The Readaholics and the Poirot Puzzle

by Laura Disilverio

  Shortly after seven, the happy hour crowd dwindled and Kolby took off, saying he had “plans.” It wasn’t my place to supervise him, so I didn’t ask if his dad knew he was skating off so early. Bernie and I exchanged a glance that said we were both happy to see him go. I was washing mugs in the sink when a burly man with a beard approached the bar. Without introducing himself, he asked, “Gordon or Derek around? Need to talk to one of ’em.”

  “I’ll find them,” I said, knowing from his tone that he wasn’t here to tell them they’d won the Publishers Clearing House sweepstakes. Wiping my hands on my jeans, I signaled to Bernie, who took my place behind the bar. “Can you hold down the fort a sec?”

  “Sure.” She gave the man a smile and slid a coaster in front of him.

  Happy to escape the bar for a few minutes, I poked my head into the kitchen, but the workers said they hadn’t seen either man in over an hour. Mounting the stairs to the third floor, I looked in their offices but found no one except the janitor—Foster? Forrest?—who was emptying Gordon’s trash can. I’d never been in Gordon’s lair, and I looked around curiously. A wooden desk with cubbyholes and a simple glass-front bookcase were centered on a rug with a worn floral pattern. Framed photos and blueprints of the building in its early days hung evenly on one wall, peopled by men in turn-of-the-century work clothes. I suspected the furnishings were left over from the building’s factory days. I could totally see a waistcoated man in Edwardian garb putting his bowler on the iron coat tree that currently held Gordon’s golf Windbreaker and umbrella. A laptop computer and high-end ergonomic desk chair struck anachronistic notes. I wondered if Gordon had gone through all the desk’s cubbies looking for secrets, or routine invoices or notes from a bygone era. Somehow I didn’t think so; he didn’t strike me as the type.

  “On the roof,” Foster said, even though I hadn’t asked him anything. “Smoking.” His wrinkled nose said he disapproved.

  “Thanks.” Skipping the elevator, since I hadn’t gone to yoga that morning, I jogged up another flight and paused by the door that led to the roof. It was closed, but I could hear the yelling through it.

  “—can’t do that, Gord. You’ll sink the pub.”

  Derek’s voice, sounding angry and desperate.

  “—whatever the hell I want to . . . my money—”

  Gordon, sounding implacable and arrogant. I hesitated, not wanting to walk into their fight, and not wanting to go away in case Gordon turned violent with Derek, as he had with Susan this morning.

  “—don’t try to stop me,” Gordon bellowed. “If you do, I’ll ruin you.”

  “—handle this through an arbitrator,” Derek said.

  Gordon answered with a string of curses. I bit down hard on my lip.

  “—won’t let you—”

  “—can’t stop me, you f—”

  The thud of flesh against flesh had me barreling through the door. I burst onto the roof, a long expanse of weathered boards with a waist-high masonry wall, vents and air-conditioning compressor, planters, and a small shed. I found the two men locked together, trying to land punches without letting go of each other. It was still plenty light enough to see them clearly. Blood spotted Derek’s shirt, and Gordon’s pants pocket was ripped. They knocked against a planter and it rocked, the dwarf spruce inside it swaying. They were muttering and swearing at each other in guttural voices, words indistinguishable.

  Gordon landed a punch into Derek’s gut and he crumpled forward. From that position he wrapped his arms around Gordon’s knees and took the bigger man down with him. They landed with a thud and began rolling across the rooftop, neither one gaining an advantage. I dithered about what to do, pulling out my cell phone to call for help—was I going to call the cops on my own brother?—but then remembered Derek’s fury when I’d summoned a teacher to keep him from getting beaten up on the playground when he was in fourth grade and I was in sixth. I put my phone back in my pocket and started toward them as Gordon, who outweighed Derek by a good forty pounds, ended up on top, straddling Derek’s chest. Both men were breathing hard and the punch Gordon threw at Derek’s face lacked power and skidded off his cheek. I thought about throwing myself on Gordon’s back and peeling him off Derek, but then I saw a better way.

  A hose for watering the potted plants lay neatly coiled by the faucet and I turned it on full force and directed the cold water at the fighting men. As the stream splashed into his face, Gordon leaped up with a curse. Derek rolled away and staggered to his feet, bent over with his hands on his knees. They were good and soaked, I saw with satisfaction, which was what they deserved for behaving like a couple of middle school hooligans. Gordon shook his head and water droplets sprayed from his longish hair. He had a scrape on his face, and the buttons were torn off his shirt so it gaped open, displaying a furry torso. Blood dripped from his elbow and nose. He looked confused, like a man waking up from a nightmare, or someone trying to listen to a far-off voice. I don’t know why, but I felt sorry for him, even though he’d just been whaling on my brother.

  “Amy-Faye, what are you—?” Derek started, his voice verging on angry, but his expression embarrassed.

  “There’s a man downstairs who needs to talk to one of you,” I said calmly, even though my heart was beating fast. Idiots. “Sounded important.” Crossing to the faucet, I turned off the water. Not waiting for a reply, I marched toward the door, reasonably confident they weren’t going to resume their fight. In fact, Gordon was pulling out a cigarette and heading toward the wall by the time I reached the stairs. A match flared. The way he hunched his shoulders said “keep away” and I was glad to comply. I glanced over my shoulder and saw Derek coming toward me, limping.

  When he drew even with me, he shot me a sidelong look. “Leave it,” he said, forestalling my questions.

  The door closed behind us as we started down the stairs. “Derek, what—”

  “It’s none of your business and you can’t help anyway.”

  As much as I wanted to help him, I knew his moods well enough to clamp my lips together. Sometimes brothers didn’t want big sisters’ help. In fact, usually brothers didn’t want sisters weighing in on their activities, choice of friends, love lives, work, or drinking habits. At least, Derek didn’t. I could still hear him yelling at our youngest sister, Natalie, last Christmas that she had no right doing an Internet search on his girlfriend of the moment, now ex, largely because of the info Nat gathered. Re this current crisis, he’d tell me when he was ready. Or not.

  When we reached the third-floor landing, he peeled off, saying, “Tell whoever it is I’ll be there in a minute. I’ve got a dry shirt in my office.”

  “Sure.”

  The door snapped shut and I wasn’t sure he’d even heard me. Pinning a smile on my face, I walked down the last flights and emerged into the pub, now largely deserted except for the bearded man at the bar flirting with Bernie, and a couple of women dawdling over piña coladas in one corner.

  “Everything okay?” Bernie gave me a look that told me I looked rumpled or pissed off or both.

  “Derek will be here in a minute,” I told her and the bearded man.

  “Better be,” he grunted.

  “Wow, Don, I could take that the wrong way. You’re not enjoying our conversation?” Bernie asked archly, with the suggestion of a wink at me.

  Smiling gratefully, I grabbed a bar cloth and began swabbing down tables. Derek emerged two minutes later, greeted Don, and escorted him up to the offices. I wondered whether Gordon was there or if he’d left.

  “Any idea what that was about?” I asked Bernie, nodding toward the disappeared Derek and Don.

  “Nonpayment of bills.” Worry creased her brow. “Don told me all about it. The pub’s ninety days in arrears with what they owe him for hops. I hope I’m not going to have to find another job again. This one suits me fine. Works great with my school schedule. I so do not want to
have to job-hunt again. Gawd.”

  “I’m sure it’s not as bad as that,” I said, not sure of any such thing. I was ashamed that my first thought was for the nest egg I’d invested in Derek’s pub, and not for Derek’s disappointment if the pub failed. “Once Elysium is really open, after the grand opening Friday, this place’ll be packed with people. I’m sure it’ll be turning a profit in no time.”

  Bernie looked unconvinced but said nothing. Hefting a tub of dirty dishes, she carried it into the kitchen, bumping the door open with her hip. I tried not to think about how long it had been before Eventful! showed even a tiny profit margin. It was still hit-and-miss some months, four years in. When Bernie returned, I told her I was taking off and she nodded.

  “I’ll hang until Derek comes out. I’m on the clock until ten o’clock tonight anyway.” Gesturing to the now empty pub, she added, “I think I can handle it on my own.”

  With a laugh, I said good night and left, emerging into a cooling Colorado dusk. A line of light on the western horizon tattled on the just-set sun, and an owl hooted. Pulling a flyer off the van’s window, I crumpled it without reading it and tossed it into the passenger seat. Trash. I relaxed into the seat with a sigh. I’d forgotten how physically exhausting bar work could be. I was beat and the bar hadn’t even been that busy. I was grateful I was supervising the grand opening festivities and not bartending Friday night. On my recommendation, Derek had already taken on extra help for the occasion, everything from kitchen workers, to servers, to janitorial staff. Cranking the ignition, I headed for home, a long bath, and bed.

  Chapter 3

  Client meetings kept me busy the next morning, and I was pleased as punch to land a December wedding (“We’re not bringing a shotgun, but we ought to be, if you know what I mean,” the bride’s father told me grimly) and a family reunion.

  “We’re going to have to take on more staff now that you’re getting better at signing up clients,” Al said when I told him. Today’s bow tie had clown fish printed on it. We were standing in the reception area, absently watching a window cleaner hired by the building manager squeegee the panes in the French doors.

  “‘Getting better’?” I raised my brows.

  “Yeah. You used to come across as way too desperate. Scared people off. You’re more relaxed now.”

  I was half affronted, but I finally laughed. “Desperate? And here I thought that only applied to my love life. Glad to hear I no longer come across that way to clients. Maybe you’d like to come on full-time when you graduate,” I said. I hadn’t intended to broach the idea with him so soon, but since the opening was there . . .

  Al blinked. “Really? Wow. Let me think about it.”

  “Did you have something else lined up? Other plans?”

  “No. Nothing definite. I always figured I’d move to Denver or the Springs, maybe even out of state, and get a job in marketing with a big company or a nonprofit. I planned to sign up for some interviews through the college’s career office.” He tugged on his fishy bow tie, a habitual gesture when he was nervous.

  “Well, let me know. If you want to stay, we can look into getting another intern from Mesa when you graduate.” I didn’t want to pressure Al, but I’d come to rely on him over the past months and I hoped he’d decide to sign on permanently with Eventful! “You’re still available to work the pub opening Friday night, right? We’ll definitely need all hands on deck for that.”

  “Aye, aye, Captain!” He saluted.

  Rolling my eyes, I returned to my office to work on invoices until lunchtime. Twice, I picked up the phone to call Derek and twice I put the phone down again. If he needed my help, he’d ask for it. If he didn’t want to share what was going on between him and Gordon, that was his prerogative. On impulse, I pulled my laptop closer and punched “Elysium Brewing,” “Gordon Marsh,” and “Derek Johnson” into a search engine. The first article that came up was from the business section of the Denver Post. TROUBLE IN PARADISE? ran the headline. I skimmed it.

  “Trouble in Paradise, or rather Elysium? Recent reports suggest that Elysium Brewing, the latest in a long line of craft breweries opening around the state, may not be on solid financial ground. Venture capitalist Gordon Marsh has suffered reversals lately, including the failure of his Grand Junction nightclub Moonglade (see our June 7 article “Moonglade Bankruptcy”) and damages assessed in a recent court case. He may be forced to liquefy some assets, and his stake in Elysium Brewing, located in Heaven, Colorado, is low-hanging fruit. This would leave first-time entrepreneur and award-winning brewmaster Derek Johnson high and dry without the capital to sustain the new venture. The craft brewing scene would be the poorer for such an outcome, in this reporter’s opinion, because Elysium Brewing’s Angel Ale is fit for, well, the gods.”

  Guilt niggled at me for invading Derek’s privacy, but nothing reported in a major newspaper counted as “private,” did it? At least now I knew what Gordon and Derek had been arguing about. Gordon wanted out of their deal. Anger burned in me. How could he do this to Derek? Owning the pub was Derek’s dream. Gordon had no right to back out at the last second, just as the pub’s doors were opening for business. I sympathized with Derek wanting to beat him up; if Gordon had been standing in my office, I’d have punched him myself. I wondered how far it had gone, if Gordon had already severed their partnership, or if he was only contemplating it. Surely their contract protected each of them against this kind of possibility? Maybe that was why Derek had mentioned arbitration. I felt so sad for Derek. Here he was, so close to having his dream come true, and Gordon was pulling the rug out from under him. I wished I knew another venture capitalist, or had a fairy godmother inclined to grant wishes, so I could help him out. But I’d already invested every penny I could afford (and some I couldn’t) in the pub.

  I reached for the phone to call Doug Elvaston, my former boyfriend who was a top-notch corporate lawyer. Then I remembered he was still on a leave of absence from his firm, crewing his way around the world on a friend’s yacht. His bride had left him at the altar in May and he’d taken it hard. I’d gotten occasional postcards from him this summer, from places like Pago Pago, Manila, and Christchurch. They were blandly impersonal, although humorous, talking about the weather, the rigors of sailing, and the exotic sights he’d seen. One had ended with “Wish you were here,” and I wondered wistfully if that was true, or if it was just standard postcard-speak. I shook myself. At any rate, Doug wasn’t here to explain the legal ins and outs of partnership contracts to me.

  With three birthday “events” scheduled for the next two weeks, plus a corporate retreat for five hundred and a retirement party, I reluctantly put Derek and his troubles out of my mind to concentrate on work. With any luck, the grand opening would be such a huge success that the pub would succeed even without Gordon’s money. If not, well . . . we’d cross that bridge when we came to it.

  • • •

  That evening I parked between Maud’s battered Jeep and Kerry Sanderson’s Subaru Outback in front of my best friend Brooke Widefield’s McMansion. Her in-laws had bestowed it on Brooke and Troy when they married and I knew it sometimes felt more like a prison than a home to Brooke. Her mother-in-law, Miss Clarice, conducted regular inspections to ensure that the house was immaculate. Not really, but that was how it felt. Brooke wore herself to a frazzle cleaning, straightening, and decorating the place anytime she had warning that Miss Clarice was coming over. The Widefields didn’t want Brooke to work outside the home because that didn’t convey the right “image,” whatever that meant. Troy, something of a wet noodle who worked for Troy Sr.’s auto dealership, didn’t have enough backbone, in my opinion, to tell his parents to find someone else’s marriage to meddle in.

  I entered the house without knocking and was greeted by the tantalizing aromas of cumin and oregano. Mmm . . . Brooke had made her special chili. Yum. My mouth watered and I realized I’d skipped lunch. “Hey,” I called out
as I entered. The formal entryway with its travertine floor, plaster walls, and crystal chandelier was cavernous and I wouldn’t have been surprised to hear an echo, but if there was one, Brooke drowned it out. “In the kitchen, A-Faye.”

  I followed the tantalizing aroma to Brooke’s gourmet kitchen, where I found Brooke at the stove, sampling the chili, and Maud and Kerry at the table, noshing on chips and guacamole. The kitchen was the least intimidating room in Brooke’s house. It reeked of expensive the way budget kitchens smelled like old grease sucked into the paint and curtains—acres of granite, appliances with foreign names I couldn’t pronounce, and extras like warming drawers and a second oven and a walk-in wine cooler—but it was homey, too, with redbrick around the stove and floral cushions on the chairs. The table in her breakfast nook looked out on a landscaped backyard, and three copies of Murder on the Orient Express lay on it, next to a galvanized bucket loaded with ice and beer. Brooke smiled her lovely Miss Colorado smile and came over to give me a hug, holding her spoon at arm’s length so she wouldn’t drip chili down my back. I was glad our relationship was back to normal after some stiffness when I insisted on investigating our friend Ivy Donner’s death a few months ago, even after Brooke said we should give it up. Jointly rescuing Doug from his wedding fiasco had made us comfortable with each other again.

  “I didn’t buy it,” Kerry Sanderson announced, scooping a gob of guac onto a chip. Her short gray-flecked brown hair barely twitched when she shook her head. She raised the chip to her aquiline nose with its flaring nostrils and sniffed at the guacamole, trying to identify an ingredient, perhaps. “No way.”

  We stared at her, puzzled.

  “The book, the book,” she explained, waving her copy of Orient Express. “No way did twelve people get together, hash out the plan, and come to consensus on jointly killing that Ratchett man. I’ve sat through enough meetings to know that it’s virtually impossible to get more than five people to agree on a completely noncontroversial course of action at any one time. Murder? Never happen. Have you ever been to a town council meeting? They go on so long they make me murderous. I’ll grant you that.” She bit into the chip with a loud crunch.