”

  “I’m saving for a Harley.”

  “Don’t forget the helmet,” Marti muttered.

  The Weed and Feed was in a building two blocks off the town square. It had been a restaurant in many forms through the decades. The prior one had a Wild West theme, and the Weed and Feed had kept the atmosphere.

  Marti glanced in a large spittoon that sat near the entry door, and hoped the liquid in it was leftover beer.

  Owner and manager Harvey Hunter greeted them solemnly, double chin bobbing as he spoke. “Real sorry about Ben.”

  Nick repeated something several people around town had been saying. “Guess it was his time.”

  “Bull,” Marti said.

  Harvey squinted at them. “You guys think his killer was mad at either of you?”

  “What for?” Nick asked.

  Harvey frowned. “How the hell would I know?”

  “Well, we don’t know either,” Marti said. “All we know is we can’t afford unpaid time off.”

  Harvey nodded. “You guys would probably be eligible for unemployment. You know, if the shock of it makes you not want to work for a couple weeks.”

  Nick said huh, and Marti added, “I checked on the phone this morning. It’s almost nothing.”

  “How much is nothing?” Nick asked.

  “Not even enough for half your rent, probably.”

  Nick looked back at Harvey. “So we need jobs.”

  Harvey nodded. “I do need two staff, but probably not on the same shift.”

  “Really?” Nick asked.

  “That’s okay,” Marti added.

  “If we get more business because of Ben’s, uh, demise, I might need someone with some supervisory experience. Is Steve Johnson looking?”

  Marti and Nick shrugged. She said, “He has his other job, but he might need more hours somewhere. You could call the sandwich shop.”

  “Okay. So, we’re a bigger outfit,” Harvey continued. “You two were used to mostly Ben cooking and a couple of servers. Can you work with a couple cooks at a time, and more customers?”

  Marti was firm. “Yes.”

  “Nick?” he asked.

  “Can you train me some more?”

  Harvey stared at Nick for a moment. “Sure. We’ll give it a shot.” He added. “I pay more than the Bully Pulpit, but I insist that you don’t smoke on breaks while you’re here.”

  “Nothing?” Nick asked.

  “It really messes up the orders.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  BACK AT THE STATION, Elizabeth sat in her office for several minutes. She needed to figure out how that key got back on its hook. How soundly did Officer Grayson sleep? Could someone have gotten by him last night as he dozed by the Bully Pulpit front door?

  She frowned. If the key was the same for the front and back doors, anyone could have come in with that now-returned key. She pulled out the invoice Crusher had give
n her. She was dismayed to see that he had changed the lock on the door that faced the alley as well as the one on the front door.

  Anyone with a key could have snuck in from the dark alley. And if they had the one from the kitchen hook, they wouldn’t have had to use Ben’s red, white, and blue entry key to make a copy for later.

  She had asked Hammer to check with any business in town that made keys to see if someone had tried to copy Ben’s distinctive key. That was now a pointless search. Or maybe not.

  Elizabeth wasn’t sure a business would provide a list of people who made keys in the last two days, if they even knew. And she doubted a judge would issue a warrant based on a “maybe someone did this” idea. She probably couldn't even get the county prosecutor to ask for one.

  However, if a business would make a list of people who made keys, even if they wouldn’t turn it over now, it might help later, when they had a suspect. She’d ask Hammer to call the hardware stores and locksmiths to ask them to keep track of people who made the kind of round key that was used for a lot of interior doors.

  Of course, a really smart killer would go to a large hardware store out of town.

  Thinking about the key reminded her of Crusher’s request. She called the city clerk.

  Donald Dingle had held that job for forty-two years. He often implied or outright said that he knew more than any of the nine mayors who served during that time. He insisted everyone call him Mr. Dingle, and he could be persnickety.

  “Well, chief, that kinda expense should have had city council approval.”

  “You’re kidding. I have to get a part-time council to approve a small expense every time we have a big crime? It’s police business.”

  Dingle hemmed and hawed for another two minutes. Elizabeth thought he was doing his show-her-I’m-boss-routine. She knew Mayor Humphrey hated it. If Dingle had to run for office he’d never win.

  She broke into his soliloquy. “So, I need to pay the bill myself?”

  “Well, now. An exception could perhaps be made.”

  “Crusher needs the money now, so if you don’t think my department’s budget will cover it, I’ll pay him and submit the invoice directly to the council, with a copy of my check.”