by J. C. Kenney
On top of that, it was downright spiteful toward Lori. No, this wasn’t simple rumor. This was an example of someone intentionally hurting Lori and leaving me in the cross fire.
“Me and Georgie? Together? You can’t be serious.”
When she nodded, I burst out laughing. It was a gut buster that left me doubled over, howling at the utter absurdity of the rumor, to the point that tears began streaming down my face. It took me two or three minutes before I got myself under control enough to look at Maybelle.
Her clenched jaw and eyes that had narrowed to mere slits told me she wasn’t happy with me.
“Oh, come on.” I wiped both tear-streaked cheeks with the sleeve of my shirt. “You don’t believe that, do you?” I gave her a quick recap of my nightmarish prom night. “After someone did that to you, would you ever become involved with them?”
“Of course not. I mean, of course I don’t believe the rumors, either. I was simply trying to be a friend and let you know what other people are saying.”
“I know, and I appreciate it.” There was no doubt in my mind that Maybelle was, in fact, among the other people spreading the awful rumor. I was better off playing her game, though. With her connections around town, she could be a formidable enemy if I got on her bad side.
“So, you weren’t… involved with him, then?” Maybelle’s cheeks had pinked up now that the conversation had veered out of her control.
Her discomfort made me happy. It wasn’t that I disliked the woman. I liked her. What I didn’t like was the way she thrived on gossip and rumors.
“No, I wasn’t. I do intend to find his killer, though.” I got to my feet. “Even though I didn’t like the man, he didn’t deserve to have his life taken from him. Whoever did that needs to pay.”
I said good-bye and turned on my heel. Perhaps it was an overly dramatic exit, but it was true. I was going to find Georgie’s killer. Justice needed to be served. For Brittany, if for nobody else.
Chapter Thirteen
Still fuming over the insane rumor Maybelle shared with me, I race-walked home, arriving at my door in record time. I took a few minutes to cool off by snuggling with Ursi. My fuzzy friend wasn’t the most tolerant fur baby, but she had an amazing sixth sense of knowing when I needed her warm black-and-orange body close to me. This was one of those times, so she let me hold her and even rewarded me with loud purring as I scratched under her chin.
After that, I spent the rest of the day editing a client’s manuscript. It was a young adult novel set in a steampunk world in which the teen-aged heroine was investigating her parents’ disappearance. The tale pulled me into the world like I was living there. It was the perfect escape from the drama of my day.
By the time I finished editing, it was past one in the morning, so it wasn’t surprising I was awoken the next morning by a fuzz face pawing at my nose.
“All right, all right.” I brushed her paw away as she let out a meow to let me know it was about time I got her breakfast. It was fascinating how put upon Ursi could sound with a single vocalization. It was a skill I envied.
The clock on the microwave indicated it was almost nine. As I poured Ursi a bowl of dry cat food and placed it by her kitty water fountain, I let out a contented sigh. A full eight hours of sleep with no nightmares. That was the right way to start the day.
I scrolled through e-mails while the coffee maker gurgled its way to a full pot. I was about to fill my mug when an unexpected e-mail caught my eye. It was from the author who had received the publication offer.
She’d accepted.
I let out a whoop and danced the Electric Slide on my way to the kitchen counter. In celebration, I tossed a kitty treat to Ursi, threw together a breakfast burrito, and got out my mega-large coffee mug. It was a bright yellow ceramic piece of art adorned with the words Super Agent and a logo that evoked Superman’s S. I only used the mug on special occasions.
This was one such occasion.
“The Cobb Literary Agency is going to have another published author. High five, Ursi.” I held out my palm, but she walked away after giving it a sniff. “You’ll thank me tonight when I give you some of your favorite chicken.”
Feeling as tall as the mythical Paul Bunyan, I acknowledged my author’s e-mail, then shot off another one to the editor, letting her know the offer was accepted. Almost in the blink of an eye, the editor promised to deliver a proposed contract in a month or so.
My mug was still half full when I finished my e-mails letting editors who hadn’t responded to my offer notice know that the manuscript was no longer available. Intent on enjoying the moment of success, I spent the rest of the morning working in the sunshine on the patio.
When the bells of the clock tower in the county courthouse rang eleven times, I closed my laptop and headed indoors. It was time to pay a visit to Willie Hammond at Hoosiers.
Despite my small physical stature, I had enough self-confidence that few people scared me. As luck would have it, Willie was one of them. He was a harder version of his brother, Al, as though he’d been forged in the fires of Mount Doom and battle-tested on the shores of Normandy.
While they were both massive, Al was like a cross between Santa Claus and Hagrid from the Harry Potter books. Al had shaggy hair and an easy smile and was quick with a joke that more often than not was about the round belly that hung over his belt. He was generous to a fault and gave to every youth and civic organization that approached him for a donation.
Willie, on the hand, looked like an NFL linebacker. With a shaved head and chiseled physique, he cut an intimidating figure. Add in his salt-and-pepper goatee, and he was known to make cocky kids trying to get into Hoosiers with fake IDs run away in fear. Those who knew him said he had a dry wit and keen intellect and loved to debate military history.
I didn’t know Willie, so I couldn’t comment about his wit and brainpower. What I did know, from my few encounters with Willie, was that he lacked patience and didn’t care for small talk.
With trembling fingers, I slipped my case notebook into my purse. I’d never been frightened of interviewing a witness before. Of course, I’d never interviewed someone who ran a bar and a gambling ring and could probably break me in half with one arm tied behind his back. That was when I reminded myself there was a first time for everything.
I gave Ursi a kiss on the head as I made my way out the door. “Wish me luck, girl. Here goes nothing.”
As a bar for the Rushing Creek locals, Hoosiers didn’t mess around with a fancy menu or drinks with cutesy names to attract business. The place served uncomplicated pub fare like burgers and sandwiches with fries or coleslaw on the side. There was always fresh popcorn that folks raved about, though some said it was on the salty side to entice customers into ordering more drinks.
As I settled onto a barstool and munched on a bowl of popcorn the bartender placed in front of me, I had to admit, the snack smelled heavenly and tasted even better. I looked around to get a feel for my surroundings, hoping they’d give me a glimpse inside the owner’s head.
The building was split into two large rooms—the bar area, where I was sitting, and a dining area. A set of folding French doors provided access between the two rooms and gave the establishment an old-world English pub feel. With the doors open, the melody of an unfamiliar country song drifted my way from a jukebox that was beyond my field of vision. The dining area had dark green carpeting, which transitioned to the hardwood floor in the bar area.
On the walls, art deco–style wall sconces provided indirect lighting while exuding a touch of class I didn’t expect. The bar, a solid wooden structure that was long enough to seat twenty, was bathed in a warm glow by can lights from above. The bar back featured intricate wooden carvings with a beveled mirror, engraved with an elegant script H, smack-dab in the center.
Hoping to ingratiate myself with Willie, I scanned a menu. I figured if I was going
to question him, the least I could do was have lunch while I was doing it.
Picking out something to eat wasn’t hard. The grilled ham and cheese with coleslaw was calling my name. The tough part was picking out something to drink. While the food section of the menu took up one page, the drinks section took up three pages. One page was dedicated to beer, another to hard liquor, and the third to wine.
“I make most of my money selling alcohol. Thus, the unparalleled variety,” a low, gravelly voice came from in front of me. “What can I get you, Miss Cobb?”
Though I’d not heard the voice in a long time, there was no doubt to whom it belonged. I lifted my gaze from the menu to the mountain of a man who had, with the stealth of a cat, taken up station a mere meter from me.
I swallowed. Willie wore a black polo shirt that was straining at the seams, due to his huge biceps. His hands, which were placed on the bar on either side of me, were the hands of a giant. A gaudy ring circled the third finger of each hand. One ring sparkled with what appeared to be dozens of tiny diamonds. The other featured a red stone so large it bordered on gauche. He would have made an ideal Corleone brother.
He wore a smile, but his eyes told a different story. I sensed he knew why I was sitting on one of his barstools and he didn’t care for it.
I gave him my food order and confessed I was having trouble deciding what to drink. When I told him I wasn’t a fan of beer, he knocked twice on the surface of the bar.
“I know just the thing for a lady of your upbringing.” He went to the far end of the bar and returned with a bottle of wine. “Rushing Creek Winery’s latest pinot grigio. You used to work there, did you not?”
“I did. How’d you know that?”
He ignored my question, poured two glasses, and handed one to me. With a nod, he lifted his glass and clinked it against mine. Then he swirled the wine in his glass, gave it a long sniff, and drank, swirling the wine around his mouth before he swallowed.
“Not bad. A touch heavy on the green apple, but I like the hint of honeysuckle. What’s your impression?”
I’d spent my summers during my college years as a server at Rushing Creek Winery. In that time, I’d developed a decent wine palate. I also never saw Willie Hammond visit the winery. As I swirled the yellow-hued drink, then inhaled the subtle fruity bouquet, my gut told me to be on my toes around this man.
With my eyes on him, I took a small drink and rolled it across my tongue and around my mouth. Willie was right. The apple did border on overpowering, but it didn’t ruin the taste.
“I agree with your assessment, but you might consider serving it slightly more chilled. That would help bring out the other flavors.”
He scratched his goatee and took another drink. After a moment, he raised his eyebrows.
“Point taken. I enjoy a good bottle of wine, but my clientele, not so much.” He handed my food order to the bartender with instructions to turn the wine cooler temperature down two degrees. “May I join you? I figure it will make it easier for you to ask your questions.”
“I…well, yes.” I took out my notebook and tried to get my reeling mind in order while he made his way from behind the bar. A wine aficionado who also ran a gambling ring. The contrast had me feeling like I was stuck on a balance beam trying make my way from one end to the other using only one foot.
He cracked his knuckles as he slid onto the barstool next to me. “I heard you’ve been asking questions about the untimely death of Georgie Alonso. By your lovely presence before me, I assume you believe I can be of service. How so?”
“I wanted to talk to you about Georgie. I understand he was a regular customer.” Since Lori had confirmed the rumor that Georgie spent almost every weeknight at Hoosiers, I was curious about how Willie would respond.
“Regular is such an imprecise term. If you’re asking did I roll out the red carpet when he graced my establishment like he was royalty or did I simply welcome him with a wave and a friendly greeting like I do with all my customers with whom I’m on a first-name basis—”
“Spare me the evasive wordplay. It’s beneath you.” I didn’t have the time or the inclination to screw around with this man. The sooner I got my answers and made for the exit, the better.
“As you wish.” He took a drink of his wine, then studied the glass as the bartender placed my lunch before me. “Please eat. The ham and cheese are both locally sourced, which makes a stunningly fresh experience for the palate.”
I took a bite and almost melted into the wood of the barstool. The cheese was milky and flavorful, while the ham had a touch of smokiness to it I didn’t expect. The bread was toasted to perfection, too, crunchy on the outside but still soft in the middle.
“This is amazing.” I ate three bites before I could force myself to put down the sandwich. “About Georgie, though, was he here the night he was killed?”
“Alas, he was, as I told Chief Roberson the other day.” Willie drained his glass and refilled it. “Surely you don’t think anyone connected to my establishment had anything to do with the heinous act.”
It wasn’t a question. I took the statement as a challenge. “I don’t know. Is there a reason for me to suspect someone who works here?”
“None that I know of.” He used his thumb to spin the diamond-encrusted ring around his finger. Was it a sign of nerves, what poker players called a tell?
I made a mental note to ask Al about it while I ate some coleslaw. When my sandwich was half gone, I went on the offensive.
“What if he owed somebody money? Gambling losses, for instance.”
“I’m afraid you’ve lost me, Ms. Cobb. The only gambling that goes on here is the annual pool we run around the college basketball tournament. Half the money from that goes to the youth sports league.” The ring was spinning as fast as a toy top. Interesting.
“Perhaps I can point you in the right direction.” I leaned toward him and lowered my voice. “Georgie had gambling debts. Big debts. Debts he ran up in this very place.”
“What do you want me to say? If the occasional twenty passes from one person to another over a ball game, what am I supposed to do? It’s a free country, and this is a place for adults, not children.” He paused to let the insult hit its intended target.
I let the barb bounce off me with a grin and another bite of the sandwich. The man was a cool customer, and much more genteel than I’d expected. I couldn’t escape the feeling he’d be right at home in a three-piece suit working for a mob boss in a big city.
“That’s true. Adults are responsible for their actions. I suppose you wouldn’t object to me relaying your sentiments to Lori Cannon. You know, the woman now responsible for raising Georgie’s darling little daughter all by herself.” I shook my head and finished off my wine. “Of course, I couldn’t tell Lori and expect her to keep information like that to herself. That wouldn’t be fair. Maybe I could ask her to keep it between her and her parents.”
Willie stared at me for a moment, then let out a long, loud laugh that caused the half-dozen customers in the room to turn their heads in our direction.
“Bravo, Miss Cobb.” He gave my hand a friendly pat. “Your reputation doesn’t do you justice. Duplicitousness suits you, though I don’t know whether your mother would consider that a compliment.”
“I prefer to think of it as a dogged desire for the truth.”
“Indeed. To that end, I say this: Yes, I have been known to take the occasional bet on a sporting event, including from Georgie. I make my living running a neighborhood grill, though. Not as a sports bookie.”
“So, he didn’t run up gambling debts with you?”
Willie started spinning the ring again as he stared at his empty wineglass. I sensed a crack in his confident, urbane façade.
“Not with me, no. The bets I handled for him were small-time things. Over time, he wanted to raise the stakes beyond what I deal
with, so I referred him to a colleague.”
“That’s all you have to say? You nurtured a growing gambling addiction and fed him to bigger sharks when the water got too deep?” I made no attempt to hide the disgust in my voice. Until now, I’d wanted to keep things as cordial as possible, hoping Lori’s claim was wrong. With it confirmed, I no longer cared about decorum.
He clenched his fists. “I resent the accusation I fed anybody’s alleged gambling addiction. As I said before, this is an establishment for adults. Customers are expected to take responsibility for their actions.”
“That’s a convenient attitude.” I had him. It was time for the kill. “One might conclude that attitude contributed to Georgie’s death if he was murdered for an inability to pay off his gambling debts. Not unlike a drug dealer who starts selling someone marijuana before progressing to more powerful, and addictive, drugs.”
“That is enough.” He slapped the bar so hard I was practically startled out of my seat. “I agreed to speak to you out of a civic duty to help locate a man’s murderer, not to have my name dragged through the mud.”
“Is that a denial or not? If you have nothing to hide, why play so coy?”
“Was Georgie Alonso killed because of gambling debts? I don’t know. I’ve neither seen nor heard anything to support that supposition.” He hauled himself from the barstool. “If you’ll excuse me, I have things to do.”
“Just one more question, please.”
“Good afternoon, Miss Cobb. Your lunch is on the house. Please give my regards to your sister the next time you see her.” Without so much as a look over his shoulder, he stomped into an office near the far end of the bar and closed the door.
Shoot. In my excitement at gaining an advantage over the man, I’d overplayed my hand. Now I’d have to leave without asking the key question.
Who was with Georgie at Hoosiers the night he was killed?
