Claw Enforcement

by Sofie Ryan

  As I watched I saw the female bartender shake her head at Mr. Healy. I didn’t think I was wrong about his state of intoxication and the last thing he needed was another drink. She set a cup and saucer on the bar in front of him, picked up a carafe that I assumed held coffee and poured a cup. He made a face at the coffee and said something. The bartender in turn pushed the cup at him. I had the sense from their interaction—the way he leaned in toward her, the way she seemed to snap back at him—that they knew each other.

  And it was all none of my business. I turned my attention back to Rose and Mr. P. Rose was looking in the direction of the bar as well.

  “Let’s go take a look at some of the toys,” I said.

  Mr. P. nodded. “I’d like that. Liam tells me they found a View-Master and a box of reels in excellent condition. I’m thinking of making an offer on them.”

  “I’m guessing you had one when you were a boy.” I remembered when Nick and I had found his mother’s old View-Master in a box up in the attic one rainy summer afternoon. I was fascinated by the idea that we could see images in three dimensions.

  Mr. P. smiled. “I did. I was quite the envy of my friends for a while.” He touched Rose on the shoulder. “What do you think, Rosie?” he asked.

  Rose still seemed to be distracted by what was happening at the bar. The bartender had moved on to serve someone else and Mr. Healy was drinking his coffee and surveying the crowd. She turned to look at us. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I was just wondering if that poor man is okay.”

  I glanced around the room. Joe Roswell was standing by the windows now talking to Liam and Jane Evans. I tipped my head in their direction. “I think he’s fine, Rose,” I said.

  She turned in the direction I’d indicated. “Oh I didn’t mean him,” she said.

  “If you weren’t referring to Joseph then who did you mean?” Mr. P. asked.

  “The young man over by the bar, of course.” She frowned as though she didn’t understand why we didn’t know that.

  “Rose, he’s drunk,” I said.

  “I can see that,” she replied. “Maybe you should ask yourself why.”

  Conversations with Rose could very easily get off track. I knew she had a point to make but I had no clue what it was.

  “I would assume he consumed more alcohol than his body could process,” Mr. P. said.

  Rose nodded approvingly. “Exactly.” She shifted her attention to me. “Why?”

  I was officially off in the bulrushes, as Liz would say. “You mean, why did he get drunk?”

  “Yes. He got drunk, then he came to a party he hadn’t been invited to and made a bit of a scene.”

  I glanced over at Mr. Healy again, who was now talking to Robb Gorham. It didn’t look like a very happy conversation. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed that Joe Roswell was watching them, too.

  Mr. P. was looking pensive. “Getting so intoxicated suggests the young man was upset about something.”

  Once again Rose smiled at him as though he were her best student.

  “You’re wondering what that something is,” I said.

  “I am,” she said. “I hate to see anyone in such distress.” Her eyes flicked to the back of the room again for a brief moment. “I guess that makes me a nosy old lady.”

  I slipped an arm around her shoulder and gave her a hug. “No. It makes you someone with a great big heart.”

  The three of us started working our way along the stretch of the glass-topped cabinets holding the toys. We were almost at the end of the row before we found the View-Master and its box of reels.

  “It looks to be in very good shape,” I said, leaning closer to the glass for a better look. The chocolate brown Bakelite viewer had no visible nicks or cracks.

  “How many reels are there?” Rose asked.

  I moved sideways so she could get a better look. Once again my attention was drawn back to the bar. Maybe now I was the one who was being nosy.

  Healy was still standing there with his coffee. Joe Roswell was walking away shaking his head. Had they had another “conversation” I wondered?

  Beside me Rose was counting the View-Master reels. Across the room Healy took a sip of his coffee. The hand holding his cup began to shake. He pressed his other hand against his upper chest. He made a guttural sound. The coffee cup fell and shattered and Healy fell to the floor.

  I pushed past Rose and Mr. P. “Call 911,” I said. I bolted to the man, reaching him at the same time that Nick did. He rolled Healy on his back, felt for a pulse at his neck and bent to listen for breathing. He shook his head. “Start chest compressions,” he said. “I’ll do the breathing.”

  I nodded, swallowed against the lump of fear that was lodged in my throat and pushed the man’s sport coat open. I felt Healy’s chest move under my hands. I hoped it would somehow be enough to keep him alive until help arrived. Under my breath I was humming the Bee Gees’ “Stayin’ Alive,” something Nick had taught us all to do as a good way to maintain the proper number of compressions per minute. The irony wasn’t lost on me.

  Healy didn’t move. His color was a pasty gray-green, his eyes almost closed. He had long eyelashes and a scrape on his chin that was probably the result of cutting himself shaving. I didn’t know why my brain had noticed those things. Maybe because I didn’t want to think that he might already be dead. I just continued to work in tandem with Nick as the wail of sirens got closer. I had no idea how long it took the ambulance to arrive. Probably not as long as it seemed to me.

  Finally a paramedic in her blue uniform crouched beside me. “I’ve got this,” she said. I moved out of the way and she took over.

  I got to my feet. It was cold in the room. I wrapped my arms around my midsection for warmth. A suit jacket wrapped around my shoulders and Liam put his arm around me. We watched as Nick and the paramedics got Healy onto a stretcher. His color hadn’t changed. He hadn’t moved. I had the sickening feeling he was dead.

  Chapter 2

  Nick came back into the room. He’d tossed his sport coat over the back of a chair and he stopped to pick it up before walking over to Liam and me. Rose and Mr. P. had joined us.

  “Nicolas, is that young man going to be all right?” Rose asked.

  “The paramedics are doing their best,” he said. He looked at me. “Thanks, Sarah.” He looked back over his shoulder toward the entrance. “We gave him a chance, at least.”

  I nodded. I still had that lump in my throat and the sinking feeling that our efforts might not have made any difference in the end.

  Michelle came in then.

  Detective Michelle Andrews and I had been friends when we were kids. We’d reconnected recently and I was happy to have her in my life again. And while she wasn’t really crazy about the cases Rose and Mr. P. and their friends got involved in, Michelle was willing to at least listen to what they had to say.

  “Excuse me a minute,” Nick said. He walked over and met Michelle in the middle of the room. I watched them talk, saw Nick gesture toward the bar where the pieces of the broken coffee cup were still on the floor. All around us people were getting restless, standing in small clusters, talking, bending their heads over their phones.

  Finally Nick headed for the door while Michelle made her way over to us. She was dressed for work, not a party, in gray wool trousers with a plum-colored sweater under her vintage black leather jacket. Her red hair was pulled back in a ponytail.

  “Hi,” she said as she pulled a pen and a small notebook from the inside pocket of her jacket. She focused her attention on me. “Sarah, Nick told me what happened. I’d like to hear your version, please.”

  “Of course,” I said. “I was over there with Rose and Alfred.” I pointed over my shoulder with one hand. “We were looking at the toys, at an old View-Master. I just happened to glance over in the direction of the bar and I saw the man put a hand to hi
s chest, and then he collapsed.”

  “And you went to help Nick do CPR.”

  “I didn’t really think about it. I just reacted. I asked Mr. P. to call 911 and I ran to help.”

  “And I did,” he said quietly.

  “Did you know him?” Michelle asked me. She took notes in her own version of shorthand.

  I shook my head. “No. The guy bumped into me when he first came in. I noticed him because . . . because he smelled like he’d been drinking. I think his last name is Healy.”

  “Christopher Healy,” Liam said.

  Michelle’s attention immediately shifted. “So you do know him?”

  Liam nodded. “Joe Roswell is the developer working on the new hotel. He and Healy were going to court over another piece of land.”

  “Why was Mr. Healy even here? It seems a little odd to invite someone you’re battling in court with to a party.”

  Beside me, Liam shifted uncomfortably. “He wasn’t invited. He got in somehow, he was drunk, he caused a bit of a scene with Joe. That was it.”

  “He wasn’t asked to leave?”

  Liam shook his head. “No. Joe didn’t want any more trouble.”

  Michelle nodded as though she’d heard that reasoning before. “So what did Mr. Healy do? I take it he didn’t cause any more trouble.”

  “He just stayed by the bar,” I said. “He had a cup of coffee. He’d just taken a drink when he collapsed.”

  “Okay,” Michelle said. “Is there anything else you think I need to know?”

  “No,” I said.

  Liam shook his head again.

  “You can go then.” She turned to Liam. “I’d like to talk to Mr. Roswell. Could you point him out to me, please?”

  Liam did a quick scan of the room. Joe Roswell was standing over by the windows in a group of half a dozen people next to a big easel that held an artist’s rendering of the finished hotel. “I’ll introduce you,” he said. His gaze flicked back to me.

  I slipped off Liam’s jacket and handed it to him. “I’m okay,” I said softly, in answer to his unspoken question.

  He gave me a brief smile and turned to Michelle. “Joe’s right over here,” he said, gesturing toward the other side of the room.

  Michelle reached out and touched my arm. “I’ll probably have a few more questions in the morning, Sarah.”

  “I’ll be at the shop.”

  She nodded and headed across the room with Liam.

  I blew out a breath. “Let’s get out of here,” I said to Rose and Mr. P.

  “An excellent idea,” Mr. P. said.

  We collected our coats, gave our names to the police officer at the door, and went out to the parking lot. Rose settled in the front seat and fastened her seatbelt. “Are you sure you’re all right, Sarah?” she asked.

  I shifted in my seat to look at her. I could see that she was worried about me. There was concern in her gray eyes and she wasn’t smiling. “I am, really.” I pulled a hand over the back of my neck. “I’m just worried about Mr. Healy.”

  Rose reached across the seat and laid her hand on top of mine. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “Both you and Nicolas did your best, but Mr. Healy was dead when he hit the floor. There wasn’t anything either of you could have done to save him.”

  I’d already come to the same conclusion, but I hated to admit that Nick and I hadn’t been able to save the man. It made me feel profoundly sad and I hadn’t even known him. I suddenly thought of John Donne’s poem, “No Man Is an Island.” I couldn’t remember if it was Charlotte or my grandmother who had quoted it to me. “‘Any man’s death diminishes me,’

  “‘Because I am involved in mankind,’” I said, softly.

  “‘And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; It tolls for thee,’” Mr. P. finished.

  I started the SUV and pulled out of the lot.

  “I wonder why anyone would have wanted to kill that young man,” Rose said.

  I shot her a quick look. “Hang on a minute,” I said. “We don’t know for sure that Mr. Healy is dead—and even if he is, why would you think someone killed him?”

  “He was poisoned.”

  “Rosie, why do you think that?” Mr. P. asked from the backseat.

  Rose turned to look over her shoulder at him. “He had a seizure right before he died. His body was twitching, shaking. He made some kind of strangled sound and he collapsed.” Out of the corner of my eye I saw her look at me again. “You did see that, didn’t you Sarah?”

  I nodded and swallowed against the sudden tightness in my chest. “I did, but that doesn’t mean the man was poisoned.”

  “It doesn’t mean he wasn’t,” she replied.

  I glanced over at her again. Her hands were folded in her lap and she didn’t seem the slightest bit upset because I didn’t agree with her.

  This was not a good sign.

  “Okay, let’s assume Mr. Healy had a seizure,” I said. “Other things can cause a seizure—a fever, a head injury. He may have epilepsy or be diabetic. He had been drinking. Too much alcohol can cause seizures.”

  “That’s true. All of those things could have caused that young man to have collapsed the way he did,” Rose said. “But I was watching him. He was fine. He drank some of his coffee and then he wasn’t fine. He was poisoned, Sarah.”

  “Can we at least wait until we’re sure the man is dead before we decide he was murdered?” I asked.

  “Of course we can, dear,” she said.

  She was being very reasonable. That was also not a good sign.

  Michelle called the next morning while Elvis and I were having breakfast. Actually, I was having breakfast. Elvis was sitting on the stool next to me at the counter washing his face after having mooched a bite of egg from my plate.

  “I’m sorry to call so early,” she said. “I just have a few follow-up questions from last night.”

  “Sure,” I said. “Go ahead.”

  “Did you remember seeing Mr. Healy talk to anyone?”

  “You mean after he had the altercation with Joe Roswell?” Elvis was watching me, paw paused in midair as though he were listening to my half of the conversation. Which, for all I knew, he was.

  “Yes.”

  “I saw him have a conversation with the bartender,” I said. “I was too far away to hear any of it but I did see her shake her head and then she poured him a cup of coffee. I assumed he wanted a drink and she refused to serve him, but I don’t know that’s the case. After that, as far as I noticed, she pretty much ignored him.”

  “Anyone else?” Michelle asked.

  “I saw Healy talking to one of the contractors who’s working on the harbor front project. Robb Gorham. Rose says he’s related to Stella Hall.”

  I thought about seeing Joe Roswell walking away from the bar. I hadn’t actually seen him have a second confrontation with Christopher Healy, but I suspected that he had. “And I can’t say for certain but it’s possible Healy and Joe Roswell had a second . . . encounter.”

  “What makes you say that?” Her voice took on a bit of an edge.

  I turned my coffee cup in a slow circle on the counter. “I didn’t see them together, but right before Healy lost consciousness I saw Mr. Roswell walking away from that general area. He looked annoyed. He was shaking his head. Someone who was closer could probably tell you more.”

  “I do still have other people to talk to,” she said. “One more question. Last night you said Mr. Healy smelled like he’d been drinking. Do you mean you smelled alcohol on his clothes?”

  “No. As far as his person, he smelled like aftershave—something outdoorsy—I don’t know what it was. I definitely smelled alcohol on his breath. Like I said, he bumped into me. He mumbled an apology. He was no more than six inches away from me.”

  “Okay,” Michelle said. “Thank
s. That’s all I need to know, at least for now.”

  “He’s dead, isn’t he?” I said. “He never started breathing on his own. And he didn’t have a pulse.”

  She cleared her throat. “I’m sorry, yes.”

  “I’m sorry, too,” I said. We said good-bye with a promise that we’d have lunch together soon.

  Elvis had given up eavesdropping and gone back to washing his face. I ate the last bite of toast on my plate and picked up my coffee. I remembered Rose’s insistence that Christopher Healy had been poisoned. Was there a chance she was right?

  * * *

  * * *

  Rose was just coming out of her apartment when I stepped out into the hallway. I was carrying the bag of milk bottles. Too restless to sleep when I’d gotten home I’d washed them all and left them in the dish drainer overnight. She was carrying one of her ubiquitous tote bags, the lid of a cake keeper peeking out of the top. She inclined her head at my bag. “Did you have trouble getting to sleep?” she asked.

  “A little,” I said.

  She patted the top of her own bag. “So did I. Chocolate chip coffee cake.”

  We headed out to the SUV. “You were right,” I said as I opened the passenger door for her. “Christopher Healy is dead.”

  She sighed. “I wish I’d been wrong.”

  I nodded. “Me, too.”

  Rose climbed in and set her bag between her feet. Elvis jumped up beside her, walked across her lap and settled himself in the middle of the bench seat. “Backseat,” I said, motioning with one finger.

  “Mrrr,” he said without even looking in my direction.

  “Elvis is all right here,” Rose said.

  “He’s spoiled,” I retorted.

  She waved away my words with one hand. “Nonsense. Elvis is very intelligent and he has excellent people skills.”

  The cat turned and looked at me. If it were possible for a cat to look smug he did. Rose merely smiled.