by Meg Benjamin
Serial killer narrowed his eyes again. “Twenty percent. And if you don’t pick them up, you forfeit.”
“Right.” She dug into her purse, pulling out the crisp twenties she’d gotten from the bank this morning. The hundred and twenty would take care of her spending for the week, but she could always get her meals at the Faro. If she were being practical, she should probably be saving her money for the roaster, but who knew when she’d find tables and chairs like this again?
She handed Mr. Serial Killer the money. He jerked his head, motioning for her to follow him.
Amazingly enough, the far end of the room seemed to be an actual antique store. Glass cases surrounded a battered desk against the back wall. Deirdre glanced at the contents—lots of guns, something that looked like a cannon ball, some ancient bottles with corroded tops.
Above the desk on the back wall, she saw a bumper sticker that looked like the Texas flag with the word Secede emblazoned across it.
Oh well, it wouldn’t be Texas without a few nuts hanging from the trees.
Mr. Serial Killer pulled open the desk drawer and rummaged through the contents until he found a battered notebook.
“What’s your name?” he snapped.
“Brandenburg. Deirdre Brandenburg.”
Suddenly, his eyes were burning again. Deirdre tried not to look self-conscious. Maybe he knew Aunt Reba or Docia.
“Address?”
“You can reach me at the Faro. I work there.” And I have a couple of very capable bodyguards at my back.
He studied her for a moment, then scrawled something in his notebook. “I’ll hold ’em for a week. No longer.” He handed her a piece of paper with a couple of scrawled sentences—apparently her receipt.
“I’ll get them from you before then, Mr.…” Deirdre licked her lips. “I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name.”
“Broadus.” His lips stretched to show the picket fence once again. “Milam Broadus. This is my store.”
Deirdre blinked at him. Suddenly she remembered exactly where she’d heard about the shop before. Tom. And he’d told her Milam Broadus was crazy. Well, judging from the whole serial killer thing, not to mention the bumper sticker, she could see his point.
Tom had been in a bad mood since he’d woke up that morning. Hell, truth be told he’d been in a bad mood before he woke up—since he’d watched Deirdre scamper up the stairs to her apartment. He should have stayed with her, only she hadn’t exactly asked for his company. He should have asked her to stay with him, only she hadn’t looked like she was interested. Mainly she’d looked shaken up, like maybe she was reconsidering her association with the Faro—and him. Maybe she’d finally realized just how far apart their worlds really were.
For the twentieth time that day Tom cursed the good ol’ boys who had tried to break up his bar. Not only had they driven out his customers, they were affecting his sex life.
And that he would not tolerate.
He checked the bill from his liquor supplier against the case of bottles one more time, trying to find the bottle of Triple Sec that was supposed to be there.
Three years. Three fucking years. And not a fight. It had taken him around a month after he’d won the Faro from Berenger to convince Berenger’s customers that beating each other up would not be part of the evening’s entertainment. Hiring Chico had helped since only a maniac would start a fight when Chico was involved.
Or at least that had always been true before. Last night’s combatants hadn’t seemed as impressed with Chico as they should have been.
He’d barred some of Berenger’s old customers permanently and warned others like the Steinbruner brothers to clean up their act. Thanks to Chico, with some minor help from Leon and Harry, he’d managed to kick the bar into shape. Even the frat boys knew better now than to start a fight in Tom’s place.
So who the hell were the idiots who didn’t know better? And how the hell had they managed to get away clean last night?
Tom heard the door open as he bent over to stow the new bottles of bourbon and tequila on the shelves beneath the bar. He straightened, ready to tell a potential customer that they weren’t open until eleven, until he recognized the figure in the doorway.
Erik Toleffson. Chief of the Konigsburg Police Department. Tom blew out a breath and leaned his elbows on the bar. “Morning, Chief. What’s new?”
Toleffson strolled across the room without a lot of hurry. All the Toleffson brothers were built like redwoods, including the one who was Tom’s accountant. But sometimes the chief looked more like a stone support pillar. Tom was by no means a small man, but next to the Toleffsons, even tall men sometimes looked like elves.
“Morning, Ames. Heard you had some excitement last night.” Toleffson eased onto a barstool, removing his Stetson and placing it on the bar.
Might as well cut to the chase. “We had a fight. Not much to it. Some broken glass and a few bruises. Didn’t last more than a few minutes.”
Toleffson nodded slowly. “That’s what Nando said. Any idea what started it?”
Tom shrugged. “Somebody pissed somebody off. Lot of yelling, but nothing specific.”
“Tourists or locals?”
“Not locals. Chico didn’t recognize them, and neither did I.”
“Tourists then.”
Tom rubbed the back of his neck. He’d love to lay the whole thing off on a bunch of idiot tourists, but he didn’t think he could. “Not exactly. Too old to be frat boys, and they didn’t look like the type who’d visit Konigsburg for the scenery.”
Toleffson watched him steadily. “Interesting. That’s also what Nando said. Which leads to the question of what they were doing here at the Faro.”
“Drinking?” Tom said hopefully.
“That too.” Toleffson’s half-smile faded. “You pissed off anybody around here lately, Ames?”
Tom felt the same prickling at the back of his neck he’d felt the night before. “A few, I guess. The usual.”
“Anybody specific?”
For a moment, Tom considered telling him about Craig Dempsey and the threat from Deirdre’s father. But Toleffson was Docia’s brother-in-law, which made him kin to Deirdre in that roundabout way people were related in Konigsburg. It wasn’t that he thought Toleffson would be on Brandenburg’s side, but he wasn’t exactly sure what the family would think. Maybe they’d decide he wasn’t good enough for her, which was possibly true. Or maybe they’d think he was a dangerous man for her to be around, which was possibly even more true.
Plus the thought that Craig Dempsey might be engineering his downfall felt too paranoid to be taken seriously.
He shrugged. “Nobody offhand. I might have stepped on some toes I wasn’t aware of, I guess.”
Toleffson sighed. “Here’s the thing, Ames. I know nobody much gave a damn about the Faro in the old days—about the kind of fights that went on here. When Brody was chief, he was too busy stealing the city blind, and Olema wasn’t around long enough to take much interest in anything except deer hunting. But I figure I’m in for the long haul, and I’m not happy having a bar in town where there’s trouble.”
Tom stiffened. He and Toleffson had never had any disagreements before. In fact, he’d once considered hiring him as a bouncer back when Toleffson had been a part-time officer. Being on Toleffson’s shit list would not be pleasant, and he wasn’t going to end up there if he could help it. “I’m not planning on the Faro being a bar that has trouble. This is the first fight we’ve had in a couple of years. As far as I’m concerned, it’ll be the last.”
“I figured as much. Just wanted to touch base.” Toleffson pushed himself to his feet, picking up his hat from the bar. “You got somebody playing in your beer garden tonight?”
“Yeah, it’s usually Saturdays, but I managed to book Frankie Belasco. The guy who does the Wine and Food Festival every year.”
Toleffson grinned, settling his Stetson on his head. “Frankie, huh? Morgan and I might stop by. Got a soft spot in my
heart for old Belasco.”
Tom nodded a little warily. “Glad to have you, Chief.” Having the chief of police in the beer garden might put a bit of a damper on things. On the other hand, pulling in the Toleffsons could do a lot toward making the Faro look respectable to the local population, and maybe offset last night.
Toleffson strolled toward the door as Chico entered. The two of them together were sort of like a giant sunspot, blocking all the light from the window for a moment. Chico nodded in Toleffson’s direction, then stood back to let him pass. For a moment, Tom thought he saw Toleffson smile, but then he was gone.
Frankie Belasco’s band was the biggest act Tom had booked yet, which meant he was the also the most expensive. Which meant a cover charge.
Tom stationed Leon at the front door, with Chico at the beer garden entrance where trouble was most likely to break out, assuming trouble decided to come by that evening. He watched the crowd carefully, looking for faces from the previous night, but none of the fighters showed up so far as he could tell.
He should have been counting the house, seeing if they’d made back Frankie’s upfront money. Instead, he ended up counting Toleffsons.
They all seemed to be in the beer garden, although there were so many Toleffsons in town by now, it wasn’t always easy to keep them straight. Deirdre’s cousin Docia was there with her husband, Cal, the vet. Janie Dupree and her husband, Pete, were there again, along with Lars, Tom’s accountant, and his wife, Jess.
Around nine, just before Frankie was ready to take the stage, Chief Toleffson arrived with his wife Morgan, whose family had a part-ownership in one of the wineries outside town. Toleffson didn’t drink, as everybody in town knew by then, but his wife did. Tom wondered if she’d want wine, and if she did, whether she’d settle for the rotgut he’d been serving the lunch crowd. He really needed to start classing up the joint a little more.
Deirdre waited on them, moving swiftly between tables despite the obstacles presented by long Toleffson legs. Tom had wondered if she’d feel strange waiting on tables in front of her family, but it didn’t seem to bother her. Her face had that ethereal glow it took on when she was happy, as if she’d only just stepped down to earth temporarily, and would be heading back up to a nearby cloud any minute now.
Tom considered requesting “Volver”, but he decided to let Frankie do his thing. He wasn’t sure how the Toleffsons would react to Deirdre dirty dancing with the bartender anyway.
Belasco wore a fedora pushed forward onto his forehead and dark glasses, his silver ponytail bobbing in time to the music. He had the crowd on their feet within the first five minutes. His fingers danced over the keys of his accordion, coaxing out a combination of Tejano and Cajun, the spicy mix of Third Coast music.
At the outdoor bar, Tom loaded beers for Deirdre and Marilyn, along with the occasional mixed drink and even one or two glasses of wine, although he noticed few of the patrons took a second glass. Definitely time to move up. Chief Toleffson’s wife drank Coke, while the chief stuck with Dr. Pepper in between dances. Tom couldn’t say any of the Toleffsons were all that graceful when they danced, but they made up for it with enthusiasm, and their wives were apparently a very tolerant bunch.
Frankie watched them for a while, grinning as he goosed his accordion, then leaned to the microphone again. “I remember some of this crowd,” he said, “from the last Wine and Food Festival. First time my music ever made a woman go into labor. Here’s a little something in your honor.”
Docia Toleffson blushed bright pink in the beer garden lights, burying her face against her husband’s shoulder.
“Jolie Blonde, ma chere ’tit fille,” Frankie crooned.
The Toleffson table whooped with laughter, applauding lustily as Cal and Docia waltzed with the crowd.
Deirdre stepped up to the bar. “Dos Equis and three Coronas.”
Tom piled the bottles on her tray, then watched her deliver them to a nearby table. When she came back, he slipped around the bar, pulling her into his arms. Deirdre slid her hands around his neck, laughing as they circled the small area near Chico’s seat at the door. He watched them with drowsy eyes.
“Jolie Blonde…” Frankie sang.
Tom twirled her around again, feeling buoyed along by the music and the warm evening air. Maybe a quick visit to his house was called for. They could still go to Deirdre’s place tomorrow night.
Frankie swung into the last chorus, and Deirdre pushed away from him gently. “Got to make my rounds at the tables, boss. I need the tips.” She smiled at him, her eyes like stars in the light of the hanging lanterns.
Tom returned to his place behind the bar, watching her thread her way among the crowd. As he looked up, he was suddenly aware of several people staring his way. The Toleffson table seemed to have transferred their interest from Docia and Cal to him and Deirdre. And now to him alone.
Tom turned quickly to the margarita mixer, dipping a glass into the salt rimmer. When he looked up again, the Toleffsons seemed to have gone back to watching other people on the dance floor. He breathed a quick sigh of relief.
All the Toleffsons except one, that is. Docia Kent Toleffson was watching him with narrowed eyes, her forehead slightly furrowed until Deirdre handed her a bottle of beer. Docia glanced at her cousin and then back at him one more time, her lips spreading in a slow grin.
Well, hell.
Deirdre made one last check on her side of the beer garden. Belasco seemed to be wrapping up, which meant maybe one last round before the crowd began to drift away. She leaned over Cal Toleffson’s shoulder, placing his Dos Equis on the table in front of him.
Docia looked up at her, smiling. “You look like you’ve been doing that most of your life.”
Deirdre shrugged. “It’s not exactly rocket science. You get used to it pretty quickly.”
Docia’s grin widened. “I don’t know, kid, the Deirdre Brandenburg I knew a year ago might not have been able to do this nearly as well as you’re doing now.”
Deirdre frowned slightly. Was that a compliment?
Docia didn’t seem to notice. “Seems like ages since we’ve had a chance to talk. How about having lunch tomorrow?”
“Sorry—I work lunch on Saturdays. Maybe some other time.”
“Breakfast, then.” Docia gave her a level look. “We need to touch base.”
Deirdre took a deep breath. After all, she needed to ask Docia about a loan for the tables. Now would be as good a time as any. “Okay, sounds good. What time?”
“How about eight? We can meet at Sweet Thing and have some of Allie’s scones.” Her lips spread in a slow grin as her eyes flicked to Tom. “Unless that’s too early.”
Deirdre grinned back. “It’s fine with me. I’m not the one with a baby at home.”
Docia’s grin turned wry. “Yeah, well, I’ve given up sleeping for the time being. See you at eight, cuz.”
Chapter Seventeen
The last stragglers wandered out of the Faro at 2:00 a.m., which was the official closing time, although most nights people cleared out earlier. Frankie Belasco had apparently infected the crowd with his own shit-kicking attitude, and nobody wanted to leave.
Tom didn’t much want to leave either, unless it was with Deirdre. He watched her now, piling beer bottles on her tray to carry them to the kitchen. How could anybody look that good while hefting a tray full of empties above her shoulder? It defied logic.
Leon leaned back against the kitchen door to open it for her and was rewarded with a lesser version of that dazzling smile that made Tom’s pulse rate raise by five. He tried for a moment to remember what she’d looked like when she’d first walked into the Faro. A mouse. With a will of iron. But even then, he’d known there was a knockout underneath. Now he only had to figure out a way to hustle that knockout over to his place, hustle being the operative word.
Back from the kitchen, Deirdre climbed onto a barstool beside him, resting her elbows on the bar as she surveyed the main room. “I think that’s
everything. The beer garden still needs to be picked up around the edges, but Leon said he’d do it tomorrow.”
Tom grimaced. “Since that’s his job, he’d better.”
She reached up to run her fingertip along the edge of his ear. “Don’t be a grouch. This was a great evening, and you know it. I’ve never seen so many people in here. We must have made a mint!”
He wasn’t sure he’d ever heard her refer to the Faro that way before. We. Like she was part of it. He stared down at the bar rag clutched in his hand, trying to decide how he felt about that. First and foremost, the Faro was his place. But maybe he could share a little. “We did okay. Frankie takes a big cut, but he brings in the crowds.”
“He does that.” She pushed herself up, slowly, stretching her arms above her head. “I guess it’s time for me to go home.”
“You sure you want to? Doris misses you. Maybe you should drop by and reassure her.” He managed not to groan. At least she didn’t roll her eyes at him.
She turned, her lips curving up slightly at the ends. “Doris misses me? I didn’t think we’d gotten to know each other that well. I only met her last Sunday.”
“Oh yeah, definitely.” He tossed the bar rag beside the sink. “She’s really sensitive. For a lizard. Almost burst into tears when I came home without you the other night.”
The curve of her smile increased. “Well, I wouldn’t want Doris to suffer.”
He nodded. “You really wouldn’t want that. Might make her grumpy.”
“All right then.” Her voice dropped into the sultry range. “Let’s go see Doris.”
Tom blinked at her. Since when had she developed that smoldering look? Since when had she turned into a temptress? Since when had he gotten so lucky?
Only a fool asked questions like those. And whatever else he may have been, he definitely didn’t consider himself a fool. Lucky maybe, and certainly not deserving of anybody like Deirdre. But not a fool. “Let’s do that,” he said. Sliding his arm around her shoulders, he headed for the door.
